Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

“You’re my friend — you should think more of keeping me out of hot water. Besides, I don’t know any more than you do.”

Betterton took another bite. “Bull.”

“It’s basically true. The thing’s too big for us, they’ve brought in the state boys, even a homicide squad all the way from Jackson. We’ve been cut out.”

The journalist thought a moment. “Look, all I know is that the husband and wife — the couple I interviewed not so long ago — were brutally murdered. You’ve got to have more information than that.”

The man behind the wheel sighed. “They know it wasn’t a robbery. Nothing was taken. And they know it wasn’t anybody local.”

“How do they know that?” Betterton mumbled through a huge bite of meatball.

“Because nobody local would do this.” The man reached into a folder at the side of his seat, pulled out an eight-by-ten color glossy, and handed it over. “And I didn’t show this to you.”

Betterton took a look at the scene-of-crime photo. The color drained from his face. His chewing slowed, then stopped. And then, quite deliberately, he opened the car door and spat the mouthful into the gutter.

The driver shook his head. “Nice.”

Betterton handed the photo back without looking at it again. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Oh, my God,” he said huskily.

“Get the idea?”

“Oh, my God,” Betterton repeated. His mighty hunger had vanished.

“Now you know all I know,” the cop said, finishing his po’boy and licking his fingers. “Oh, except one thing — we don’t have anything even remotely like a lead on this. The crime scene was clean. A professional job the likes of which we just don’t see around here.”

Betterton didn’t reply.

The man glanced over, eyed the half-eaten remains of the meatball sandwich. “You going to eat that?”

New York City

CORRIE SWANSON SAT ON A BENCH on Central Park West, with a McDonald’s bag next to her, pretending to read a book. It was a pleasant morning, the glorious color in the park behind her just starting to fade, the sky patched with cumulus, everyone out on the streets enjoying the Indian summer. Everyone except Corrie. Her entire attention was focused across the street on the façade of the Dakota and its entrance, around the corner on Seventy-Second Street.

Then she saw it: the silver Rolls-Royce coming up Central Park West. It was a familiar car to her — unforgettable even. She grabbed the McDonald’s bag and leapt up from the bench, her book tumbling to the ground, then ran across the street against the light, dodging traffic. She paused at the corner of Central Park West and Seventy-Second, waiting to see if the Rolls turned in.

It did. The driver — whom she could not see — moved into the left-hand lane and put on his blinker, slowing as he approached the corner. Corrie jogged down Seventy-Second to the Dakota, reaching it a few moments before the Rolls arrived. As it began to turn slowly into the entrance, she stepped out in front of the car. The Rolls stopped and she stared at the driver through the windshield.

It wasn’t Pendergast. But it damn sure was his car: there couldn’t be another vintage Rolls like it in the whole country.

She waited. The driver’s-side window went down and a head poked out, a man with a chiseled face and bull neck.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, his voice calm and pleasant. “Would you mind…?” His voice trailed off and the question mark dangled in the air.

“I do mind,” she said.

The head continued to look at her. “You’re blocking the driveway.”

“How inconvenient for you.” She took a step forward. “Who are you and why are you driving Pendergast’s car?”

The head stared at her for a moment and disappeared, and then the door opened and a man got out, the pleasant smile almost, but not quite, gone. He was powerfully built, with the shoulders of a swimmer and the torso of a weight lifter. “And you are?”

“None of your business,” said Corrie. “I want to know who you are and why you’re driving his car.”

“My name is Proctor and I work for Mr. Pendergast,” he said.

“How nice for you. I notice you just used the present tense.”

“Excuse me?”

“You said, ‘I work for Mr. Pendergast.’ How can that be, if he’s dead? You know something I don’t?”

“Listen, miss, I don’t know who you are, but I’m sure we could discuss this more comfortably somewhere else.”

“We’re going to discuss it right here , as un comfortably as possible, blocking the driveway. I’m sick of getting the runaround.”

The Dakota attendant emerged from his brass pillbox. “Is there a problem?” he asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Yeah,” said Corrie. “A big problem. I’m not moving until this man tells me what he knows about the owner of this car, and if that’s a problem maybe you’d better call the cops and report a disturbance of the peace. Because that’s what’s going to happen if I don’t get some answers.”

“That won’t be necessary, Charles,” the man named Proctor said calmly. “We’re just going to settle this quickly and be out of your way.”

The attendant frowned doubtfully.

“You may go back to your post,” Proctor said. “I’ve got this under control.” His voice remained quiet, but it managed to project an unmistakable air of command. The attendant obeyed.

He turned back to her. “Are you an acquaintance of Mr. Pendergast?”

“You bet I am. I worked with him out in Kansas. The Still Life killings.”

“Then you must be Corrie Swanson.”

She was taken aback, but recovered quickly. “So you know me, anyway. Good. What’s this about Pendergast being dead?”

“I regret to say he—”

“Don’t give me any more bullshit!” Corrie cried. “I’ve been thinking about it, and that hunting accident story stinks worse than Brad Hazen’s jockstraps. You tell me the truth or I can just feel that disturbance of the peace coming on.”

“There’s no need to get excited, Miss Swanson. Just what is your purpose in wanting to contact—”

“Enough!” Corrie removed the ball-peen hammer she had been carrying in the McDonald’s bag and raised it above the windshield.

“Miss Swanson,” said Proctor, “don’t do anything rash.” He began to take a step toward her.

“Halt!” She raised her arm.

“This is no way to go about getting information—”

She brought the hammer down smartly on the windshield. A star pattern of cracks burst into the sunlight.

“My God,” Proctor said in disbelief, “do you have any idea how—?”

“Is he alive or dead?” She raised her arm again. As Proctor tensed to approach her, she yelled, “Touch me and I’ll scream rape.”

Charles stood in his pillbox, bug-eyed.

Proctor froze in position. “Just a minute. I’ll have an answer for you — but you’ll have to be patient. Any more violence and you’ll get nothing.”

There was a brief moment of stasis. Then, slowly, Corrie lowered the hammer.

Proctor took out a cell phone, held it up so she could see. Then he began to dial.

“You’d better be quick. Maybe Charles is calling the cops.”

“I doubt it.” Proctor spoke into the phone, in a low voice, for about a minute. Then he held it out to her.

“Who is it?”

Instead of replying, Proctor simply continued to hold out the phone, looking at her through narrowed eyes.

She took it. “Yeah?”

“My dear Corrie,” came the silky voice she knew so well, “I’m terribly sorry to have missed our lunch at Le Bernardin.”