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She hesitated. "I'm being released this afternoon and I… I want to get back in as soon as possible."

D'Agosta understood. "I'm already having the — having it prepared for your return. There's a company that does this sort of thing at short notice."

Nora nodded, turning her head away.

This was his cue to leave, and D'Agosta rose. "Thank you, Nora. I'll keep you informed of our progress. If you think of anything more, will you let me know? You'll keep me in the loop?"

She nodded again without looking at him. "And remember what I said. We're going to find Fearing — you have my word."

Chapter 7

Special Agent Pendergast glided silently down the long, dimly lit central hallway of his West 72nd Street apartment. As he walked, he passed an elegant library; a room devoted to Renaissance and Baroque oil paintings; a climate — controlled vault stacked floor — to — ceiling with vintage wines in teakwood racks; a salon with leather armchairs, expensive silk carpets, and terminals hardwired to half a dozen law enforcement databases.

These were the public rooms of Pendergast's apartment, although perhaps fewer than a dozen people had ever seen them. He was headed now toward the private rooms, known only to himself and Kyoko Ishimura, the deaf and mute housekeeper who lived in and looked after the apartment.

Over several years, Pendergast had discreetly purchased two additional adjoining apartments as they came on the market and integrated them with his own. Now his residence stretched along much of the Dakota's 72nd Street frontage and even part of the Central Park West frontage as well: an immense, rambling, yet exceedingly private eyrie.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he opened the door of what appeared to be a closet. Instead, the small room beyond was empty save for another door in the far wall. Disengaging its security apparatus, Pendergast opened the door and stepped into the private quarters. He walked quickly through these as well, nodding to Miss Ishimura as she stood in the spacious kitchen, preparing fish intestine soup over a restaurant — grade stove. Like all spaces in the Dakota, the kitchen had an unusually high ceiling. At length he reached the end of another corridor, another innocuous — looking door. Beyond lay his destination: the third apartment, the sanctum sanctorum into which even Miss Ishimura entered only infrequently.

He opened the door into a second closet — size room. This time, there was not another door at the far end, but rather ashoji, a sliding partition of wood and rice — paper panels. Pendergast closed the door behind him, then stepped forward and gently drew theshoji aside.

Beyond lay a tranquil garden. Sounds of gently trickling water and birdsong freighted air already heavy with the scents of pine and eucalyptus. The light was dim and indirect, suggesting late afternoon or early evening. Somewhere in the green fastness, a dove cooed.

A narrow path of flat stones lay ahead, flanked by stone lanterns and winding sinuously between evergreen plantings. Pulling theshoji shut, Pendergast stepped over the pebbled verge and made his way down the path. This was anuchi — roji, the inner garden of a teahouse. The intensely private, almost secret spot exuded tranquility, encouraged a contemplative spirit. Pendergast had lived with it so long now that he had almost lost his appreciation for just how unusual it was: a complete and self — sufficient garden, deep within a massive Manhattan apartment building.

Ahead, through the bushes and dwarf trees, a low wooden building came into view, simple and unadorned. Pendergast made his way past the formal washbasin to the teahouse entrance and slowly pulled itsshoji aside.

Beyond lay the tearoom itself, decorated with elegant spareness. Pendergast stood in the entrance a moment, letting his eyes move over the hanging scroll in its alcove, the formalchabana flower arrangements, the shelves holding scrupulously clean whisks, tea scoops, and other equipment. Then, closing the sliding door and seating himselfseiza — style on the tatami mat, he began performing the exacting rituals of the ceremony itself.

The tea ceremony is at heart a ritual of grace and perfection, the serving of tea to a small group of guests. Though Pendergast was alone, he was nevertheless performing the ceremony for a guest: one who was unable to attend.

Carefully, he filled the caddy, measured in the powdered tea, whisked it to a precise consistency, then poured it into two exquisite seventeenth — century tea bowls. One he placed before himself; the other he set on the opposite side of the mat. He sat a moment, staring at the steam as it rose in gossamer curls from his bowl. Then — slowly, meditatively — he raised the bowl to his lips.

