The Book of the Dead (71 page)

T
he waiting area for hearing room B consisted of an impromptu collection of seventies-era Bauhaus benches lining an anonymous hallway on the twenty-first floor of One Police Plaza. D’Agosta sat on one of these benches, breathing in the stale air of the hallway: the mingled smells of bleach and ammonia from the nearby men’s room; stale perfume; perspiration; and old cigarette smoke, which had permeated the walls too deeply to ever be completely eradicated. Underlying all was the acrid, omnipresent tang of fear.

Fear, however, was the last thing on his own mind. D’Agosta was about to undergo a formal disciplinary hearing that would decide if he could ever serve in law enforcement again—and all he felt was a weary emptiness. For months, this trial had been hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles—and now, for better or worse, it was almost over.

Beside him, Thomas Shoulders, his union-appointed lawyer, shifted on the bench. “Anything else you’d like to review one last time?” he asked in his thin, reedy voice. “Your statement, or their likely line of questioning?”

D’Agosta shook his head. “Nothing more, thanks.”

“The department advocate will be presenting the case for the NYPD. We might have caught a break there. Kagelman’s tough but fair. He’s old-school. The best approach is to play it straight: no evasions, no bull. Answer the questions with a simple yes or no, don’t elaborate unless asked. Present yourself along the lines we discussed—a good cop caught in a bad situation, doing the best he could to see that justice was served. If we can keep it at that level, I’m guardedly optimistic.”

Guardedly optimistic
. Whether spoken by an airplane pilot, a surgeon, or one’s own lawyer, the words were not exactly encouraging.

He thought back to that fateful day in the fall, when he had run into Pendergast at the Grove estate, tossing bread to the ducks. It was only six months ago, but what a long strange journey it had been…

“Holding up?” Shoulders asked.

D’Agosta glanced at his watch. “I just want the damn thing to be over with. I’m tired of sitting here, waiting for the axe to drop.”

“You shouldn’t think about it that way, Lieutenant. A disciplinary hearing is just like a trial in any other American court. You’re innocent until proven guilty.”

D’Agosta sighed, shifted disconsolately. And in so doing, he caught a glimpse of Captain Laura Hayward, walking down the busy corridor.

She was coming toward them with that measured, purposeful stride of hers, wearing a gray cashmere sweater and a pleated skirt of navy wool. Suddenly the drab corridor seemed charged with life. And yet the last thing he wanted was for her to see him like this: parked on a bench like some truant awaiting a whipping. Maybe she’d walk on, just walk on, like she’d done that day back in the police substation beneath Madison Square Garden.

But she did not walk on. She stopped before the bench, nodded nonchalantly to him and Shoulders.

“Hi,” D’Agosta managed. He felt himself blushing with embarrassment and shame and felt furious for doing so.

“Hey, Vinnie,” she replied in her dusky contralto. “Have a minute?”

There was a moment of stasis.

“Sure.” He turned to Shoulders. “Could you spare me for a sec?”

“Don’t go far—we’re up soon.”

D’Agosta followed Hayward down to a quieter section of the hallway. She paused, looking at him, one hand unconsciously smoothing down her skirt. Glancing at her shapely legs, D’Agosta felt his heart accelerate further. He searched his mind for something to say, came up with nothing.

Hayward, too, seemed uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Her face looked clouded, conflicted. She opened her handbag, fumbled in it a moment, closed it, tucked it under her arm. They stood there another moment in silence as police officers, technicians, and court personnel passed by.

“Are you here to give a statement?” D’Agosta finally asked.

“No. I gave my deposition over a month ago.”

“Nothing more to say, then?”

“No.”

A peculiar thrill went through D’Agosta as he realized the implications of this.
So she’s kept quiet about my role in the Herkmoor breakout
, he thought.
She hasn’t told anybody
.

“I got a call from an acquaintance in the Justice Department,” she said. “The word’s just come down. As far as the feds are concerned, Special Agent Pendergast has been formally cleared of all charges. Homicide’s officially reopened the case on our end, and it looks as though we’re going to drop all charges against him, too. Based on evidence retrieved from Diogenes Pendergast’s valise, fresh warrants have been issued for Diogenes. Thought you’d want to know.”

