Verses for the Dead

13

The spasm of activity increased in intensity — and then, quite suddenly, Coldmoon sensed a change. Cops began to disappear. One minute they were talking in small groups, gesturing into phones — and then they were gone. The uniforms remained, manning the taped barriers and guarding the evidence, but the plainclothes seemed to vanish as if into thin air. At the same time, he started hearing the whoop whoop of sirens. Unmarked cars that had been hidden among the throngs of onlookers now started to detach themselves and force their way into the street, driving on sandy meridians and against the flow of traffic in order to make headway. Behind him came another series of whoops, and he turned to see one of the police cars that had been blocking the rear alley shoot off with a squeal of rubber. But the two of them, Coldmoon realized, weren’t going anywhere — they’d taken a taxi to and from the airport, and Coldmoon’s requisitioned Mustang was parked back at his hotel. He felt like the kid stranded at the end of musical chairs. “What the hell are we going to do for a car?” he asked. “And where’s the crime scene? ‘City of Miami’ is kind of vague.”

Pendergast ducked under the tape and away from the crime scene, moving fast, threading his way through the onlookers. Coldmoon hurried to follow. Pendergast stopped outside a souvenir shop, plucked a map of Miami from a rack near the entrance, and, with a whiplike movement, opened it. Together they peered at the map. He pointed to a rectangle of green amid a sprawling grid of printed streets. “Ecce!”

Coldmoon squinted in the bright sunlight. “City of Miami Cemetery.”

“Approximately four miles from our present location.”

Coldmoon glanced around again. Plenty of cars, barely crawling — but no cabs, no limos, no cop cars offering empty seats.

The proprietor of the store had spotted them and was making her way out from behind the cash register. Pendergast stuffed the map back into its rack and took off down Ocean Drive at a brisk walk. Coldmoon swung in behind him. Ahead loomed one of South Beach’s omnipresent art deco hotels. Pendergast jogged up the curving drive to the bellman’s station, dodging parked cars and passersby. A lone taxi idled at the hotel’s front steps, its yellow paint job faded almost white by the sun. Its trunk was open and the driver was shoving suitcases into it, while a heavyset elderly man was helping an equally elderly woman prepare to get into the backseat.

Pendergast introduced himself to the white-haired man, shaking his hand and giving a courtly bow to the woman. Coldmoon began to approach, but something told him he’d have better luck hanging back. Other people started to appear: valets, bellmen, someone who looked like a concierge. For a minute, this small knot surrounded Pendergast and the elderly couple, hiding the three from Coldmoon’s sight. And then the group began to break up, the bellmen taking the luggage from the trunk and lugging it back to the hotel. Now it was the white-haired gent who was shaking Pendergast’s hand, nodding and beaming. As the couple began to ascend the steps toward the hotel entrance, Coldmoon — coming forward — caught the old man’s parting words: “Thanks again, mate!”

“Good day.” Pendergast slammed the trunk closed, then ushered Coldmoon into the still-open rear door. “After you.”

Coldmoon slid in. The cabdriver, who had watched all this transpire with bewilderment, frowned. “What the hell, ese? That was a forty-dollar ride, man.”

“I think you’ll find this ride more profitable,” Pendergast said, getting in beside Coldmoon and closing the door. He opened his FBI shield, showed it to the driver. “You know the best way to Miami City Cemetery?”

The man — late thirties, with a tiny ponytail and a Cuban flag tattooed on one arm — didn’t seem impressed. “Yeah.”

Pendergast reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a thick sheaf of folded banknotes. “How fast can you get us there?”

The driver was still standing on the pavement. “In this traffic? Shit, maybe twenty, thirty minutes.”

Pendergast threw a fifty-dollar bill into the front seat. “How about ten?”

The driver got in and grabbed the bill. “I haven’t got wings, man—”

Another fifty went into the front seat. “Then perhaps you could grow a pair. Of wings, I mean.”

The cabbie scowled. “Listen, I’ve already got three points on my license, and—”

“You’re forgetting that we’re FBI. Just get us there the fastest way — the fastest way — you can.”

“Yeah,” Coldmoon added for emphasis. He figured the man might even be up to the task — he looked more like a getaway driver than a cabbie. He peered into the front seat, trying to make out the man’s taxi license. “Put the hammer down — Axel.”

The driver slammed his door and peeled out of the hotel parking loop, almost immediately getting stuck on Ocean Drive.

Pendergast turned to Coldmoon. “Do you have a preferred traffic app on your phone?”

“Waze.”

“Open it, please. Check the traffic to the cemetery. Open a backup app as well, in case the suggested routes differ.”

The cab veered onto the shoulder, avoiding the stalled traffic, then swerved sharply left at Ninth Street.

“Mind explaining what went on back there?” Coldmoon asked as he woke up his phone and dialed in the Miami City Cemetery.

