Verses for the Dead

7

At a quarter past three, Agent Aloysius Pendergast sat in a private cabana just beyond the vast, comma-shaped shadow of the Fontainebleau’s Chateau Tower. The cabana’s privacy walls — thin canvas — were rolled down on either side, limiting his view to those palm trees and sunbathers facing the Atlantic. Pendergast was not interested in the view; although his padded chair was angled toward the light, his eyes were closed and half hidden by a Montecristi Panama hat of exceptionally fine weave.

There was a rustle just outside, then a waiter appeared. “Sir?” he said over the fugue of nearby conversation.

Pendergast opened his eyes.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you. Would you care for another julep?”

“Thank you. Please ask the bartender to use Woodford Reserve this time, and to muddle in less sugar and more mint.”

“Sir.” And the waiter vanished. Pendergast raised one hand to lower the brim of his hat a little farther, then settled back into motionlessness. He had replaced his usual dead black suit with one of crisp white linen; one leg was crossed casually over the other, and the horsebits of his alligator slip-ons gleamed gold in the sun.

He remained unmoving while the waiter refreshed his drink, taking the old glass away. He did not stir at the cries and shouts that occasionally erupted from the swimming pools around him. When a particular shadow crossed the canvas wall of his cabana, however, he opened his eyes.

“Agent Coldmoon,” he said. “How nice to see you again.”

Coldmoon, appearing at the entrance, nodded.

“Please, have a seat. Would you care for one of these morsels?” And with a languid wave, Pendergast indicated a small tray of dates, stuffed with chèvre and wrapped in crisp strips of bacon.

Coldmoon stepped in and perched awkwardly on one of the cabana’s deck chairs. “No thanks.”

Pendergast flagged down a passing waiter. “Something to drink, then?”

“Not right now.” Coldmoon, too, had changed and was now wearing faded jeans, worn square-toed roper boots, a leather belt with a Navajo sand-cast buckle, and a long-sleeved denim work shirt. A sheaf of papers was tucked under one arm.

“Ah,” Pendergast said, indicating the papers. “Homework.”

Coldmoon said nothing.

Pendergast picked up one of the dates and popped it into his mouth with a dainty motion. “I’m curious. Do you — as you asked me this morning — have any theories?”

Coldmoon put the folder on the chair. “The autopsy added nothing new. Forensic toxicology results won’t be in for some time, but I doubt we’ll find anything there. Background checks and initial interviews don’t raise any red flags — so far, no persons of interest, nobody who had a particular reason to want her dead.”

Pendergast nodded.

“And it’s like you said. Superficially, the Montera killing shows indications of both organized and disorganized behavior.”

“Curious, isn’t it?”

Coldmoon pursed his lips. “On the one hand, it would appear to be the random, impulsive action of a sociopath. On the other, the crime scene was carefully controlled and reveals no useful evidence beyond what the perp wanted us to find.”

A scream sounded nearby, followed by a splash, then laughter and a quick burst of Italian. Coldmoon, Pendergast noted with interest, was possessed of unusual inscrutability. He sat stiffly on the edge of the reclining chair, as if determined to resist the comfort it promised. As usual, the man’s green eyes were never still.

“Why ‘superficially’?” Pendergast asked.

“Because sociopaths don’t feel remorse. Their defining characteristic is lack of empathy for other people. There’s a contradiction there.”

“Which is?”

“The note on the grave.”

“Acta est fabula, plaudite!” Pendergast said. “Precisely what troubles me. Why would a sociopath kill somebody at random, with a spectacular degree of violence, in order to leave a present on a grave with a note full of sorrow and contrition? And how did he make his choice, Agent Coldmoon? Killing Ms. Montera where he did meant getting her heart to a cemetery more than a dozen miles away, with precious little time to spare. Why not choose a victim closer at hand?”

“He could be playing with us. The note, even the grave, could be a diversion.”

“Yes. And that is precisely why we have to go to Maine.”

Coldmoon raised an eyebrow. On his impassive face, the small gesture spoke volumes.

“Ah. Do I sense an objection?”

Coldmoon’s answer, when it came, seemed carefully chosen. “Going to investigate Elise Baxter’s suicide — I’m assuming that’s your idea — would seem a low priority right now.”

“Consider: the evidence we’ve seen in Ms. Montera’s murder has led nowhere.”

“But that evidence is still coming in. The crime’s only thirty-six hours old.”