D’Agosta slumped with relief. “Thank God. So he’s completely cleared.”

“Of criminal charges, yes. But it’s safe to say he hasn’t made any new friends in the Bureau.”

“Popularity never was Pendergast’s strong suit.”

Hayward smiled faintly. “He’s been given a six-month leave. Whether requested by him or demanded by the Bureau, I don’t know.”

D’Agosta shook his head.

“I thought you might also like to hear about Special Agent Spencer Coffey.”

“Oh?”

“In addition to royally screwing up the Pendergast case, he got embroiled in some kind of scandal at Herkmoor. Seems he was busted down to GS-11 and had a notice of censure placed in his jacket. They’ve reassigned him to the North Dakota field office in Black Rock.”

“He’s gonna need a new pair of long underwear,” D’Agosta said.

Hayward smiled, and an awkward silence settled over them again.

The deputy commissioner of trials approached them from the elevator bank, along with the department special prosecutor. They passed by D’Agosta and Hayward, nodding distantly, then turned and proceeded into the courtroom.

“With Pendergast cleared, you should be, too,” Hayward said.

D’Agosta looked down at his hands. “It’s a different bureaucracy.”

“Yes, but when—”

Abruptly she stopped. D’Agosta looked up to see Glen Singleton walking down the hall, immaculately dressed as usual. Captain Singleton was officially still D’Agosta’s boss and was there, no doubt, to testify. When he saw Hayward, he paused in surprise.

“Captain Hayward,” he said stiffly. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to watch the proceedings,” she replied.

Singleton frowned. “A disciplinary hearing is not a spectator sport.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“You’ve already been deposed. Your showing up here in person, without being called to provide fresh information, may imply…” Singleton hesitated.

D’Agosta flushed at the insinuation. He stole a glance at Hayward and was surprised by what he saw. The cloudiness had left her face, and she suddenly looked calm. It was as if, after struggling for a long time, she had reached some private decision.

“Yes?” she asked mildly.

“Might imply a lack of impartiality on your part.”

“Why, Glen,” Hayward said, “don’t you wish the best for Vinnie, here?”

Now it was Singleton’s turn to color. “Of course. Of course I do. In fact, that’s why I’m here—to bring to the attention of the prosecutor certain new developments that have recently come to our attention. It’s just that we wouldn’t want any hint of any improper… well,
influence
.”

“Too late,” she replied briskly. “I’ve already been influenced.”

And then—very deliberately—she clasped D’Agosta’s hand in her own.

Singleton stared at them for a moment. He opened his mouth, closed it again, at a loss for words. Finally he gave D’Agosta a sudden smile and laid a hand on his shoulder. “See you in court, Lieutenant,” he said, giving the word lieutenant special emphasis. Then he turned and was gone.

“What was that supposed to mean?” D’Agosta asked.

“If I know Glen, I’d say you’ve got a friend in court.”

D’Agosta felt his heart accelerate again. Despite the imminent ordeal, he suddenly felt absurdly happy. It was as if a great weight had just been lifted from him: a weight he hadn’t even been fully conscious he was carrying.

He turned toward her in a rush. “Listen, Laura—”

“No.
You
listen.” She wrapped her other hand around his, squeezed it tightly. “It doesn’t matter what happens in that room. Do you understand me, Vinnie? Because whatever happens, happens to both of us. We’re in this together.”

He swallowed. “I love you, Laura Hayward.”

At that moment, the door of the courtroom opened and the court clerk called his name. Thomas Shoulders rose from the bench, caught D’Agosta’s gaze, nodded.

Hayward gave D’Agosta’s hand a final squeeze. “Come on, big boy,” she said, smiling. “It’s showtime.”

A
fternoon sun bronzed the hills of the Hudson Valley and turned the wide, slow-moving river into an expanse of brilliant aquamarine. The forests that covered Sugarloaf Mountain and Breakneck Ridge were just leafing out in new bloom, and the entire Highlands wore a feathery mantle of spring.

Nora Kelly sat in a deck chair on the broad porch of the Feversham Clinic, looking down over Cold Spring, the Hudson River, and the red brick buildings of West Point beyond. Her husband prowled back and forth at the edge of the porch, now and then gazing out over the vista, other times darting glances up at the genteel lines of the private hospital.