Blue Labyrinth Read Online Free PDF Page A

wrong time.
    He stopped to catch his breath—damn, he’d have to go on a diet after the past two weeks of poi, kalua pig, opihi, haupia, and beer. After a moment, he continued up the stairs and passed through the entrance into the vastness of the Great Rotunda. Here he paused again to pull out his iPad and refresh himself on the details of the case. The murder had been discovered late the previous evening. All the initial crime scene work had been completed. D’Agosta’s first task would be to re-interview the security guard who had discovered the body. Then he had a date with the public relations director who—knowing the Museum—would be more concerned with neutralizing bad press than solving the crime. There were another half a dozen names on his list of interviewees.
    He showed his shield to one of the guards, signed in, got a temporary ID, then made his way across the echoing expanse, past the dinosaurs, past another checkpoint, through an unmarked door, and down a series of labyrinthine back corridors to Central Security—a journey he remembered all too well. A uniformed guard sat, alone, in the waiting area. As D’Agosta entered, he jumped to his feet.
    “Mark Whittaker?” D’Agosta asked.
    The man nodded rapidly. He was short—about five foot three—and portly, with brown eyes and thinning blond hair.
    “Lieutenant D’Agosta, homicide. I know you’ve been over all this before, and I’ll try not to take up more of your time than necessary.” He shook the man’s limp, sweaty hand. In his experience, private security guards were one of two types—wannabe cops, resentful and pugnacious, or mild-mannered door shakers, cowed and intimidated by the real McCoy. Mark Whittaker was definitely of the latter breed.
    “Can we chat at the crime scene?”
    “Sure, yes, of course.” Whittaker seemed eager to please.
    D’Agosta followed him on another lengthy journey back out of the bowels and into the public areas of the Museum. As they walked through the winding corridors, D’Agosta couldn’t help glancing at the exhibits. It had been years since he’d set foot in this place, but it didn’tseem to have changed much. They were walking through the darkened, two-story African hall, past a herd of elephants, and from there into the Hall of African Peoples, Mexico and Central America, South America, hall after echoing hall of cases full of birds, gold, pottery, sculpture, textiles, spears, clothing, masks, skeletons, monkeys… He found himself panting and wondering how the hell it was he could hardly keep up with this fat little guard.
    They made their way into the Hall of Marine Life and Whittaker finally came to a stop at one of the more distant alcoves, which had been sealed off with yellow crime scene tape. A Museum guard stood before the tape.
    “The Gastropod Alcove,” D’Agosta said, reading the name off a brass plaque that stood beside the opening.
    Whittaker nodded.
    D’Agosta showed his shield to the guard, ducked under the tape, and motioned Whittaker to follow. The space beyond was dark and the air dead. Glass cabinets covered the three walls of the alcove, stuffed full of shells of all sizes and shapes, from snails to clams to whelks. Waist-high display cases, sporting still more shells, stood before the cabinets. D’Agosta sniffed. This had to be the least-visited place in the entire damn Museum. His eye fell on a queen conch, pink and shiny, and for a moment he was transported back to one particular evening on the North Shore of Hawaii, the sand still warm from the just-departed sun, Laura lying beside him, the creamy surf curling around their feet. He sighed and hauled himself back to the present.
    He glanced below one of the display cases, where a chalk outline and several evidence tags were visible, along with a long, long rivulet of dried blood. “When did you find the body?”
    “Saturday night. About eleven ten.”
    “And you came on duty at what time?”
    “Eight.”
    “This