Verses for the Dead

6

As they left the house together, Coldmoon asked, “How did you get here? Did you rent a car?”

Pendergast indicated a white Nissan parked in front of the house. “Alas, yes. Isn’t it my good fortune you came along when you did — the streets around here are absolutely overflowing with traffic, and so labyrinthine as to be Kafkaesque. There’s somewhere we need to be in forty-five minutes, and, really, I’m such a poor driver — I’m sure you’ll do a better job of navigating than I could. Would you mind? Besides, your car looks more to my liking.” He nodded at the dinged-up Mustang Shelby GT50 °Coldmoon had parked by the curb.

“I tried to requisition a pool car from the local FBI, who sent me to the DEA, and after a lot of paperwork they gave me this confiscated vehicle. Said it was the best they could do on short notice. Not sure if it was a favor, or a joke.”

“Perhaps they thought it would blend into the surroundings.”

Coldmoon glanced at the rented Nissan. It appeared that Pendergast was abandoning it. He shrugged and walked around to the Mustang’s driver’s seat. Pendergast started to reach for a rear door — in, apparently, a habitual motion — saw the vehicle had none, then opened the passenger door instead.

“Where to?” Coldmoon asked.

“Bayside Cemetery, please. Bal Harbour.”

While Coldmoon was plugging this into his cell phone, Pendergast made himself as comfortable as possible in the bucket seat. Then he glanced at Coldmoon, with a loud sniff. “Do you mind if we open the windows? Air-conditioning irritates my nasal passages.”

“Don’t mind.”

“Thank you.” He lowered the passenger window. “Since we’re to be partners,” he went on, “I assume you’d prefer to proceed on a first-name basis. My first name is—”

“Coldmoon will be fine,” the agent said as he pulled away from the curb.

“Excellent. Of course,” replied Pendergast.

The Mustang drove like a low-rider; its engine howled rather than purred, and every bump or crack they passed over seemed to be magnified a hundredfold. As they drove, Pendergast briefed him on what the Miami Beach PD had done. He had liaised with one Lieutenant Sandoval, a chief homicide detective in charge of the case, and the man had already provided a sheaf of evidence on the Montera murder, with more lab reports on the way. The killing seemed to be both random and hasty, but the MO was abnormal: the “blitz” style of attack was indicative of a disorganized killer, but the high level of control and lack of evidence left at the crime scene suggested the opposite.

Coldmoon found that Pendergast’s description of the traffic was also accurate. He was able to avoid the worst of downtown by sticking to Route 1, using the traffic-avoidance features of his smartphone app, but once he crossed the Intracoastal Waterway onto the island it became an unavoidable nightmare of valet cars triple-parked outside waterfront hotels, clueless tourists, and elderly drivers who had no business behind the wheel. It took the entire forty-five minutes Pendergast had allotted to cover the twenty miles to Bayside Cemetery.

At last, Coldmoon turned off Collins Avenue and headed west. Bayside Cemetery was small and relatively quiet: about a dozen acres of palm, magnolia, and gumbo-limbo trees, with ranks of headstones pleasantly arrayed in the fretted shade beneath. Coldmoon pulled through the gates and parked in a small dirt lot surrounded by white birds-of-paradise. There were a number of vehicles in the lot, a few of them official.

Pendergast got out of the car and nodded to a police officer sitting in one of the vehicles, who looked curiously at the Shelby. But then, instead of walking directly to the grave where Montera’s heart had been placed — which Coldmoon could see in the distance as a large square of yellow — Pendergast began to take a seemingly random stroll through the grounds, pausing here and there to gaze at the surrounding landscape or scrutinize something in the grass. Coldmoon followed, saying nothing. Pendergast meandered through the gravestones in his black suit, nodding like a resident undertaker to the occasional visitor, eventually making his way to a small groundskeeper’s shed. He skirted its rear, still looking casually around, then continued his stroll. At last he headed toward the grave of Elise Baxter. Now that they were closer, Coldmoon could make out a small knot of people huddled together near the crime scene tape. There were five in all, looking confused and upset. Their attire and demeanor seemed local: Coldmoon was already learning to differentiate tourists from residents. On the far side of the tape, two duty policemen were standing together, talking in low tones and occasionally casting an eye toward the group.

