Read Online Cemetery Dance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
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Inc. was located in one of the giant glass office towers that lined Avenue of the Americas in the lower fifties. D'Agosta met Pendergast in the main lobby and, after a brief stop at the security station, they made their way to the thirty–seventh floor.
"Did you bring a copy of the letter?" Pendergast asked.
D'Agosta patted his jacket pocket. "You got anything on Kline's background I should know?"
"Indeed I do. Our Mr. Lucas Kline grew up in a poor family from Avenue J in Brooklyn, childhood unremarkable, grades excellent, always the last chosen for the team, a ‘nice boy.' He matriculated from NYU, began work as a journalist — which, by all accounts, was where his heart lay. But it worked out badly: he got scooped on an important story — unfairly, it seems, but when was journalism a fair field? — and was fired as a result. He drifted a bit, ultimately becoming a computer programmer for a Wall Street bank. Apparently he had a talent for it: he started DVI a few years later and seems to have carried it a fair distance." He glanced at D'Agosta. "Are you considering a search warrant?"
"I thought I'd see how the interview goes first."
The elevator doors rolled back on an elegantly furnished lobby. Several sofas clad in black leather sat on antique Serapi rugs. Half a dozen large pieces of African sculpture — warriors with imposing headpieces, large masks with dizzyingly complex traceries — decorated the space.
"It would appear our Mr. Kline has come farther than a ‘fair distance,' " D'Agosta said, looking around.
They gave their names to the receptionist and sat down. D'Agosta hunted in vain for a copy of People or Entertainment Weekly among the stacks of Computerworld and Database Journal. Five minutes went by, then ten. Just as D'Agosta was about to get up and make a nuisance of himself, a buzzer sounded on the receptionist's desk.
"Mr. Kline will see you now," she said, standing and leading the way through an unmarked door.
They walked down a long, softly lit hallway that terminated in another door. The receptionist ushered them through an outer office where a gorgeous secretary sat typing at a computer. She gave them a furtive look before returning to her work. She had the tense, cowed manner of a beaten dog.
Beyond, yet another pair of doors opened onto a sprawling corner office. Two walls of glass offered dizzying views of Sixth Avenue. A man of about forty stood behind a desk covered with four personal computers. He was standing while speaking into a wireless telephone headset, his back to them, looking out the windows.
D'Agosta examined the office: more black leather sofas, more tribal art on the walls: Mr. Kline, it seemed, was a collector. A polished glass case held several dusty artifacts, clay pipes and buckles and twisted pieces of iron, labeled as coming from the original Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam. A few recessed bookcases contained books on finance and computer programming languages, in sharp contrast with the leering, slightly unsettling masks.
Finishing the phone call, the man hung up and turned to face them. He had a thin, remarkably youthful face that still bore traces of a struggle with adolescent acne. D'Agosta noticed he was relatively short, no taller than five foot five. His hair stuck up in the back, like a kid's. Only his eyes were old — and very cool.
He looked from Pendergast to D'Agosta and back again. "Yes?" he asked in a soft voice.
"I will have a seat, thank you," Pendergast said, taking a chair and throwing one leg over the other. D'Agosta followed suit.
The man smiled slightly but said nothing.
"Mr. Lucas Kline?" D'Agosta said. "I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta of the NYPD."
"I knew you had to be D'Agosta." Kline looked at Pendergast. "And you must be the special agent. You already know who I am. Now, what is it you want? I happen to be busy."
"Is that so?" D'Agosta asked, lounging back in the leather, making it creak in a most satisfying way. "And just what is it
"Did you bring a copy of the letter?" Pendergast asked.
D'Agosta patted his jacket pocket. "You got anything on Kline's background I should know?"
"Indeed I do. Our Mr. Lucas Kline grew up in a poor family from Avenue J in Brooklyn, childhood unremarkable, grades excellent, always the last chosen for the team, a ‘nice boy.' He matriculated from NYU, began work as a journalist — which, by all accounts, was where his heart lay. But it worked out badly: he got scooped on an important story — unfairly, it seems, but when was journalism a fair field? — and was fired as a result. He drifted a bit, ultimately becoming a computer programmer for a Wall Street bank. Apparently he had a talent for it: he started DVI a few years later and seems to have carried it a fair distance." He glanced at D'Agosta. "Are you considering a search warrant?"
"I thought I'd see how the interview goes first."
The elevator doors rolled back on an elegantly furnished lobby. Several sofas clad in black leather sat on antique Serapi rugs. Half a dozen large pieces of African sculpture — warriors with imposing headpieces, large masks with dizzyingly complex traceries — decorated the space.
"It would appear our Mr. Kline has come farther than a ‘fair distance,' " D'Agosta said, looking around.
They gave their names to the receptionist and sat down. D'Agosta hunted in vain for a copy of People or Entertainment Weekly among the stacks of Computerworld and Database Journal. Five minutes went by, then ten. Just as D'Agosta was about to get up and make a nuisance of himself, a buzzer sounded on the receptionist's desk.
"Mr. Kline will see you now," she said, standing and leading the way through an unmarked door.
They walked down a long, softly lit hallway that terminated in another door. The receptionist ushered them through an outer office where a gorgeous secretary sat typing at a computer. She gave them a furtive look before returning to her work. She had the tense, cowed manner of a beaten dog.
Beyond, yet another pair of doors opened onto a sprawling corner office. Two walls of glass offered dizzying views of Sixth Avenue. A man of about forty stood behind a desk covered with four personal computers. He was standing while speaking into a wireless telephone headset, his back to them, looking out the windows.
D'Agosta examined the office: more black leather sofas, more tribal art on the walls: Mr. Kline, it seemed, was a collector. A polished glass case held several dusty artifacts, clay pipes and buckles and twisted pieces of iron, labeled as coming from the original Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam. A few recessed bookcases contained books on finance and computer programming languages, in sharp contrast with the leering, slightly unsettling masks.
Finishing the phone call, the man hung up and turned to face them. He had a thin, remarkably youthful face that still bore traces of a struggle with adolescent acne. D'Agosta noticed he was relatively short, no taller than five foot five. His hair stuck up in the back, like a kid's. Only his eyes were old — and very cool.
He looked from Pendergast to D'Agosta and back again. "Yes?" he asked in a soft voice.
"I will have a seat, thank you," Pendergast said, taking a chair and throwing one leg over the other. D'Agosta followed suit.
The man smiled slightly but said nothing.
"Mr. Lucas Kline?" D'Agosta said. "I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta of the NYPD."
"I knew you had to be D'Agosta." Kline looked at Pendergast. "And you must be the special agent. You already know who I am. Now, what is it you want? I happen to be busy."
"Is that so?" D'Agosta asked, lounging back in the leather, making it creak in a most satisfying way. "And just what is it
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