Crimson Shore

4

Pendergast pulled the Porsche roadster — its top down to greet the late-morning sunlight — into a parking space along Main Street.

“Automobiles are still something of a novelty to me,” Constance said as she got out. “But even I can tell you’ve parked improperly. You’ve straddled the line again.”

Pendergast merely smiled. “Let us go shopping.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Constance, one of the first things you must learn when on a case with me is not to question every little thing. Now... I see some lovely Hawaiian shirts in that shop window — and they’re even on sale!”

She followed him into the shop and pretended to look through a rack of tennis whites while Pendergast went through the Hawaiian shirts, selecting several of them, apparently at random. She heard him chatting up the clerk, asking her if they ever had problems with shoplifting and whether the security camera clearly visible in the front window was really necessary. She frowned as she heard the clerk ringing up his purchases. She assumed he was taking the measure of the town, but it seemed so random, so unfocused, given the fact there were many other pressing matters to investigate. For example, the list of lighthouse keepers, awaiting her in the Historical Society’s archives — and the carbon 14 dating of the finger bone.

Soon they were back out on the street, Pendergast holding a shopping bag. He loitered in the doorway of the shop, checking his watch.

“How many yards of execrable taste, exactly, did you buy?” Constance asked, eyeing the bag.

“I didn’t notice. Let us linger here for a moment.”

Constance peered at him. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to have a look of anticipation on his face.

And then she saw, rolling down Main Street, the two-toned police car.

Pendergast checked his watch again. “New Englanders are so wonderfully punctual.”

The car slowed and pulled to the curb. A policeman got out; the chief they had seen the day before. Constance was not a great judge of twentieth-century masculinity, but this fellow looked like a 1950s college football star gone to seed: crew cut, thick neck, and square jaw, perched atop an enormous, lumpy frame. Hiking up his jangling belt, the man pulled out a thick ticket book and began writing a ticket for the roadster.

Pendergast approached. “May I inquire as to the problem?”

The policeman turned to him, rubbery lips distending into a smile. “Slow learner?”

“What do you mean?”

“Straddling the spaces again. I guess one citation wasn’t enough.”

Pendergast pulled out the previous ticket. “You mean this?”

“That’s right.”

Pendergast neatly tore it in half and tucked the pieces back into his pocket.

The chief frowned. “Cute.”

Constance winced at the man’s heavy South Boston accent. Was there an accent in English more grating? Pendergast was being his provocative self, and she began to understand his look of anticipation. This might prove enjoyable. At the right moment, he would pull his FBI shield and put this verminous cop in his place.

The man finished writing the ticket, slid it up under the windshield wipers. “There you go.” He grinned. “Another one for you to tear up.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Pendergast plucked it out, tore it in half, and pushed the pieces into his pocket, giving it a little pat with his hand.

“You can tear them up all day, but that won’t make them go away.” The chief leaned forward. “Let me give you a little free advice. We don’t appreciate some wannabe private dick coming into our town and interfering with our investigation. So watch your step.”

“I am acting as a private investigator, yes,” Pendergast said. “I do, however, take exception to the use of the term ‘dick.’”

“My sincere apologies for using the term ‘dick.’”

“Several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of wine were stolen,” Pendergast said, his voice taking on a pompous tone. “This is grand larceny at the highest level. Since the police seem unable, or unwilling, to make any progress on solving this case, I have been called in.”

The chief frowned. Despite the autumnal warmth, beads of sweat began to appear on his greasy brow. “All right. You know what? I’m going to be watching everything you do. One step, one toe, over the line and I’ll run you out of this town so fast your head will spin. Is that clear?”

“Certainly. And while I investigate grand larceny, you may continue to protect the town from the scourge of straddled parking.”

“You’re quite the comedian.”

“That was an observation, not a pleasantry.”

“Well, observe this: next time you straddle a parking space, I’ll tow your vehicle.” He ran a pair of thick fingers along the side of the car. “Now, please move it into a legal parking place.”

“You mean, right now?”

The cop’s breath was coming harder. “Right now,” he said.

Pendergast got in, started the car, and moved it back, but he stopped prematurely, leaving the rear bumper just on the line.

He got out. “There.”

The cop stared at him. “You’re still over the line.”

Pendergast looked at the Porsche in an exaggerated fashion, scrutinizing the bumper and the painted line and frowning. “It’s on the line — not over. Besides, look at all the parking spaces on the street. Who’s going to care?”

The cop’s breathing had become a wheeze. “You little prick, you think you’re funny?”

“First you called me a ‘dick.’ Now you’ve called me a ‘prick.’ I commend you on your poesy. But you seem to forget that a lady is present. Perhaps your mother should have employed the soap treatment more frequently to your rather orotund mouth.”

Constance had seen Pendergast deliberately provoke people before, but not quite so belligerently. She wondered why the first thing he’d done in this investigation was to go out of his way to make an enemy of the chief of police.

The chief took a step closer. “Okay. I’m done. I want you out of this town. Now. Get back in your faggoty little vehicle and you and your girlfriend get your asses out.”

“Or?”

“Or I’ll take you in for loitering and disturbing the peace.”

Most uncharacteristically, Pendergast laughed aloud. “No, thank you. I’m going to stay as long as I please. In fact, I’m looking forward to watching the baseball game at the Inn tonight — during which, no doubt, the New York Yankees will firmly insert the Red Sox back into the cesspit they’ve been trying to crawl out of during the American League championship.”

A long, steaming silence. Then the cop, calmly and with deliberation, reached down to his belt and unhooked a pair of handcuffs. “Put your hands behind your back, sir, and turn around.”

Pendergast instantly complied. The chief slapped on the cuffs.

“Right this way, sir.” He gave Pendergast a gentle nudge toward the patrol car. Constance waited for Pendergast to say something, pull his shield. But he did nothing.

“Just a minute,” she said to the cop’s retreating back, her voice low.

He stopped and turned.

Constance looked into the man’s face. “You do this, and you’ll be the sorriest man in the state of Massachusetts.”

The chief’s eyes widened in mock fear. “Are you threatening me?”

“Constance?” Pendergast asked, his voice managing to be pleasant while at the same time full of warning.

Constance kept her attention on the chief. “I’m not threatening you,” she said. “I’m merely predicting a sad and humiliating future for you.”

“And who’s going to do this, exactly — you?”

“Constance?” Pendergast said, a little louder.

She made a great effort to stifle her reply, to stem the furious flow of blood that suddenly thrummed in her ears.

“Bitch.” The cop turned and continued to ease Pendergast toward the squad car, the FBI agent going willingly. The chief opened the back door and put his hand on Pendergast’s head to push him into the seat.

“Bring the checkbook to the station,” Pendergast told Constance, reaching into his pocket with some difficulty and tossing her the car keys, “so you can make bail.”

Constance stared as the squad car pulled away from the curb and went speeding down Main Street with a screech of rubber, slowing her breathing, waiting for the red mist to recede from her vision. It wasn’t until the car was out of sight that she remembered there was no one to drive their roadster.