“Good morning,” Pendergast said to the gathering. “My name is Special Agent Pendergast, and my associate is Special Agent Coldmoon. Thank you for coming.”

There were some nods and shifting of feet. Coldmoon could tell from their body language these people did not know each other, and he guessed they hadn’t expected to be a part of a group.

“The reason I asked you to come,” Pendergast said, “—beyond, of course, the opportunity to pay your respects to Ms. Baxter — was because I understand you’re the people in the immediate area, outside her family, that knew her best. I wanted to see if any of you could think of a reason her grave was, ah, chosen in this way, and to hear why you think Ms. Baxter took her own life.” He turned to the closest person: a stout, middle-aged woman in a floral dress with blond highlights. “If you wouldn’t mind introducing yourself, ma’am?”

The woman looked around at the others. “I’m Claire Hungerford.”

“And how did you know Ms. Baxter?”

“I worked with her at Sun and Shore Realty.”

Pendergast said, “Thank you.” His voice was an almost tangible unguent of southern gentility and charm. “How did you become acquainted?”

“We both specialized in Coral Gables real estate. I still do. We were the two real estate agents in the office who got the Silver Palm in back-to-back years.”

“The Silver Palm?”

“It’s an award from the franchise for the agents with that year’s highest increase in sales volume.”

“I see. And is that why the two of you were chosen for the Maine conference?”

The woman nodded.

“Looking back on it now, what was your impression of Elise Baxter’s state of mind at the time of the convention?”

The woman played nervously with her hair. “Nothing stood out. She was just her usual self.”

“She didn’t act unusual in any way? Especially quiet or moody, for example?”

“No. But she was always rather quiet. I mean, I worked in the same office with her for two years, but I still didn’t know her that well. She was never what you’d call the life of the party, although—”

“Yes?” Pendergast pounced.

“Well... I think she might have had a little too much to drink that night.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because she left the banquet a little early. Before the final presentations. She spoke to me a moment as she was leaving, and I noticed her walk was a little unsteady.”

“What did she speak to you about?”

The woman blinked at the question. “She asked if I’d be joining her on the bus trip to L.L. Bean in the morning.”

“I see. And that was the last time you saw her?”

“Yes.”

The next three inquiries proceeded in a similar fashion. A college roommate; a childhood friend from the neighborhood; a man she’d often partnered with at Arthur Murray. They all, Coldmoon observed, had relatively vague and unremarkable memories of Elise Baxter: she’d been a pleasant young woman, ambitious but reserved. She’d demonstrated nothing to indicate suicidal behavior, but nothing to rule it out, either.

At last, Pendergast thanked them profusely and bid them good day. As the group began to break up, he raised a hand to stop the fifth person, who had so far been silent: a man of perhaps sixty, a bit scruffier than the rest, wearing a weather-beaten sun hat, a white T-shirt, and faded green pants.

“Carl Welter?” Pendergast asked.

“Yes,” the man replied. He had a husky voice that bespoke years of unfiltered cigarettes.

“Do you know why you were asked here?”

The man kept looking from Pendergast to Coldmoon and back again. “I wasn’t no friend of the dead woman.”

“No. But you were the watchman on the midnight-to-eight shift the night before last — when the object was left on her grave.”

“I already spoke to the police about that yesterday. Twice.”

“I’m aware of your statement. And you told them—” here Pendergast reached into his suit pocket, took out an official-looking piece of paper, and consulted it — “that you were in the vicinity of the groundskeeper’s shed, sharpening a lawn mower blade, when you heard the creak of metal, as if a gate was being opened. This was—” another exaggerated examination of the paper — “between two and two fifteen AM. You naturally investigated, but it was a dark night, the moon was veiled, the front gate was closed and, in short, you found nothing amiss.”

“That’s what I told them,” the man said a little belligerently, nodding to underscore the statement.

