Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

“What Wallace is going to show you is an animated video of the track of every floater for which we have data, going back twenty years. There have been thousands.”

Black lines appeared on the chart, crawling every which way until a vast spiderweb covered the screen.

“You can see how crazy it looks.” She pointed to a great hairy bundle of lines coming up from the Caribbean, running along the coast of the Yucatán Peninsula, curling up into the gulf, looping back down the west coast of Florida, brushing the Keys, and streaming out into the Atlantic Ocean, leaving many eddies and swirls in the gulf itself.

“That’s the famous Loop Current,” she said. “But as you can see, even though many lines follow it, there are hundreds that don’t. It’s the ones that don’t — the exceptions — that I’m trying to fit into our mathematical model. Wallace is a genius and, as you’ve discovered, nobody understands his equations.”

“We’re making progress,” Lam said. “And I wouldn’t exactly term our recent results ‘shit.’ We’ve progressed to the ‘half-assed’ phase, at least.”

Gladstone laughed. “Another thing is that the results of our models go against a lot of traditional old-salt wisdom about the gulf, accumulated by generations of grizzled seafarers. A young woman like me and a Chinese American brainiac like Wallace — well, what could we possibly know? We’re not popular, to say the least. So... how can we help you, Agent Pendergast?”

“I wish to reverse engineer the journey these feet took to Captiva Island. Trace them to their origin. Can you do that?”

She had suspected this was where he was headed. “I can try.”

“And can you keep any data or information I share with you two completely confidential?”

“For extending the lease on my boat, I’ll sign an NDA in my own blood.”

“That won’t be necessary. Tell me what you need in order to do the analysis.”

“For starters, I’ll need all the data you have on where each foot washed up, and when — as precisely as possible. If there are any videos or photographs of the event, that would be great. Did anything else come ashore with them?”

“The usual flotsam and jetsam — seaweed, driftwood, and miscellaneous garbage.”

“Anyone collect it?”

“Yes.”

“Bring it to me.”

“There are two garbage bags full.”

“Wonderful. We love garbage that comes in from the sea. Every piece tells the tale of its travels.”

“Very good.”

She frowned. “Isn’t the Coast Guard also doing this sort of analysis? I sure as hell don’t want to get crosswise with them. They don’t like us as it is.”

Pendergast paused before answering. “I think it’s safe to assume that everyone involved should be doing this sort of analysis. It’s the most obvious investigative path. However, the Coast Guard — at least those assigned to this mission — are, as the expression goes, ‘old-school.’ They have the latest technology, but they prefer to rely on their own experience with the sea — including making use of fifty-year-old paper charts. It is my belief they are underestimating the complexity of the problem — perhaps by a vast margin. I know enough about meteorology to realize that Earth’s natural systems don’t always run in predictable patterns. As a result, I would prefer to work with somebody comfortable with cutting-edge tools and theories — and unlikely to discard possible results simply because they don’t follow received wisdom. In any case, your role will remain confidential.”

“Fair enough. So... what does the Coast Guard think?”

“That the feet came from a Cuban prison.”

“Sounds like a reasonable assumption to me.”

“The problem is that it is an assumption. Having made the assumption, they’re now trying to massage the data to prove it.”

“And you think that’s putting the cart before the horse?”

“It’s the cardinal error of any criminal investigation.”

She nodded. She was pretty sure this was going to end up a god-awful mess. She wasn’t at all sure she could pull off the analysis — Pendergast was right when he said it was a complex problem. But she couldn’t very well say no to the FBI, could she? And besides, there was something strangely magnetic — from an intellectual standpoint — about the pale man in the pale suit.

Loren Mayfield, Esq., was poring over the final pages of a particularly complex irrevocable trust when a knock sounded on the door of his inner office. He put the document down with relief and called, “Come in.”

The door opened and Evelyn, his secretary, stuck her head in. “That woman who called you this morning for an appointment is here, Mr. Mayfield.”

“Good. Please send her in.” Mayfield pushed the trust document aside and straightened his tie. The woman had refused to say what she wanted to see him about. As a lawyer, Mayfield liked a mystery. The more mysterious, the greater the potential for a sizable retainer.

When the woman was shown in, however, Mayfield temporarily forgot about money. She was young, extraordinarily beautiful, and wore a dress that, although prim and conservative, could not hide the contours of her body.

He stood up, his instincts as a lawyer immediately reasserting themselves. Down, boy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Loren Mayfield. Please have a seat.” He pointedly did not mention the fine weather they were having, or how well his visitor looked today, or any other ice-breaking small talk of that ilk.

“I’m Constance Greene. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“My pleasure.” Now that the initial surprise was wearing off, Mayfield realized that the woman’s clothing was not just prim but downright old-fashioned. Nobody wore ankle-length dresses on Sanibel; just slipping into a pair of flip-flops was considered formal. He wondered if perhaps she was Amish, or a member of some other antique Christian sect. He glanced out the window but saw no three-wheeled bicycle parked outside. No matter; he’d find out soon enough. He rested his elbows on his desk and interlaced his fingers, giving her his full attention. “How may I help you, Ms. Greene?”

“I’m here about the Mortlach House.”

“Ah.” Perhaps that explained the dress. Did she want to use the house for some kind of photo shoot, maybe? If so, she’d have to hurry up.

“I was told to direct any inquiries to you.”

Mayfield nodded. “I represent the current owner of the house, yes.”

“Excellent. We wish to rent it.”

“We?”

“My guardian and I.”

“For what purpose?” A fancy-dress ball? Mayfield wondered. Something kinky?

“To reside in, naturally. It seems ideally situated.”

At this, the lawyer had to chuckle. “I’m sorry, Ms. Greene, but I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Why? Is there a problem with the house?”

“No. It’s been meticulously maintained.”

“Are others living there? Or perhaps it’s unfurnished, or requires cleaning?”

“In all cases, the answer is no. The Mortlach House cannot be rented because it is scheduled to be demolished in a matter of days.”

This information did not surprise the young woman. She smoothed down her dress with remarkable composure. “So I understand. But certainly some accommodation could be reached.”

Mayfield shook his head. “Ms. Greene, I wish you had walked in here five years ago.”

“Five years ago I would not have been in a position to rent that house.”

“No. What I mean is, five years ago an offer like yours would have seemed a gift from God. Now, however, I’m afraid it’s simply too late.”