Read Online Blue Labyrinth by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
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overconfident at our last meeting, raised your hopes.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” Pendergast said. “My hopes were not raised. Alban was formidable.”
There was a brief silence before the man spoke again. “One thing you might want to know. Lieutenant Angler, the NYPD’s lead investigator on your son’s homicide… I took a look at his internal reports. He’s got a decided interest in you.”
“Indeed?”
“Your lack of cooperation—and your behavior—aroused his curiosity. Your appearance at the autopsy, for example. And your interest in that lump of turquoise, which you convinced the NYPD to loan you and which is now, I understand, overdue. You may be heading for a problem with Angler.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
“Don’t mention it. Again, I’m sorry I don’t have more. I still have eyes on the ground. If there’s any way I can be of further assistance, call the main number at Langley and ask for Sector Y. Meanwhile, I’ll let you know of any change in status.”
The line went dead.
Pendergast sat for a moment, staring at the cell phone. Then he slipped it back into his pocket, stood up, and made his way down the stone walkway and out of the tea garden.
In the large kitchen of the apartment’s private quarters, Pendergast’s housekeeper, Kyoko Ishimura, was at work chopping scallions. As the FBI agent passed through, she glanced over and—with a deaf person’s economy of gesture—indicated there was a telephone message waiting. Pendergast nodded his thanks, then continued down the hall to his office, stepped inside, picked up the phone, and—without taking a seat at the desk—retrieved the message.
“Um, ah, Mr. Pendergast.” It was the rushed, breathy voice of Dr. Paden, the mineralogist at the Museum. “I’ve analyzed the sample you left me yesterday with X-ray diffraction, brightfield microscopy, fluorescence, polarization, diascopic and episcopic illumination, among other tests. It is most definitely natural turquoise: hardness 6, refractive index is 1.614 and the specific gravity is about 2.87, and as I mentioned earlier there is no indication of stabilization or reconstitution. However, the sample exhibits some, ah, curious phenomena. The grain size is most unusual. I’ve never seen such semi-translucence embedded in a large spiderweb matrix. And the color… it doesn’t come from any of the well-known mines, and there is no record of its chemical signature in the database… In short, I,ah, fear it is a rare sample from a small mine that will prove difficult to identify, and that more time than I expected will be needed, perhaps a lot more time, so I’m hoping that you will be patient and won’t ask for the return of the painite while I…”
Pendergast did not bother to listen to the rest of the message. With a jab of his finger, he deleted it and hung up the phone. Only then did he sit down behind his desk, put his elbows on the polished surface, rest his chin on tented fingers, and stare off into space, seeing nothing.
Constance Greene was seated in the music room of the Riverside Drive mansion, playing softly on a harpsichord. It was a gorgeous instrument, made in Antwerp in the early 1650s by the celebrated Andreas Ruckers II. The beautifully grained wood of the case had been edged in gilt, and the underside of the top was painted with a pastoral scene of nymphs and satyrs cavorting in a leafy glade.
Pendergast himself had little use for music. But—while Constance’s own taste was by and large limited to the baroque and early classical periods—she was a superb harpsichordist, and Pendergast had taken enjoyment in acquiring for her the finest period instrument available. Other than the harpsichord, the room was simply and tastefully furnished. Two worn leather armchairs were arranged before a Persian carpet, bookended by a brace of identical standing Tiffany lamps. One wall had a recessed bookcase full of sheet music of seventeenth- and
“There’s no need to apologize,” Pendergast said. “My hopes were not raised. Alban was formidable.”
There was a brief silence before the man spoke again. “One thing you might want to know. Lieutenant Angler, the NYPD’s lead investigator on your son’s homicide… I took a look at his internal reports. He’s got a decided interest in you.”
“Indeed?”
“Your lack of cooperation—and your behavior—aroused his curiosity. Your appearance at the autopsy, for example. And your interest in that lump of turquoise, which you convinced the NYPD to loan you and which is now, I understand, overdue. You may be heading for a problem with Angler.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
“Don’t mention it. Again, I’m sorry I don’t have more. I still have eyes on the ground. If there’s any way I can be of further assistance, call the main number at Langley and ask for Sector Y. Meanwhile, I’ll let you know of any change in status.”
The line went dead.
Pendergast sat for a moment, staring at the cell phone. Then he slipped it back into his pocket, stood up, and made his way down the stone walkway and out of the tea garden.
In the large kitchen of the apartment’s private quarters, Pendergast’s housekeeper, Kyoko Ishimura, was at work chopping scallions. As the FBI agent passed through, she glanced over and—with a deaf person’s economy of gesture—indicated there was a telephone message waiting. Pendergast nodded his thanks, then continued down the hall to his office, stepped inside, picked up the phone, and—without taking a seat at the desk—retrieved the message.
“Um, ah, Mr. Pendergast.” It was the rushed, breathy voice of Dr. Paden, the mineralogist at the Museum. “I’ve analyzed the sample you left me yesterday with X-ray diffraction, brightfield microscopy, fluorescence, polarization, diascopic and episcopic illumination, among other tests. It is most definitely natural turquoise: hardness 6, refractive index is 1.614 and the specific gravity is about 2.87, and as I mentioned earlier there is no indication of stabilization or reconstitution. However, the sample exhibits some, ah, curious phenomena. The grain size is most unusual. I’ve never seen such semi-translucence embedded in a large spiderweb matrix. And the color… it doesn’t come from any of the well-known mines, and there is no record of its chemical signature in the database… In short, I,ah, fear it is a rare sample from a small mine that will prove difficult to identify, and that more time than I expected will be needed, perhaps a lot more time, so I’m hoping that you will be patient and won’t ask for the return of the painite while I…”
Pendergast did not bother to listen to the rest of the message. With a jab of his finger, he deleted it and hung up the phone. Only then did he sit down behind his desk, put his elbows on the polished surface, rest his chin on tented fingers, and stare off into space, seeing nothing.
Constance Greene was seated in the music room of the Riverside Drive mansion, playing softly on a harpsichord. It was a gorgeous instrument, made in Antwerp in the early 1650s by the celebrated Andreas Ruckers II. The beautifully grained wood of the case had been edged in gilt, and the underside of the top was painted with a pastoral scene of nymphs and satyrs cavorting in a leafy glade.
Pendergast himself had little use for music. But—while Constance’s own taste was by and large limited to the baroque and early classical periods—she was a superb harpsichordist, and Pendergast had taken enjoyment in acquiring for her the finest period instrument available. Other than the harpsichord, the room was simply and tastefully furnished. Two worn leather armchairs were arranged before a Persian carpet, bookended by a brace of identical standing Tiffany lamps. One wall had a recessed bookcase full of sheet music of seventeenth- and
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