“All the more reason for haste. It can wait another thirty-six while the Miami Beach PD finish their lab work. More killings might be in the offing.”

“With respect, Agent Pendergast, that’s not how the Bureau prosecutes this kind of case. The crime was committed here. This is where we’re supposed to look for the killer, especially if he might strike again.”

Pendergast was silent for a moment. Then he took a contemplative sip from his mint julep. “I was afraid you’d say that. But there’s a great difference between looking for a killer and finding him. Who knows where he will strike again? The next here, if there is one, may be Alaska. No — the best place to pick up his trail is at the beginning, with the suicide of Elise Baxter. We must be like David Livingstone, searching for the source of our own Nile.”

“Nice metaphor. But even if I agreed with you, there’s a problem.”

Agent Pendergast uncrossed his feet. “I assume you mean our friend Pickett.”

Coldmoon nodded.

“Do forgive me — I’m not used to being leashed.” Pendergast took another sip of his julep. “Ah, well, it was simply a suggestion. Perhaps you should call him and get his refusal immediately. Any later and it might interfere with my dinner appetite.”

Coldmoon looked around the cabana exterior for a moment. Then he took out his phone, dialed, and put it on low-volume speaker.

The call was answered on the third ring. “Pickett.”

“Sir, this is SA Coldmoon. I have SA Pendergast listening in.”

“Very well. Progress?”

Coldmoon wasted no time on preliminaries. “Sir, Agent Pendergast believes we should go to Maine.”

“Maine? What the hell for?”

In one lithe movement, Pendergast’s loafers were off the deck chair and on the tiles. “Sir,” he said, leaning toward the phone, “I believe the local authorities have the investigation well in hand, and I’d like to investigate the link between the two women.”

“Link? From what I’ve seen, the killer chose that grave site at random.”

“How can we be certain of that?”

“What link could there possibly be?” Pickett asked impatiently.

“We don’t know yet. I put in a request to have Ms. Baxter’s body exhumed, but her parents are objecting. And—”

“And I’m not surprised. What are you implying: that she wasn’t a suicide? That she was murdered? Is this your ‘link’?”

“As I said, there’s no way to know — not without an exhumation.”

“All you need to know would be in the pathologist’s report and the original autopsy. Stop focusing on this suicide and forget the idea of a second autopsy. What you’re supposed to be investigating is a murder that took place in Miami. Have you spoken to the family of the dead girl, what’s her name, Montoya?”

“Montera. No, we have not. However, Agent Coldmoon and I have both read the transcripts of their interviews with the Miami Beach police, and they are—”

“Frankly, Agent Pendergast, this is precisely the kind of out-of-left-field move coming from you I worried about. Like chartering a private jet to get down to Miami twelve hours early.”

A pause. Pendergast said nothing.

“Even assuming you’re right, your first priority is clearly with a fresh homicide — not a suicide that happened a decade ago and fifteen hundred miles away. I can’t sign off on this. You can get whatever files you need from Maine shipped down. If you find something — then go.”

“The Maine files are likely to be useless—”

“Agent Pendergast, this is one investigation that’s going to be run by the book. Now—”

“Sir,” Coldmoon interrupted. “I agree with Agent Pendergast.”

There was a long moment of dead silence. And then the voice from New York said: “You do?”

“The MBPD appears to be doing a thorough job, with great backup from the Miami PD. There’s a window of opportunity. I think we should take it to check out this avenue of investigation.”

“But I told you — the selection of victim and grave site could well be random.”

“I agree one of them is most likely random, sir,” Coldmoon said. “But I don’t think we should assume both are random. The letter seems specifically addressed to Baxter.”

The next silence was even longer. “You’ll leave first thing in the morning,” Pickett said crisply. “And you’ll use commercial transportation. But before you leave, you are to interview the Montera family, in person.”

“Understood, sir.”

“And Agent Coldmoon? I don’t want boots on the ground in Maine any longer than twenty-four hours before you head back to Florida.” There was a click and the phone went still.

Slowly, Pendergast looked over at Coldmoon. “I didn’t think you agreed with my suggestion.”

“Who says I do?”

“Then why—?”

“I go with my partner.”

“Agent Coldmoon, I do believe you have unexpected depth.”

The agent shrugged. Then he put his hand out to stop a passing waiter. “Bring me a bottle of Grain Belt, please. Room temperature, not chilled.” And he sat back in the deck chair and laced his fingers together. “Since we’re supposedly off duty, I guess I’m thirsty, after all.”