Crooked River

8

Ironically, after searching around for Pendergast without success as the meeting broke up, Perelman found the FBI agent in the parking lot — leaning up against the chief’s unmarked Explorer.

“Looking for me?” Perelman asked as he approached.

“Indeed I am,” Pendergast said. “I wondered if we might have a chat.”

“Sure. Care to grab some lunch?”

“Not especially. I was thinking that perhaps we could take a stroll along Turner Beach.”

At first, Perelman thought this was a joke. But Pendergast’s smile was at present too faint to support even the driest pretense at humor. Upon leaving the station, the man had donned an expensive pair of Persol sunglasses and a wide-brimmed Panama hat. Now he looked even less like a law enforcement agent and more like... well, a member of the polo club, maybe, or perhaps even a stylish drug lord.

In his job, Perelman had grown used to eccentricities of all kinds. Besides, he felt rather curious — he wasn’t sure why — to see what Pendergast would do next. His beach patrol officers were already “maintaining the security and integrity of the immediate crime scene,” as Baugh had directed, leaving him temporarily free to examine the case from a broader perspective. Towne and Morris could bum one of half a dozen other rides back onto the islands. So he merely shrugged. “Sure. Would you like to ride with me?”

“If you don’t mind.”

So Pendergast presently had no transportation, either. Perelman shrugged this off as well and they got into the police SUV. He started the engine, made his way to McGregor Boulevard, then turned south toward the Sanibel causeway.

“Do you mind the open windows?” Perelman asked. The temperature was hovering around ninety, with 100 percent humidity, but Perelman disliked air conditioning.

“I prefer it, thank you.”

They drove in silence for five or ten minutes. Pendergast, who was gazing out at the palm-lined street, seemed in no hurry to talk. Finally, Perelman asked: “How did you know this was my car?”

“I suppose I could give you a long list of potential giveaways: the unobtrusive spot lamps, the hidden door lock plungers in the backseat, the empty shotgun mount, other unmistakable accoutrements of the Ford Police Interceptor Utility — but it was the gold-edged ‘SPD’ parking sticker on your windshield that rendered further examination unnecessary.”

Perelman chuckled, shook his head. He was driving fast, and they were already past Cape Coral and nearing the causeway. They navigated their way past a series of traffic cones and temporary road signs bordering the first roadblock. Minutes later they were on the island, driving along Sanibel Captiva Road toward Blind Pass. The shock of yesterday’s events — and the official reaction, flashing lights and ambulances and an almost endless chorus of sirens — had abated somewhat, and to an unpracticed eye the little downtown would have looked almost normal. As they drove along, Perelman was flagged down three times by residents. All of them asked the same questions, and Perelman gave them all the same amiable non-answers.

“Delightful village,” Pendergast said.

“Thank you.”

“How did you become its police chief?”

“As in, you of all people?” the chief asked.

“You are the first police chief I’ve met to quote Virgil.”

Perelman had to think back to their first meeting before he understood. He shrugged. “I’ve always been a fan of Virgil.”

“But then there’s the fact you’re the first police chief I’ve met who also dropped out of Hebrew Union College in New York — and just months before completing a master’s in rabbinical studies.”

Perelman didn’t know if he should be surprised or flattered this agent had taken the time to dig into his background. “There’s this thing called an ‘existential crisis.’ I went through one late in grad school. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be a cantor, or a Talmudic scholar, or a wandering minstrel or what. The idea of being a Visigoth was also appealing — I would have been good at sacking Rome — but the timing was off. But, yes: I left the East Coast, wandered west until I reached Northern California. And there in Humboldt County, in a redwood forest, I came across a riot about to break out, between loggers and a bunch of environmentalists camped way up in the trees. Don’t ask me why, but it felt like my destination. There were two opposing forces — the law and the advocates of nature — and I wasn’t sure which side I felt like joining.”

“Which did you ultimately choose?”

“Neither. I turned into the go-between, sitting in no-man’s-land talking to both sides. I felt everyone had a point: it wasn’t right to break the law, but there was no reason humans had to go about destroying nature for profit, either. I joined the Forest Service. It seemed the best way to mediate things. And from there, I somehow drifted into straight-up law enforcement.”

“I imagine that required mediation, as well.”

Perelman grinned. “Some laws are stupid. Some people are stupid. My job was to show people why peaceful coexistence was better than getting jammed up or thrown in jail.”

“A Zen master with a badge.”

“Sometimes I have to raise my voice, though.”

“And Sanibel ended up a good fit?”