“Just a moment.” Pendergast leaned forward. “What route are you taking?” he asked the driver.

The man braked violently at the intersection of Collins Avenue, forcing Coldmoon to grab the oh-shit handle above his window. “The causeway, then Biscayne.”

Pendergast looked inquiringly at Coldmoon, who looked in turn at his phone. MacArthur Causeway was a solid red line of traffic, stretching all the way from Miami Beach to the mainland. He shook his head.

“No,” said Pendergast.

“What do you mean, no?” came the reply from the front seat. “You want to get there or not?”

“Venetian Way looks like a better bet,” said Coldmoon, jumping back and forth between traffic apps.

“Over the islands? You crazy, man, or—”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Pendergast interrupted. “My friend here will provide the directions; you will follow them, breaking any and all traffic laws necessary to keep us moving; and I’ll keep handing you money. What do you say?” And he peeled off another fifty and tossed it into the front seat.

The driver, Axel, glanced at it, then — jamming his foot on the gas again — shot across Collins Avenue to the screaming protest of oncoming horns. For a busted-up old taxi, Axel’s ride had plenty of juice.

“Flashers on, please, and take the median strip to the light,” said Pendergast.

“Whatever.” The cab mounted the curb and tore along the grass, fishtailing slightly.

“Right on Meridian, left on Seventeenth,” Coldmoon told the cabbie.

Pendergast settled back as the cab swerved back onto the roadway and shot along Meridian to a symphony of blaring horns.

“So what happened back there?” Coldmoon asked.

Pendergast settled into the seat. “A charming couple from Brisbane, on their way to Orlando. I advised against it and pointed out the wisdom of staying another day at their hotel — in an upgraded room, of course, at no charge to them.”

“Why not just flash your gold and take the damn cab away from them?”

“To such a lovely elderly couple? How uncouth.”

“So you conned them out of their taxi.”

“I did them a favor. No civilized person should have to set foot willingly in Orlando. I suggested the World Erotic Art Museum would be a better choice, just around the corner from the hotel.”

The cab turned onto Seventeenth, then accelerated dramatically, pinning the two agents to their seats. The driver threaded his way expertly between cars, honking and swerving, finally driving over the edge of a sidewalk.

“Run the light, please.” With this comment, another fifty landed in the front seat.

The cabbie ran the light and continued on. Coldmoon checked the apps again. No route was traffic-free, but this one was the least of many evils.

Ahead of them, a vista of intense blue suddenly appeared — Biscayne Bay. Thirty seconds later the road became a bridge, bisecting a parallel series of lozenge-shaped isles, glittering green and white in the cerulean, like jewels set into a Fabergé egg. Coldmoon stared at the gleaming high-rise condos and marinas before him, fringed by countless palm trees and seeming to rise out of the tropical water like dream castles. It occurred to him that had he been shown a picture of such a place during his childhood on the Pine Ridge Reservation, he would have assumed it was something out of a fairy tale.

His thoughts were interrupted by a violent screech of brakes that threw him against the driver’s headrest. Recovering, he saw a long line of brake lights ahead and what appeared to be an accident. He realized that Pendergast — and the driver, via the rearview mirror — was looking at him expectantly.

“Well?” Axel asked. “What now, Davy Crockett?”

Coldmoon glanced at his phone. They were on the eastern edge of Rivo Alto Island. “Make a left, two rights, then back onto Venetian Way.”

Without another word, the driver twisted the steering wheel, gunned into the oncoming lane, drove along it for a hundred yards, then made a left, the rear end fishtailing. Pendergast let another fifty-dollar bill drop gently into the front seat.

“You know, it would probably have been easier to just rent a chopper,” Coldmoon said.

To his surprise, Pendergast took the suggestion seriously. “Anything would be an improvement on this abominable traffic.” He was silent a moment. “This is the second time I’ve been late to a crime scene. I won’t be late to a third.”

The taxi, once again weaving in and out across both directions of traffic, now veered over the final island in the chain and approached the breastwork of hotels lining the mainland shore. “Right on Second Avenue,” Coldmoon said, observing that Route 1, too, was little better than a parking lot, thanks to construction ahead.

By way of answer, the cab shot across one intersection, then another, narrowly missing being T-boned by a moving van, then made a harrowing right onto Second, the rear tires smoking, again using the median strip, weaving among palm trees as if on a slalom course. And then the car lurched once again to a stop. This time, it looked more or less final: all lanes ahead were at a standstill, apparently blocked by the construction and spillover from Route 1.

“Damn,” he muttered.

But even as he spoke he saw Pendergast throw another bill into the front seat and get out. Coldmoon followed suit. Three blocks ahead, he could make out a patch of green: the cemetery.

“Eleven minutes,” Pendergast said. “Excellent. Perhaps we’ll even beat our friend the lieutenant.” And threading his way between the cars to the sidewalk, he began moving north at a smooth but rapid walk.