Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [16]
“What the—?” the cop said, backing off. “FBI. He’s FBI.”
“What’s he doing here?” asked the other.
“Pendergast!” D’Agosta cried, stepping toward him quickly. “What the hell brings you here? This killing isn’t exactly your kind of—”
Pendergast silenced him with a violent gesture, slashing his hand through the air between them. In the neon gloom, his face was so white he almost looked spectral, dressed as usual like a wealthy undertaker in his trademark tailored black suit. Except this time he somehow looked different—very different. “I must speak with you. Now.”
“Sure, of course. As soon as I wrap things up—”
“I mean now, Vincent.”
D’Agosta stared. This was not the cool, collected Pendergast he knew so well. This was a side of the man he had never seen before, angry, brusque, his movements rushed. Not only that, but—D’Agosta noticed on closer inspection—his normally immaculate suit was creased and rumpled.
Pendergast grasped him by the lapel. “I have a favor to ask you. More than a favor. Come with me.”
D’Agosta was too surprised by his vehemence to do anything but obey. Leaving the scene under the stares of his fellow cops, he followed Pendergast past the crowd and down the street to where the agent’s Rolls was idling. Proctor, the chauffeur, was behind the wheel, his expression studiously blank.
D’Agosta had to practically run to keep up. “You know I’ll help you out any way I can—”
“Don’t say anything, do not speak, until you’ve heard me out.”
“Right, sure,” D’Agosta added hastily.
“Get in.”
Pendergast slipped into the rear passenger compartment, D’Agosta climbing in behind. The agent pulled open a panel in the door and swung out a tiny bar. Grasping a cut-glass decanter, he sloshed three fingers of brandy into a glass and drank half of it off with a single gulp. He replaced the decanter and turned to D’Agosta, his silvery eyes glittering with intensity. “This is no ordinary request. If you can’t do it, or won’t do it, I’ll understand. But you must not burden me with questions, Vincent—I don’t have time. I simply don’t—have—time. Listen, and then give me your answer.”
D’Agosta nodded.
“I need you to take a leave of absence from the force. Perhaps as long as a year.”
“A year?”
Pendergast knocked back the rest of the drink. “It could be months, or weeks. There’s no way to know how long this is going to take.”
“What is ‘this’?”
For a moment, the agent did not reply. “I’ve never spoken to you about my late wife, Helen?”
“No.”
“She died twelve years ago, when we were on safari in Africa. She was attacked by a lion.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“At the time, I believed it to be a terrible accident. Now I know different.”
D’Agosta waited.
“Now I know she was murdered.”
“Oh, God.”
“The trail is cold. I need you, Vincent. I need your skills, your street smarts, your knowledge of the working classes, your way of thinking. I need you to help me track down the person—or persons—who did this. I will of course pay all your expenses and see to it that your salary and health benefits are maintained.”
A silence fell in the car. D’Agosta was stunned. What would this mean for his career, his relationship with Laura Hayward… his future? It was irresponsible. No—it was more than that. It was utterly crazy.
“Is this an official investigation?”
“No. It would be just you and me. The killer might be anywhere in the world. We will operate completely outside the system—any system.”
“And when we find the killer? What then?”
“We will see to it that justice is served.”
“Meaning?”
Pendergast sloshed more brandy into the glass with a fierce gesture, gulped it down, and fixed D’Agosta once again with those cold, platinum eyes.
“We kill him.”
7
THE ROLLS-ROYCE TORE UP PARK AVENUE, LATE-CRUISING cabs flashing by in blurs of yellow. D’Agosta sat in the back with Pendergast, feeling awkward, trying not to turn a curious eye toward the FBI agent. This Pendergast was impatient, unkempt,