“I hadn’t planned on coming down here. But one thing led to another. And to be honest — I was born to live in a place like this.”

They passed through the checkpoint and over the bridge, then pulled in at the command center set up in the Turner Beach parking lot. The beach was still off-limits, of course, but most of the heavy work had been done. Some leftover crime scene investigators were fussing here and there in the sand. Coast Guard boats were still patrolling out past the breakwater, keeping a small flotilla of pleasure craft away.

They got out of the car and Pendergast paused a moment, taking in the scene with his peculiar silver-blue eyes.

In the command tent were several Department of Sanitation workers and a few of Perelman’s officers, including a sergeant by the name of Cranfield. They were sitting around a folding table, drinking coffee. As Pendergast and Perelman entered, the group began to rise.

Perelman motioned for them to remain seated. “This is Agent Pendergast of the FBI. Some of you may have met him yesterday.” He turned to Cranfield. “Anything else horrible wash up?”

“Just one foot in the last eight hours.”

“How’s it going otherwise?”

“The usual hassles with traffic, rubberneckers, and the odd journalist.”

Perelman nodded. “Let’s keep our status at condition yellow, then. We’ll review it again in another twelve hours.” He turned to Pendergast. “Want to take that walk?”

They stepped out into the merciless sunshine, crossed the asphalt, then ducked under the yellow tape and onto the sand. Pendergast paused again. “A shame to see so much trash on such a lovely beach,” he said.

“You can’t clean an active crime scene. We haven’t been able to run the raking machines since all this started.”

“Well, it would seem all the important evidence has been taken away. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to have your men help us pick up some of this refuse?”

Pick up trash? Perelman, trying to keep a neutral look on his face, unhooked his radio. “Cranfield?”

“Yes, Chief?”

“Please send Dixon and Ramirez out. With trash bags.”

A brief pause. “Ten-four.”

A minute later, two of the sanitation workers emerged from the tent, carrying large black bags. The four started slowly down the beach, Pendergast still in his expensive shoes. Ramirez bent down to pick up a plastic plate.

“That one won’t be necessary,” Pendergast said. “I will do the trash picking, if you please.”

And so they proceeded in fits and starts, pausing every now and then for Pendergast to pick something up — a potato chip bag, plant debris, pieces of driftwood, a plastic drink cover — and drop it into one of the bags the two sanitation men were holding. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to his choices. This had to be the strangest “stroll” Perelman had ever taken.

“Do you have that map I requested?” Pendergast asked while examining a rubber gasket, which he tossed back onto the sand.

Perelman brought out a piece of paper and gave it to Pendergast. It was a map of the beach, hand-drawn, with red dots documenting where each foot had washed up before being placed above the high tide line, along with the estimated time of arrival. The agent had asked for it yesterday evening, just before leaving for the morgue.

Pendergast paused to examine it. “This is most excellent, thank you.”

“My patrol officer, Laroux, made it. He fancies himself quite the artist.”

Pendergast kept it in hand while continuing down the beach, but it did not seem to alter the randomness of his progress. They walked on, the agent stopping every now and then to look over an evidence flag or pick up a piece of trash, examine it, and put it in the bag or toss it back onto the sand. While he proceeded, he peppered Perelman with questions: Had anything like this ever happened before — not with human feet, of course, but a strange and concentrated gift from the sea? Would it be worth interviewing the local fishermen? Did a lot of trash and seaweed usually wash up, in addition to all the shells? How often did they have to rake the beach? Perelman did his best to answer.

They were now nearing the far end of the beach, and Pendergast stopped to point out a large, old house on the dunes beyond the crime scene tape. “What a charming example of shingle-style Victorian architecture.”

“The Mortlach House,” Perelman said.

“An almost ideal location — although, situated beyond the dunes as it is, the house does seem rather exposed.” He paused. “It’s a trifle out of place — at least, compared to the other buildings around. Who lives there?”

“Nobody. In fact, it’s scheduled to be torn down.”

“What a shame.” He picked up a plastic tag and dropped it into one of the now-bulging trash bags. Then he straightened up. “Shall we return? I think I have enough trash.”

“Fine with me.”

They turned around and headed back, Ramirez and Dixon lugging the two full bags.

“Chief Perelman, I must admit that I’m curious. What are your thoughts on the commander’s theory?”

