Page 58 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

“We’re working on those,” said D’Agosta. “He has colleagues all over the world—but that’s typical of this place.”

“Does the museum have a register or log—something to show who visited him recently?”

“Yes. We pulled it. I’ve got a list, and we’re working through it. Now, with this connection to the homicide in South Dakota, we’ll have a much better idea who to look for.”

Coldmoon nodded. He glanced at his watch. “Five o’clock. Christ, I was up at fourAM, had a long drive, a long flight, and then an hour in traffic coming in from Kennedy.” He grinned suddenly. “What say you to going off the clock and getting a beer, Lieutenant Commander?”

“I think that’s a brilliant idea, Special Agent.”

D’Agosta took Coldmoon to the Blarney Stone Tavern, on Columbus behind the museum, nicknamed “The Bones” because of the late owner’s crazy affinity for fixing bones to the walls and ceiling. It was none too clean, the kind of place with sawdust on the floor and wooden tables deeply scored by graffiti. Even as the Upper West Side gentrified almost beyond recognition, the Blarney Stone had remained true to its working-class roots. D’Agosta chose it because he sensed in Coldmoon a man who would not appreciate your typical Upper West Side wine bar or bistro.

They settled into an empty booth. “This place is like its own museum,” said Coldmoon, looking around at the bones and animal skulls wired to the ceiling and walls. “Where did all this stuff come from?”

“The owner never said,” replied D’Agosta. “Rumor was he nicked them from the museum, but that’s not likely when you look at those bones—most look like cow or sheep. He died a few years back, so maybe nobody will ever know.”

The waiter took their order—a pitcher of Harp, and an order of bubble and squeak to share.

“That museum’s quite a place,” said Coldmoon. “Never been there before, but I’ve heard a few snippets from a colleague of mine who handled some big cases there.”

“Colleague?”

“Yeah. We just came off two cases in Florida and another in Georgia. God, was I glad to get back west. Now here I am, east again. Just can’t get away.”

Florida and Georgia.That’s where Pendergast had been.

“Your partner,” D’Agosta asked slowly. “Is he with you now?”

“No, I was transferred to the Denver FO and got a new partner. This is my first case with them. My new partner’s working the case back on the Rez in South Dakota while I follow up here.”

“This previous partner…” D’Agosta was almost afraid to ask. “What were the cases he worked on at the museum?”

The pitcher of beer arrived and Coldmoon poured out two pints. “He’s sort of a closed-mouth guy, doesn’t like to talk about his cases. Bunch of murders is all I could get out of him. Decapitations. He specializes in serial killers.”

D’Agosta picked up his beer, took a long draft, then set it down carefully. “Your partner’s name wouldn’t be Pendergast, would it?”

Coldmoon stared. “Youknowhim?”

“I sure do. I worked those cases you’re talking about—the museum murders and the one that followed. Others, as well. We’ve worked together quite a lot. In fact, I recently paid him a visit up at his place on Riverside Drive.”

Coldmoon continued to stare. “Jesus. Small world. I left him two weeks ago back in Savannah. He, um, wasn’t doing too well.” A pause. “So he’s home now? Is he okay?”

D’Agosta took another long, thoughtful sip of beer. He wasn’t sure how much he should say. “Pendergast…” he replied, “is kind of an odd duck. Hard to read, you know what I mean?” He couldn’t believe this young agent had partnered with the legendary Pendergast.

“‘Hard to read’ is an understatement,” said Coldmoon. “The guy plays his cards close. But brilliant—I mean, he’s the finest investigator I’ve ever met. It’s almost like he canreadcriminal minds.”

D’Agosta released a breath of relief. “That’s for sure. The guy’s a frigging genius.” He stopped himself from saying Pendergast had saved his life more than once.

“So—is he okay? I’ve been kind of worried.”

“Not sure. His ward, Constance, left him and he’s pretty cut up about it. You know her?” D’Agosta immediately saw from the expression on the man’s face that he did.

“Yeah. I know her.” Coldmoon’s tone did not imply affection.

“Where’d she go?” D’Agosta asked. “You know what happened?”

Again, D’Agosta could see that Coldmoon did know what happened—but wasn’t going to tell him.

After a moment, Coldmoon simply shook his head. “It’s a long, crazy story.” He sipped his beer.

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