Blue Labyrinth

33

There’s someone to see you, Lieutenant.”

Peter Angler, looking up from the pile of printouts that sat on his desk, raised an inquiring eyebrow at his assistant, Sergeant Slade, who stood in the doorway.

“Who is it?”

“The prodigal son,” Slade said with a thin smile as he stepped aside. A moment later, the lean, ascetic form of Special Agent Pendergast appeared in the doorway.

Angler did a good job of concealing his surprise. Wordlessly, he motioned Pendergast to a chair. There was a different look to the man today, Angler sensed; he wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he thought it had to do with the cast of the man’s eyes, which seemed unusually bright in what was otherwise a pallid face.

He leaned back in his chair, away from the printouts. He’d done enough wooing of this man; he would let the FBI agent speak first.

“I wanted to congratulate you, Lieutenant, on your inspired discovery,” Pendergast began. “It would never have occurred to me to search for an anagram of my son’s name in the passenger manifests from Brazil. It was just like Alban to make a game of it.”

Of course it wouldn’t, Angler thought; that was not the way Pendergast’s mind worked. He wondered, idly, if Alban Pendergast had perhaps been more intelligent than his father.

“I find myself curious,” Pendergast went on. “What day did Alban fly into New York, exactly?”

“It was June fourth,” Angler replied. “On an Air Brazil flight from Rio.”

“June fourth,” Pendergast repeated, almost to himself. “A week before he was murdered.” He glanced back at Angler. “Naturally, once you had found the anagram, you went back and checked earlier manifests?”

“Naturally.”

“And did you find anything else?”

For a moment, Angler considered being evasive and giving Pendergast a taste of his own medicine. But he wasn’t that kind of a cop. “Not yet. That investigation is still ongoing. There are a huge number of manifests to check, and not all of them — especially the foreign airlines — are as in order as one might wish.”

“I see.” Pendergast seemed to ponder something for a moment. “Lieutenant, I wish to apologize for, ah, being less forthcoming on past occasions than perhaps I should have been. At the time, I felt that I might make more progress on my son’s murder if I pursued the case on my own.”

In other words, you figured me for the bumbling idiot you presume most of the force to be, Angler thought.

“In that I may have been mistaken. And so in order to rectify the situation, I wanted to place before you the facts to date — as far as I know them.”

Angler made a slight gesture with his hand, turning his palm up, asking Pendergast to proceed. In the shadows at the rear of the office, Sergeant Slade remained standing — perfectly silent, as was his wont — taking everything in.

Pendergast briefly and succinctly recited to Angler the story of the turquoise mine, the ambush, and its link to the murder of the technician at the Museum of Natural History. Angler listened with growing surprise and irritation, even anger, at all that Pendergast had withheld. At the same time, the information might be very useful. It would open the case up to fresh lines of investigation — that is, if it could be relied upon. Angler listened impassively, taking care not to betray any reaction.

Pendergast finished his story and fell silent, looking at Angler, as if expecting a reply. Angler gave him none.

After a long moment, Pendergast rose. “In any case, Lieutenant, that is the progress of the case, or cases, to date. I offer this to you in the spirit of cooperation. If I can help in any other way, I hope you’ll let me know.”

Now at last Angler shifted in his chair. “Thank you, Agent Pendergast. We will.”

Pendergast nodded courteously and left the office.

Angler sat in his chair, leaning away from the desk, for a moment. Then he turned to Slade and gestured for him to come forward. Sergeant Slade shut the door and took the chair vacated by Pendergast.

Angler regarded Slade for a moment. He was short, dark, and saturnine, and an exceptionally shrewd judge of human nature. He was also the most cynical man Angler had ever known — all of which made him an exceptional counselor.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I can’t believe the son of a bitch held out on us like that.”

“Yes. So why this, now? Why, after doing his best to give me only the merest scraps of information — why come here on his own volition and spill all his secrets?”

“Two possibilities,” Slade said. “A, he wants something.”

“And B?”

“He isn’t.”

“Isn’t what?”

“Isn’t spilling all his secrets.”

Angler chuckled. “Sergeant, I like the way your mind works.” He paused. “It’s too pat. This sudden volte-face, this open and apparently friendly offer of cooperation — and this story about a turquoise mine, a trap, and a mysterious assailant.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Slade, popping a piece of licorice toffee into his mouth — he was never without a pocketful — and tossing the crumpled wrapper into the garbage can. “I believe his story, as cockamamie as it sounds. It’s just there’s more that he isn’t saying.”

Angler looked down at his desk and thought for a moment. Then he glanced back up. “So what does he want?”

“He’s fishing. Wants to know what we’ve uncovered about his son’s movements.”

“Which means he doesn’t already know everything about his son’s movements.”

“Or maybe he does. And by pretending to show an interest, he wants to point us in the wrong direction.” Slade smiled crookedly as he chewed.

Angler sat forward, pulled a sheet of paper toward him, scribbled a few notations in shorthand. He liked shorthand not only because it was quick, but because it had fallen into such disuse that it made his notes almost as secure as if they had been encrypted. Then he pushed the sheet away again.

“I’ll send a team to California to check out this mine and interview the man in the Indio jail. I’ll also call D’Agosta and get all the case files on his Museum investigation. In the meantime, I want you to quietly—quietly—dig up everything on Pendergast you can find. History, his record of arrests and convictions, commendations, censures — whatever. You’ve got some FBI buddies. Take them out for drinks. Don’t ignore the rumors. I want to know this man inside and out.”

Slade gave a slow smile. This was the kind of job he liked. Without another word, he stood up and slipped out the door.

Angler sat back in his chair again, put his hands behind his head, and gazed up at the ceiling. He mentally reviewed all his previous dealings with Pendergast: the initial meeting in this very office, where Pendergast had been so remarkable in his lack of cooperation; the autopsy; the later encounter in the evidence room, where Pendergast had, perversely, seemed to show little or no interest in the hunt for his son’s murderer; and now once again in this office, where Pendergast had abruptly become the soul of forthrightness. This sudden reversal smacked to Angler of a common theme in many of the Greek myths he knew so well: betrayal. Atreus and Thyestes. Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. And now, as he stared at the ceiling, he realized that — while over the past weeks he had felt irritation and doubt toward Pendergast — all that time, another emotion had been slowly developing within him:

Dark suspicion.