As he sipped, he allowed certain memories to form pictures in his mind, one at a time, lingering over each before moving to the next. The subject of each memory was the same. William Smithback, Jr., assisting him in a race against time to blast open the doors of the Tomb of Senef and rescue the people trapped within. Smithback, lying horrified in the backseat of a purloined taxi as Pendergast careened through traffic, trying to elude his brother, Diogenes. Now, further back in time, Smithback looking on in outrage and dismay as Pendergast burned the recipe for the Arcanum at Mary Greene's grave site. And still further back, Smithback once again, standing at his side during the terrible struggle with the strange denizens of the Devil's Attic, far below the streets of New York City.

By the time the tea bowl was empty, there were no more memories to reflect on. Pendergast placed the bowl back on the mat and closed his eyes a moment. Then, opening them again, he gazed at the other bowl, still full, that sat across from him. He sighed quietly, then spoke.

"Waga tomo yasurakani," he said.

Farewell, my friend.

Chapter 8

Noon. D'Agosta punched the elevator button again with a muttered curse. He checked his watch. "Nine minutes. No shit — nine frigging minutes we been here."

"You must learn to put your spare time to good use, Vincent," murmured Pendergast.

"Yeah? It seems to me that you've been cooling your heels, too."

"On the contrary. Over the last nine minutes, I've reflected — with great pleasure — on Milton's invocation in the third book ofParadise Lost; I've reviewed the second — declension Latin nouns — certain Latin declensions can be an almost full — time occupation — and I've mentally composed a choice letter I plan to deliver to the engineers who designed this elevator."

A creaking rumble announced the elevator's arrival. The doors groaned open and the packed interior disgorged its contents of doctors, nurses, and — finally — a corpse on a gurney. They got in and D'Agosta punched the button marked B2.

A long wait and the doors rumbled closed. The elevator began to descend so slowly that there was no perception of movement. After another interminable wait, the doors creaked open to reveal a tiled basement corridor, bathed in greenish fluorescent lighting, the air redolent of formaldehyde and death. A gatekeeper behind a sliding glass partition guarded a pair of locked steel doors.

D'Agosta approached, slipping out his shield. "Lieutenant D'Agosta, NYPD Homicide, Special Agent Pendergast, FBI. We're here to see Dr. Wayne Heffler."

"Documents in the tray," came the laconic voice.

They put their shields in a sliding tray. A moment later, they came back with two passes. The steel doors sprang ajar with a metallic snap. "Down the hall, second corridor, left at the T. Check in with the secretary."

The secretary was busy, and it took another twenty minutes to see the doctor. By the time the door finally opened and they were ushered into the elegant office, D'Agosta was spoiling for a fight. And as soon as he saw the arrogant, annoyed face of the assistant medical examiner, he knew he was going to get his wish.

The M.E. rose from his desk and pointedly did not offer them seats. He was a handsome older man, lean and spare, dressed in a cardigan with a bow tie and starched white shirt. A tweed jacket hung on the back of his chair. His thinning silver hair was combed back from a high forehead. The Mr. Rogers look stopped at the eyes, which were as blue and cold as ice behind horn — rimmed spectacles. There were hunting prints on the wood — paneled walls, along with a collection of yacht racing pennants in a large glass case.A frigging country gentleman, D'Agosta thought sourly.

"What can I do for you?" the M.E. asked, unsmiling, hands on the desk.

D'Agosta pointedly took a chair, moving it this way and that before sitting down, taking his time about it. Pendergast slipped smoothly into a seat nearby. D'Agosta peeled a document out of his briefcase and slid it over the half — an — acre of desk.

The man didn't even look at it. "Lieutenant — ah, D'Agosta — fill me in on the details. I don't have time to read reports right now."

"It's about the autopsy of Colin Fearing. You were in charge. Remember?"

"Of course. The body found in the Harlem River. Suicide."

"Yeah," said D'Agosta. "Well, I got five good witnesses swearing he was the killer on that West End Avenue murder last night."

"That's quite impossible."

"Who identified the body?"

"The sister." Heffler shuffled impatiently through a file open on his desk. "Carmela Fearing."

"No other family?"

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