Read Online Blue Labyrinth by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
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rules.”
“And that’s exactly why you should immerse yourself in something totally different,” Constance said. “While awaiting the next development, take up some small conundrum, some simple case. Otherwise… you’ll lose your equilibrium.”
These last five words were spoken slowly, and with conviction.
Pendergast’s gaze drifted to the floor. “You’re right, of course.”
“I suggest this because—because I care for you, and I know how obsessive and unhappy this bizarre case could make you. You’ve suffered enough.”
For a moment, Pendergast remained still. Then he glided forward, bent toward her, took her chin in one hand, and—to her great astonishment—kissed her gently.
“You are my oracle,” he murmured.
V incent D’Agosta sat at the table in the small area he had claimed as his forward office in the New York Museum of Natural History. It had taken a heavy hand to pry it loose from the Museum’s administration. Grudgingly they had given up a vacant cubby deep within the Osteology Department, which was thankfully far from the reeking maceration tanks.
Now D’Agosta listened as one of his men, Detective Jimenez, summarized their review of the Museum’s security tapes for the day of the murder. In a word: zip. But D’Agosta put on a show of listening intently—he didn’t want the man to think his work wasn’t appreciated.
“Thank you, Pedro,” D’Agosta said, taking the written report.
“What next?” Jimenez asked.
D’Agosta glanced at his watch. It was quarter past four. “You and Conklin knock off for the day, go out and have a cold one, on me. We’ll be holding a status meeting in the briefing room tomorrow morning at ten.”
Jimenez smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
D’Agosta watched his departing form. He’d have given just about anything to join the guys in hoisting a few. But no: there was something he had to do. With a sigh, he flipped quickly through the pagesof Jimenez’s report. Then, putting it aside, he pulled his tablet from his briefcase and began preparing a report of his own—for Captain Singleton.
Despite his team’s best efforts, and two days during which more than a hundred man-hours of investigative work had been expended, not a single decent lead had surfaced in the murder of Victor Marsala. There were no eyewitnesses. The Museum’s security logs had picked up nothing unusual. The big question was how the damn perp had gotten out. They’d been beating their heads against that question from the beginning.
None of the enormous amount of forensic evidence they’d gathered was proving relevant. There appeared to be no good motive for murder among Marsala’s co-workers, and those who bore even the faintest grudge against him had ironclad alibis. His private life was as boring and law abiding as a damn bishop’s. D’Agosta felt a prickling of personal affront that, after all his time on the job, Captain Singleton should toss him an assignment like this.
He began drafting his interim report for Singleton. In it, he summarized the steps the investigation had taken, the persons interviewed, the background checks on Marsala, the forensic and SOC data, the analysis of the Museum’s security tapes, and the statements of the relevant security guards. He pointed out that the next step, should Singleton decide to authorize it, would be an expansion of the interview process beyond the Osteology Department. It would mean the wholesale interviewing, cross-correlation, and background examination of all the Museum staff who had worked late that evening—in fact, perhaps the entire Museum staff, whether they had worked late or not.
D’Agosta guessed Singleton wouldn’t go for that. The expense in time, manpower, and cost was too high, given the small chance a lead would turn up. No: he would likely assign a reduced force to the case, let it move to the back burner. In time, that force, too, would be reassigned. Such was the way of the cold case.
He
“And that’s exactly why you should immerse yourself in something totally different,” Constance said. “While awaiting the next development, take up some small conundrum, some simple case. Otherwise… you’ll lose your equilibrium.”
These last five words were spoken slowly, and with conviction.
Pendergast’s gaze drifted to the floor. “You’re right, of course.”
“I suggest this because—because I care for you, and I know how obsessive and unhappy this bizarre case could make you. You’ve suffered enough.”
For a moment, Pendergast remained still. Then he glided forward, bent toward her, took her chin in one hand, and—to her great astonishment—kissed her gently.
“You are my oracle,” he murmured.
V incent D’Agosta sat at the table in the small area he had claimed as his forward office in the New York Museum of Natural History. It had taken a heavy hand to pry it loose from the Museum’s administration. Grudgingly they had given up a vacant cubby deep within the Osteology Department, which was thankfully far from the reeking maceration tanks.
Now D’Agosta listened as one of his men, Detective Jimenez, summarized their review of the Museum’s security tapes for the day of the murder. In a word: zip. But D’Agosta put on a show of listening intently—he didn’t want the man to think his work wasn’t appreciated.
“Thank you, Pedro,” D’Agosta said, taking the written report.
“What next?” Jimenez asked.
D’Agosta glanced at his watch. It was quarter past four. “You and Conklin knock off for the day, go out and have a cold one, on me. We’ll be holding a status meeting in the briefing room tomorrow morning at ten.”
Jimenez smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
D’Agosta watched his departing form. He’d have given just about anything to join the guys in hoisting a few. But no: there was something he had to do. With a sigh, he flipped quickly through the pagesof Jimenez’s report. Then, putting it aside, he pulled his tablet from his briefcase and began preparing a report of his own—for Captain Singleton.
Despite his team’s best efforts, and two days during which more than a hundred man-hours of investigative work had been expended, not a single decent lead had surfaced in the murder of Victor Marsala. There were no eyewitnesses. The Museum’s security logs had picked up nothing unusual. The big question was how the damn perp had gotten out. They’d been beating their heads against that question from the beginning.
None of the enormous amount of forensic evidence they’d gathered was proving relevant. There appeared to be no good motive for murder among Marsala’s co-workers, and those who bore even the faintest grudge against him had ironclad alibis. His private life was as boring and law abiding as a damn bishop’s. D’Agosta felt a prickling of personal affront that, after all his time on the job, Captain Singleton should toss him an assignment like this.
He began drafting his interim report for Singleton. In it, he summarized the steps the investigation had taken, the persons interviewed, the background checks on Marsala, the forensic and SOC data, the analysis of the Museum’s security tapes, and the statements of the relevant security guards. He pointed out that the next step, should Singleton decide to authorize it, would be an expansion of the interview process beyond the Osteology Department. It would mean the wholesale interviewing, cross-correlation, and background examination of all the Museum staff who had worked late that evening—in fact, perhaps the entire Museum staff, whether they had worked late or not.
D’Agosta guessed Singleton wouldn’t go for that. The expense in time, manpower, and cost was too high, given the small chance a lead would turn up. No: he would likely assign a reduced force to the case, let it move to the back burner. In time, that force, too, would be reassigned. Such was the way of the cold case.
He
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