Pendergast turned to the guard. “Johnson, may I borrow your gloves?”
The doorman was too well trained to show surprise. Donning the gloves, Pendergast slipped into the halo of light around the sentry box and broke the envelope’s seal with the back of his hand. Very gingerly, he bowed it open, looking inside. There was a single sheet of paper, folded once. In the crease lay a single small, grayish fiber. To the untrained eye, it looked like a bit of fishing line. Pendergast recognized it as a human nerve strand, undoubtedly from the cauda equina at the base of the spinal cord.
There was no writing on the folded sheet. He angled it toward the light, but there was nothing else at all, not even a watermark.
At that moment, his cell phone rang.
Putting the envelope carefully aside, Pendergast plucked his phone from his suit pocket and raised it to his ear.
“Yes?” He spoke in a calm, neutral voice.
“It’s Nora. Listen, Smithback figured out where Leng lives.”
“And?”
“I think he went up there. I think he went into the house.”
The Search
ONE
NORA WATCHED THE SILVER WRAITH APPROACH HER AT AN ALARMING speed, weaving through the Central Park West traffic, red light flashing incongruously on its dashboard. The car screeched to a stop alongside her as the rear door flew open.
“Get in!” called Pendergast.
She jumped inside, the sudden acceleration throwing her back against the white leather of the seat.
Pendergast had lowered the center armrest. He looked straight ahead, his face grimmer than Nora had ever seen it. He seemed to see nothing, notice nothing, as the car tore northward, rocking slightly, bounding over potholes and gaping cracks in the asphalt. To Nora’s right, Central Park raced by, the trees a blur.
“I tried reaching Smithback on his cell phone,” Nora said. “He isn’t answering.”
Pendergast did not reply.
“You really believe Leng’s still alive?”
“I know so.”
Nora was silent a moment. Then she had to ask. “Do you think—Do you think he’s got Smithback?”
Pendergast did not answer immediately. “The expense voucher Smithback filled out stated he would return the car by five this evening.”
By five this evening… Nora felt herself consumed by agitation and panic. Already, Smithback was over six hours overdue.
“If he’s parked near Leng’s house, we might just be able to find him.” Pendergast leaned forward, sliding open the glass panel that isolated the rear compartment. “Proctor, when we reach 131st Street, we’ll be looking for a silver Ford Taurus, New York license ELI-7734, with rental car decals.”
He closed the panel, leaned back against the seat. Another silence fell as the car shot left onto Cathedral Parkway and sped toward the river.
“We would have known Leng’s address in forty-eight hours,” he said, almost to himself. “We were very close. A little more care, a little more method, was all it would have taken. Now, we don’t have forty-eight hours.”
“How much time do we have?”
“I’m afraid we don’t have any,” Pendergast murmured.
TWO
CUSTER WATCHED BRISBANE UNLOCK HIS OFFICE DOOR, OPEN IT, THEN step irritably aside to allow them to enter. Custer stepped through the doorway, the flush of returning confidence adding gravity to his stride. There was no need to hurry; not anymore. He turned, looked around: very clean and modern, lots of chrome and glass. Two large windows looked over Central Park and, beyond, at the twinkling wall of lights that made up Fifth Avenue. His eyes fell to the desk that dominated the center of the room. Antique inkwell, silver clock, expensive knickknacks. And a glass box full of gemstones. Cushy, cushy.
“Nice office,” he said.
Shrugging the compliment aside, Brisbane draped his tuxedo jacket over his chair, then sat down behind the desk. “I don’t have a lot of time,” he said truculently. “It’s eleven o’clock. I expect you to say what you have to say, then have your men vacate the premises until we can determine a mutually agreeable course of action.”
“Of course, of course.” Custer moved about the office, hefting a paperweight here, admiring a picture there. He could see Brisbane growing increasingly irritated. Good. Let the man stew. Eventually, he’d say something.
“Shall we get on with it, Captain?” Brisbane pointedly gestured for Custer to take a seat.
Just as pointedly, Custer continued circling the large office. Except for the knickknacks and the case of gems on the desk and the paintings on the walls, the office looked bare, save for one wall that contained shelving and a closet.
“Mr. Brisbane, I understand you’re the Museum’s general counsel?”
“That’s right.”
“An important position.”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
Custer moved toward the shelves, examined a mother-of-pearl fountain pen displayed on one of them. “I understand your feelings of invasion here, Mr. Brisbane.”