Verses for the Dead

12

Coldmoon had never been to South Beach in person; he’d only seen images of it on postcards, or shots of its nightlife splashed across websites advertising exotic vacations. Now, as their taxi from Miami International finished the slow, eight-block crawl across the island and turned from Fifth Street onto Ocean, he was confronted with quite a different picture. In the merciless early-morning glare, without benefit of neon and softening darkness, the famous boulevard looked tired and shabby, its hotel awnings and alfresco restaurant umbrellas sun-faded beneath the palms.

One thing that was not different was the crowds. Even at nine in the morning, they were out in force, wearing shorts and T-shirts, bikinis and sun hats, cell phones almost invariably clutched and ready for any selfie opportunity. Several blocks ahead, Coldmoon could make out an even denser knot of people that could mean only one thing.

As the cab began creeping northward, Pendergast — who, other than discussing the contents of the Katahdin police file, had remained mostly silent during their frenetic attempts to get from Maine to Miami — turned to him. “In case I neglected to mention it,” he said, “I want to thank you for endorsing my suggestion that we go to the site of Elise Baxter’s death. Without a pattern established, there was no way to know in advance that the killer would strike again, strike so soon, or strike in the same city. Nevertheless, I regret our absence prevented us from being here at the time of the killing.”

Coldmoon shrugged. “I go with my partner,” he said once again. And then he added: “Right... or wrong.”

Pendergast’s only response was to turn his ice-chip eyes back to the hubbub ahead of them.

The taxi managed to proceed a few blocks before hitting a dead stop, blocked by pedestrians, police cars, and other cabs. Coldmoon and Pendergast opened their doors. Pendergast gave the cabdriver a generous tip, along with instructions to drop their luggage off at his hotel, then the two made their way through the throng to the congested spot that — as Coldmoon had anticipated — surrounded a large area marked off with crime scene tape. For the first time, he noticed members of the press among them, fruitlessly shouting questions and pointing mikes.

Pushing their way past the gawkers, they presented their IDs and ducked under the tape. Coldmoon gave the scene a quick once-over. They were facing a narrow alley that ran west between a Vietnamese restaurant on one side and an über-trendy art deco hotel on the other. Scattered along the inside periphery of the tape were various knots of police officers, both in uniform and in plainclothes, either talking to witnesses or simply standing guard. Farther down the alley, a couple of CSU workers were standing around what was obviously the spot where the body had been found. The other end of the grimy alley was blocked by police cars and emergency vehicles, flashing light bars striping the surrounding façades.

Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, Coldmoon recognized the tableau itself. This was an advanced homicide scene. As he looked around at all the police, ranks made evident by various lapel pins and shoulder badges, he was reminded of the words of Joseph, legendary leader of the Nez Percé: White men have too many chiefs.

A person sorted himself out from the bustle and came forward. Coldmoon took in the details: short, lean, middle-aged, Hispanic with brilliant black hair, dressed in light-colored pants and a tie but no jacket. He seemed to know Pendergast — at least, he was not surprised to see a man wearing a full-on black suit and somber tie, like some Secret Service agent parachuted down here into the middle of Sodom.

Pendergast stepped forward, extending his hand. “Lieutenant Sandoval,” he said. “Allow me to introduce my partner, Special Agent Coldmoon.”

Sandoval shook Pendergast’s hand, then Coldmoon’s.

“I read the brief you prepared for us on the Montera killing,” Coldmoon said over the cacophony. “Comprehensive, thanks.”

Sandoval nodded. “You just got here,” he said to Pendergast with the faintest of accents. It was a statement, not a question.

“Alas, yes.”

If Sandoval was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“Let me bring you up to speed.” He motioned them away from the mob, farther into the service alley. “Time of the homicide was around eleven thirty PM. The victim is Jennifer Rosen of Edina, Minnesota. She was spending a long weekend here with two college friends.”

“Who found the body?” Pendergast asked.

“A dishwasher working in the restaurant adjoining the alley.” Sandoval had a funny habit of wiping his index finger across his upper lip, as if to smooth a nonexistent mustache. Now he used the finger to point toward a greasy-looking door beside a dumpster. “The friends weren’t far behind him, though — they got here maybe four, five minutes later.”

