Free Blue Labyrinth by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A

upper-class New York accent. At well over six feet in height,he dominated the tiny space. He looked from D’Agosta to Pendergast and back, radiating irritation at the continued presence of the police in his domain.
    “You’re still here,” he said. It was a statement rather than a question.
    “The case hasn’t been solved,” said D’Agosta.
    “Nor is it likely to be. This was a random crime committed by someone from the outside. Marsala was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The murder has nothing to do with the Osteology Department. I understand you’ve been repeatedly interviewing my staff, all of whom have a great deal of work, important work, on their plates. Can I assume that you’ll be finishing up your investigation in short order and allowing my staff to continue their work in peace?”
    “Who is this man, Lieutenant?” Pendergast asked mildly.
    “I am Dr. Morris Frisby,” he said crisply, turning to Pendergast. He had dark-blue eyes with very large whites, and they focused on a person like klieg lights. “I am the head of the anthropology section.”
    “Ah, yes. Promoted after the rather mysterious disappearance of Hugo Menzies, if I’m not mistaken.”
    “And who might you be? Another policeman in mufti?”
    With a languid motion, Pendergast reached into his pocket, removed his ID and shield, and waved them at Frisby
à la distance
.
    Frisby stared. “And how is it the feds have jurisdiction?”
    “I am here merely out of idle curiosity,” said Pendergast breezily.
    “A busman’s holiday, I presume. How nice for you. Perhaps you can tell the lieutenant here to wrap up his case and cease his pointless interruptions of my department’s time and taxpayer dollars, not to mention the occupation of our departmental space.”
    Pendergast smiled. “My idle curiosity might lead to something more official, if the lieutenant feels his work is being hindered by an officious, small-minded, self-important bureaucrat. Not you, of course. I speak in general terms only.”
    Frisby stared at Pendergast, his large face turning an angry red.
    “Obstruction of justice is a serious thing, Dr. Frisby. For that reason I’m so glad to hear from the lieutenant how you’ve been extending your full cooperation to him and will continue to do so.”
    Frisby remained rigid for a long moment. And then he turned on his heel to leave.
    “Oh, and Dr. Frisby?” Pendergast continued, still in his most honeyed tone.
    Frisby did not turn around. He merely paused.
    “You may continue your cooperation by digging up the name and credentials of the visiting scientist who recently worked with Victor Marsala and giving them to my esteemed colleague here.”
    Now Frisby did turn back. His face was almost black with rage. He opened his mouth to speak.
    Pendergast beat him to it. “Before you say anything, Doctor, let me ask you a question. Are you familiar with game theory?”
    The chief curator did not answer.
    “If so, you would be aware that there is a certain subset of games known to mathematicians and economists as zero-sum. Zero-sum games deal with resources that neither increase nor decrease in amount—they only shift from one player to the other. Given your present frame of mind, were you to speak now, I’m afraid you might say something rash. I would feel it incumbent to offer a rejoinder. As a result of this exchange, you would be mortified and humiliated, which—as dictated by the rules of game theory—would increase my influence and status at your expense. So I’d suggest the most prudent course of action would be for you to remain silent and go about securing the information I asked for with all possible haste.”
    While Pendergast had been speaking, an expression quite unlike any D’Agosta had ever seen before crept slowly over Frisby’s face. He said nothing, merely swayed a little, first backward, then forward, like a branch caressed by a breeze. Then he gave what might have been the smallest of nods and