“He’s an experienced seaman — logged ten thousand hours on the water as a captain, just like he said — and his abilities are without question.” That wasn’t quite an answer, and Perelman knew it. He hesitated a second, then decided Pendergast deserved his trust. Exactly why, he wasn’t sure. “He’s old-school, used to absolute command — obviously, that makes him a little proud and not always willing to listen. But I’ve worked with him before. I respect his experience: a lifetime on the sea. His idea that the feet originated in Cuba does, at least to me, seem quite possible. Cuba’s changing but, sad to say, there are still many dissidents in prison.”

Pendergast, walking beside the chief, nodded.

“On the other hand... well, we’re not dealing with the set, drift, and windage of a four-hundred-ton Coast Guard cutter here. We’re dealing with shoes floating in the water. I’m not sure that falls within anyone’s experience — even the commander’s.”

As he was speaking, Perelman noticed movement in his peripheral vision. A black town car had turned off Captiva Drive and then continued along the road that dead-ended in the beach parking lot, where it pulled over before the tape. He frowned. What fresh hell was this — yet another bureaucrat out for a photo op? He thought he’d already met with or spoken to every city manager, councilperson, and reservist brass in Lee County who could claim even a modicum of authority.

But then the rear door opened and he realized he was wrong. A woman stepped out into the shade of the palms. She wore a large, stylish sun hat and a pale dress of what looked like organdy, tailored to accentuate her slender figure. As she approached, moving out of the shade and into the sunshine, Perelman realized that she was not only very young — hardly twenty-three or twenty-four — but remarkably attractive. Perelman was a cinephile, and this woman’s thin, curved eyebrows and bobbed mahogany hair reminded him of Claudette Colbert. No — even stronger in the chief’s imagination was a resemblance to the legendarily beautiful Olive Thomas, the silent film starlet who died in 1920.

But then this vision from the past slipped gracefully beneath the crime scene tape, and Perelman’s spell was broken.

“Just a minute, there!” he cried. In the distance, he could see a couple of his officers trotting in the direction of the black car.

A faint pressure on his arm. “It’s all right,” Pendergast said. “She’s with me.”

But the young woman had stopped of her own accord, unwilling to bury her heels in the sand, and was apparently waiting for them. Perelman called off his men and then the small procession — FBI agent, police chief, and two workers lugging heavy bags of trash — made its way through the sand toward her.

“Constance,” Pendergast said as they drew near, “this is Chief Perelman of the Sanibel Police Department. Chief, allow me to introduce my ward and assistant, Constance Greene.”

The young woman removed her sunglasses and regarded him with violet eyes. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The deep contralto, with its mid-Atlantic accent, once again caused Perelman to feel a strange tug from the distant past.

“I’m surprised to see you here, though pleased,” Pendergast told her. “What prompted you to leave Eden?”

“I believe it was encountering the tree of knowledge.”

“Even the charms of paradise can pale with time.”

“I finished À rebours. And it occurred to me — after the security chief finished explaining the finer points of handling his M60 — that it was selfish of me to stay behind, wallowing in luxury, while you were presumably toiling away on this investigation. Whether or not I can lend assistance with that, at least I can lend you my company.”

“Most kind.”

“They told me you were staying at the Flamingo View Motel—” she pronounced the name as if it were some species of slug — “but when I arrived there, I assumed it was a misunderstanding and didn’t venture inside to inquire.”

“Not a misunderstanding, alas. I’m sure ADC Pickett had intended to book me into a more suitable place. I’ll sort things out shortly.”

“Don’t make any changes on my account. I understand that sleeping in hovels builds character.”

Pendergast turned back to Perelman, who had been following this exchange with curiosity. “Thank you for humoring me and my interest in trash. I enjoyed having a chance to talk. No doubt we’ll see you again soon.”

“Stop by in the evening, if you’re free. If I’m not tinkering with my boat, you’ll usually find me on my veranda, playing guitar, drinking tequila, and pretending to read poetry. Ms. Greene, it was a pleasure to meet you.” And with a nod to his workers, Perelman turned back toward the command tent.

“One moment, please!” he heard Pendergast call. The agent gestured at the two bags of garbage. “Allow me to take those off your hands.”

Perelman frowned. “What?”

“You were kind enough to drive me to the beach. These men were kind enough to carry the bags while I filled them with trash. The least I can do is spare you the trouble of disposing of them.”

“But why—?” Perelman stopped, realizing he wasn’t going to get a straight answer. He nodded to the two sanitation workers, who followed Pendergast and his ward back to the town car, where Pendergast directed the men to put the bags in the trunk. Then the workers returned to the chief and watched as the gleaming black car made a three-point turn and then took off south, over the bridge and toward the Flamingo View Motel.