Free Blue Labyrinth by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

finished the report, read it over quickly, transmitted it toSingleton, and then shut down his tablet computer. When he looked up, he saw—with a sudden shock—that Agent Pendergast was seated in the lone chair across from the tiny desk. D’Agosta had neither seen nor heard him come in.
    “Jesus!” D’Agosta said, taking a deep breath to recover from the surprise. “You just love creeping up on people, don’t you?”
    “I admit to finding it amusing. Most people are about as aware of their surroundings as a sea cucumber.”
    “Thanks, I appreciate that. So what brings you here?”
    “You, my dear Vincent.”
    D’Agosta looked at him intently. He had heard, the day before, about the murder of Pendergast’s son. In retrospect, D’Agosta understood why Pendergast had been so short with him in the Museum’s rotunda.
    “Look,” he began a little awkwardly, “I was really sorry to hear about what happened. You know, when I approached you the other day, I didn’t know about your son, I’d just returned from my honeymoon and wasn’t up on departmental business—”
    Pendergast raised a hand and D’Agosta fell silent. “If anyone should apologize, it should be me.”
    “Forget it.”
    “A brief explanation is in order. Then I would deem it appropriate if the subject was not raised again.”
    “Shoot.”
    Pendergast sat forward in his chair. “Vincent, you know I have a son, Alban. He was deeply sociopathic. I last saw him a year and a half ago, when he disappeared into the Brazilian jungle after perpetrating the Hotel Killings here in New York.”
    “I didn’t hear that.”
    “Since then, he never surfaced… until his corpse was placed upon my doorstep four nights ago. How this was effected and who did it, I have no idea. A Lieutenant Angler is investigating, and I fear he is inadequate to the task.”
    “Know him well. He’s a damned good detective.”
    “I have no doubt he is competent—which is why I had an associate with excellent computer skills delete all DNA evidence of the Hotel Killer from the NYPD files. You may recall that you once made an official report that Alban and the Hotel Killer were one and the same. Luckily for me, that report was never taken seriously. Be that as it may, it would not do to have Angler run my son’s DNA against the database and come up with a hit.”
    “Jesus Christ, I don’t want to hear any more.”
    “In any case, Angler is up against a most unusual killer and will not succeed in finding him. But that is my concern, not yours. Which brings me to why I’m here. When last we spoke, you had a case you wished to solicit my advice on.”
    “Sure. But you must have more important things to do—”
    “I would be glad of the diversion.”
    D’Agosta stared at the FBI agent. He was as gaunt as usual, but he seemed perfectly composed. The ice-chip eyes returned the look, regarding him coolly. Pendergast was the strangest man he’d ever met, and God only knew what was going on below the surface.
    “Okay. Great. I warn you, though, it’s a bullshit case.” D’Agosta went over the details of the crime: the discovery of the body; the particulars of the scene; the mass of forensic evidence, none of which seemed germane; the reports of the security guards; the statements of the curators and assistants in the Osteology Department. Pendergast took it all in, utterly motionless save for the occasional blink of his silvery eyes. Then a shadow appeared in the cubicle, and Pendergast’s eyes shifted.
    D’Agosta looked over his shoulder, following Pendergast’s gaze, and saw the tall, heavyset form of Morris Frisby, head of the department. When D’Agosta had first interviewed him, he had been surprised to find not the slope-shouldered, nearsighted curator he’d expected, but a man who was powerful and feared by his staff. D’Agosta had felt a little intimidated himself. The man was wearing an expensive pin-striped suit with a red tie, and he spoke with a crisp,