Free Dance of Death by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A

in twenty minutes, they don't have to pay-"
    Smithback cut him off. "Fifty bucks for your two pizzas and the hat."
    The man looked at him blankly, like a complete idiot.
    Smithback pulled out a fifty. "Here. Take it."
    "But what about-"
    "Tell them you got robbed."
    The man couldn't help but take the money. Smithback swiped the hat off the man's head, stuck it on his own, opened the rear carrier on the motorbike, and hauled out the pizza boxes. He moved through the crowd toward the door, carrying the pizzas in one hand and jerking off his tie with the other, stuffing it in his pocket.
    "Pizza delivery, coming through!" He elbowed his way to the front, came up against the blue barricades draped in crime scene tape.
    "Pizza delivery, SOC team, twenty-fourth floor."
    It worked like a dream. The fat cop manning the barricade shoved it aside and Smithback hiked through.
    Now for the triumvirate at the door.
    He strode confidently forward as the three cops turned to face him.
    "Pizza delivery, twenty-fourth floor."
    They moved to block his way.
    "I'll take the pizzas up," one said.
    "Sorry. Against company rules. I got to deliver directly to the customer."
    "Nobody's allowed in."
    "Yeah, but this is for the SOC team. And if you take it up, how am I going to collect my money?"
    The cops exchanged an uncertain glance. One shrugged. Smithback felt a glow. It was going to work. He was as good as in.
    "They're getting cold, come on." Smithback pressed forward.
    "How much?"
    "Like I said, I have to deliver directly to the customer. May I?" He made one more tentative step, almost bumped into the large gut of the lead cop.
    "No one's allowed up."
    "Yes, but it's just for a-"
    "Give me the pizzas."
    "Like I said-"
    The cop reached out. "I said, give me the damn pizzas."
    And just like that, Smithback realized he was defeated. He docilely held them out and the cop took them.
    "How much?" the cop asked.
    "Ten bucks."
     The cop gave him ten, no tip. "Who's it for?"
    "The SOC team."
    "Your customer got a name? There're a dozen SOC up there."
    "Ah, I think it was Miller."
    The cop grunted, disappeared in the dim lobby carrying the pizzas, while the other two closed rank, blocking the door. The one who had shrugged turned back. "Sorry, pal, but could you bring me a fifteen-inch pie, pepperoni, garlic, and onions with extra cheese?"
    "Up yours," Smithback said, turning and walking back to the barriers. As he squeezed through the press of reporters, he heard some snickers and someone called out, "Nice try, Bill." And another shrilled out in an effeminate voice, "Why, Billy darling, that hat looks dreamy on you."
    Smithback pulled the hat off in disgust and tossed it. For once, his reportorial genius had failed. He was already getting a bad feeling about this assignment. It had barely started and already it was smelling rotten. Despite the January frost in the air, he could almost feel Harriman's hot breath on the back of his neck.
    He turned and-with heavy heart-took his place in the crowd to wait for the official briefing.
    TEN
    Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta pushed open the door of McFeeley's Ale House, feeling bone-tired. McFeeley's was about as cozy an Irish bar as you could still find in New York, and D'Agosta needed a little comfort right about now. The place was dark, long, and narrow, with a thickly varnished wooden bar on one side, booths along the other. Ancient sporting prints hung from the walls, indistinguishable underneath a heavy mantle of dust. Behind the bar, bottles stood six rows deep in front of the mirrored wall. An old jukebox sat near the door, the kind where the Irish selections were printed in green ink. On tap were Guinness, Harp, and Bass. The place smelled of greasy cooking and spilled beer. Just about the only nostalgic touch missing, in fact, was tobacco smoke, and D'Agosta didn't miss that at all: he'd given up cigars years before, when he quit the force and moved to Canada to write.
    McFeeley's was half empty, the way