“How much time passed between the murder and the discovery of the body?” Coldmoon asked.

“Not long. According to the M.E., she’d recently bled out when the dishwasher found her, lying there.” And Sandoval pointed past the dumpster toward a patch of concrete busy with chalk outlines, evidence flags, and ponded blood.

“And what did he see?”

“Nothing. At least, so far as we know. He only speaks Vietnamese, so we had to get an interpreter for the statement.” Sandoval looked over his shoulder at a dazed-looking Asian man in a dirty white smock, sitting on a trash can and flanked by two cops with digital recorders. “He went out with a few bags of garbage and found Rosen on the ground, motionless. For a moment, he was too shocked to notice anything else. When he did look around, the alley was empty.”

“What about Ocean Drive?” Pendergast asked. “Any eyewitnesses?”

“Yeah. Too many. It took the EMTs and the first squad car about eight minutes to respond, and when they got here there were already a hundred people hovering around, who all claimed they’d seen the killer — including Ms. Rosen’s two friends, who are still over at Eleven Hundred Washington giving statements. You think it’s crazy here now? You should have seen it last night.” Sandoval shook his head.

“Any of the eyewitnesses check out?” Coldmoon asked.

“Not so far. I mean, their stories all contradict each other, and given the state of the victim... ” The lieutenant fell silent.

“Please go on,” Pendergast urged.

“The MO was similar to the Montera woman. Throat cut expertly with a knife, then the chest hacked open with a hatchet or some similar heavy, single-bladed instrument. It was an efficient job, done quickly. The perp or perps took the girl’s heart and vanished immediately, leaving her dead on the pavement.” Sandoval shook his head. “Of all the would-be witnesses out last night, not one mentioned seeing a blood-spattered man carrying a hatchet and a human heart.”

“Was she forced into the alley?”

“Apparently not. She seems to have come in here with the intention of — well, being sick. Copious amounts of vomit were found near the body, and it matches traces of partially digested food from her stomach.”

“Security cameras?” Coldmoon asked.

“None in the alley. As for evidence, all the onlookers who came rushing in to see the body after its discovery, trampling over everything — well, you can guess how that complicates our job.”

“Photos?”

“Got a whole bunch. And that’s about it, so far.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Sandoval turned away, disappearing into the noisy throng that lined the tape cordoning off the boulevard. Coldmoon watched him go. Then he looked at Pendergast. “Similar MO, different setting. The killer had an objective, and he accomplished it quickly and without drawing attention to himself.”

“Yes,” Pendergast murmured. He glanced away, toward the grimy, sad-looking spot behind the dumpster where the young girl’s life had ended. “The logistics are impressive.”

Coldmoon considered this. “You mean, that he was able to kill and cut out a human heart, and then escape?”

“Precisely. Passing through an area with heavy pedestrian traffic — not unlike Jack the Ripper in its own way. Why choose such a busy location, with such a high risk of being seen?” He turned toward Lieutenant Sandoval, who was coming back with a handful of photographs. “Are there any cemeteries in the vicinity?” he asked.

Sandoval handed over the photographs, thought a moment. Then he shook his head. “None except Bayside, but in Miami proper, quite a few.”

“Then I would advise—” Pendergast was interrupted by a tumult behind them, voices raised in pitch and urgency. An officer in uniform pushed through, went up to Sandoval, and spoke in his ear.

“A heart’s just been found,” Sandoval told them as the uniform retreated. “On a grave in the city of Miami. Excuse me.” And the lieutenant turned and vanished into a scrum of uniformed police.

Pendergast came up behind Coldmoon as the babble increased and said: “My blood alone remains. Take it, but don’t let me suffer long.”

Coldmoon turned to him in surprise. “Was that Crazy Horse, at Camp Sheridan?”

“Marie Antoinette, actually. In Paris.” Pendergast turned back and gestured in the direction of Miami. “Shall we go see what present Mister Brokenhearts has left us this time?”