A gold Impala. There must be a million of them in the city. Hell, he was starting to get paranoid. All that soft living in Southampton . . .
He continued steadily on, passing rows of abandoned buildings, old mansions broken into apartments and SROs. Dogshit littered the sidewalk now, along with garbage and broken bottles. Most of the streetlights were out—shooting at them was a favorite gang pastime—and with the city’s general neglect of this area, it took forever to get them repaired.
He was now approaching the hard-core center of western Harlem. It seemed incredible that Pendergast had a place here: the guy was eccentric, but not that eccentric. The next block, 132nd, was completely dark, every streetlight out, the two remaining buildings on the block abandoned and boarded up. Even the lights on the park side had been blown away. It was a perfect muggers’ block—except no one in his right mind would ever walk there at night.
D’Agosta reminded himself he was packing, in full uniform, with a radio. He shook his head. What a wimp he’d become. He strode resolutely forward, down the dark block.
That was when he noticed a car behind him, moving slowly. Way too slowly. As it passed under the last streetlight, D’Agosta saw the gleam of gold—the same Chevy Impala that had nearly taken off his toes on West 61st Street.
D’Agosta may have forgotten the street address formula, but his NYPD cop radar remained in perfect working order, and now it went off loudly. The car was moving at precisely the speed that would bring it next to D’Agosta at the middle of the dark block.
It was an ambush.
D’Agosta made an instant decision. Breaking into a sudden run, he cut left and sprinted across the street in front of the approaching car. He heard the screeching acceleration of the tires, but he had moved too quickly and was already heading into Riverside Park by the time the car squealed to a stop along the curb.
As he sprinted into the darkness of the trees, he saw both doors open simultaneously.
{ 13 }
The door to the tenth-floor suite at the Sherry Netherland Hotel was opened by an English butler so impeccably outfitted he seemed to have stepped from the pages of a Wodehouse novel. He bowed to Pendergast, standing to one side. The man’s double-breasted Prince Albert frock coat was immaculately brushed, and when he moved, his starched white shirtfront rustled faintly. One white-gloved hand took Pendergast’s coat; the other held out a silver tray. Without hesitation, Pendergast reached into his pocket, removed a slim gold card case, and placed his card on the tray.
“If the gentleman would kindly wait.” The butler gave another slight bow and disappeared into a long hallway, carrying the tray before him. There was the soft opening of a door, the faint sound of clicking and hammering. Another, farther door was opened. Minutes later the butler returned.
“If the gentleman will follow me,” he said.
Pendergast followed the butler into a wood-paneled sitting room, where he was greeted by a birch fire, flickering merrily within a large fireplace.
“The gentleman is welcome to seat himself where he pleases,” the butler said.
Pendergast, always attracted to heat, chose the red leather chair nearest the fire.
“The count will be available momentarily. Would the gentleman care for amontillado?”
“Thank you.”
The butler retreated noiselessly and reappeared less than thirty seconds later, bearing a tray on which reposed a single crystal glass half filled with a pale amber liquid. He set it on the nearby table and, just as noiselessly, was gone.
Pendergast sipped the dry, delicate liquid and gazed about the room with growing interest. It had been furnished in exquisite and yet understated taste, managing to be both comfortable and beautiful at the same time. The floor was covered with a rare Safavid carpet of Shah Abbassid design. The fireplace was old, carved from gray Florentine pietra serena, and it bore the crest of an ancient and noble family. The table that held his glass also bore an interesting array of items: several pieces of old silver, an antique gasogene, some lovely Roman glass perfume bottles, and a small Etruscan bronze.
It was the painting above the mantelpiece, however, that startled Pendergast. It appeared to be a Vermeer, depicting a lady at a leaded-glass window examining a piece of lace; the cool Flemish light from the window shone through the lace, which cast a faint shadow across the woman’s dress. Pendergast was familiar with all thirty-five of Vermeer’s known paintings. This was not one of them. And yet it could not be a forgery: no forger had been able to duplicate Vermeer’s light.