“And it was a lie,” Pendergast said in the same buttery voice.

“What in—?” the old man croaked, then fell silent.

“A transparent lie, easily exposed. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t received a third visit from the authorities as a result. But, Mr. Welter, if you’re honest with me, I can promise that we will all overlook your indiscretion.”

The man opened his mouth to protest, but Pendergast folded the paper, returned it to his pocket, and continued. “Please don’t waste our time with protests. I bring it up at all only as a formality — to make sure this graveyard has nothing more to tell us. The item was not left on Elise Baxter’s grave at two AM, you see — for the simple fact that, at that time, it was still in its owner’s chest. Ms. Montera was not killed until four.” He paused, watching the groundskeeper’s reaction. “In truth, Mr. Welter, you heard nothing that night. The only real question is: why did you lie about it?”

The man began looking between them again, only now his expression had become hunted.

Pendergast let the pregnant silence grow. Then, just as he drew in breath to speak, Coldmoon suddenly interjected. “You were sleeping one off,” he told the groundskeeper.

Now both Welter and Agent Pendergast turned toward him.

Coldmoon went on. “Your shift began at midnight. Given the two six-packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon you drank, I’d say that by midshift your blood alcohol concentration must have been around 0.2 percent, leaving you in no condition to notice any disturbance, much less investigate it.”

“You—” the groundskeeper began again, then fell silent one more time.

“The fact is, you lied about hearing something because you didn’t want the management to know you were drunk on duty. Isn’t that right?”

Nobody moved.

“Just nod your head if that’s right, Mr. Welter,” Coldmoon said. “Once will be enough.”

After a moment, the groundskeeper gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Very good,” said Coldmoon. He glanced at Pendergast. “Anything else you want to ask?”

“No, thank you,” said Pendergast.

The car was quiet while they drove south. As they passed through North Beach, Coldmoon finally asked: “Where are you staying?”

“The Fontainebleau. And you?”

“Holiday Inn.”

“You have my sympathies.”

“So, I gotta ask, the Bureau’s picking up your tab—?”

“No, it is not. Since I believe your hotel is farther along than my own, would you mind dropping me off? I’ll have Lieutenant Sandoval send over a second copy of the case file for your review, along with any new lab reports. We can reconvene this afternoon. Will that suit you?”

“Sure.”

After another minute or two, Coldmoon felt Pendergast’s pale eyes swivel toward him. “Do you know why I asked those people to speak to us as a group, rather than individually, and at the grave site?”

“No.”

“Ah.” Pendergast settled back in his seat.

“But if I had organized such a gathering,” Coldmoon said, “I’d have done it for two reasons. First, it would throw them off balance, having to make a statement in front of witnesses — and beside the grave of their old friend, too. Kind of works on a person’s superstitions, lying about a friend at their grave site. Second, if I’d decided that those people had little to add to the investigation, I wouldn’t want to waste more time interviewing them than necessary.”

“Very good,” Pendergast said, and remained silent for about a mile before speaking again. “How did you know the groundskeeper was — as you put it — sleeping one off?”

“The same way you knew: those dozen empties stashed behind his hut. After the murder, in all the excitement, he obviously didn’t have time to get rid of them — just stuff them back there and hope nobody noticed. And he decided to make up something vague to tell the cops. Imply he was awake.”

Silence from the passenger seat.

“That is how you knew — right?” Coldmoon asked.

“Ah, here we are!” Pendergast cried abruptly as the expansive sweep of the Fontainebleau’s arrivals drive came into view. Coldmoon pulled in and Pendergast exited the vehicle.

“Shall we say three PM in the pool area?” he asked.

“Fine.”

Pendergast closed the door. Then he walked around to the driver’s window and put his elbows on it. “About those empty beer cans,” he said, leaning in slightly. “It would appear that roving eye of yours indicates attention to detail, rather than lack of interest. How lucky for me.”

“What—?” Coldmoon began to ask. But Pendergast had already turned away, and without another word he disappeared into the crowds milling around the hotel entrance.