Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

Ms. Greene raised her eyebrows in mute inquiry. Lawyer though he was, Mayfield was tempted to forgo his natural reticence and mention a detail or two. Doing so would, at least, keep this attractive woman in his office a little longer and delay a return to the irrevocable trust.

“My client bought the Mortlach House not quite a decade ago, when it was somewhat the worse for wear,” he told her. “He lives up north — in the greater New York area — and thought it would make a good investment property, winter rentals and so forth. He replaced the roof and some rotted timbers, had it furnished and redecorated and repainted. But rentals turned out to be few and hard to come by.” He leaned forward. “You know small towns and their gossip.”

“I assume you’re referring to the murder.”

Mayfield sat back at once. “Yes. It took place in 2009. I don’t know all the details, beyond the fact that the owner was murdered — with an ax, apparently, judging by the, ah, evidence left behind — and the murderer never caught. Naturally, the disappearance of the body made the gossip, if anything, even more active than it normally would have been.” Mayfield pursed his lips. “The owner’s estate really should have included this information in the seller’s disclosure. Instead, they waited until things quieted down and then sold the property to somebody far away who didn’t know the history.”

“The buyer could have sued.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t get into details of that sort, especially since I did not represent him until after the sale was complete. Suffice it to say, my client believed a total restoration would take care of things. Unfortunately, that was not the case — again, thanks to these island folk and their gossip.”

“Your secretary mentioned to me that no matter how many times they repainted the walls, blood kept oozing out. And that the few people who stayed overnight reported tapping noises and once or twice the clanking of chains, echoing faintly in the small hours.”

He would have to talk to Evelyn about this. “Ridiculous, don’t you think? In any case, my client has patiently kept the house in perfect shape, but with this nonsense refusing to go away, and seasonal visitors always getting wind of the stories somehow, it’s become a money sink rather than an investment. Condominium developers have been interested in the parcel all along, and my client has determined the time has come to demolish the house and sell the land.” At a nice profit , he thought privately. “It is, quite simply, an albatross of a property.”

“But I’ve told you already. We would like to rent it.”

Mayfield shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid things have gone too far for that now.”

The office fell silent for a moment. Then Ms. Greene said: “It’s a shame to raze such a beautiful structure. I’m surprised the local historical society isn’t doing something about it.”

“Oh, they’ve done all they can. Held candlelight vigils, put together one fund-raiser after another. But my client was determined and had the zoning laws on his side, and they weren’t able to meet his price. Maybe if the murder had been solved, things would be different, but it’s still on the books, and so...” Mayfield spread his hands in a gesture of futility.

While he’d spoken, his visitor had been writing something. “To my mind, an unsolved murder is merely icing on the cake. If you can have the house aired and cleaned, we’ll move in tomorrow.”

“But, Ms. Greene, I’ve explained to you that—”

There was a low sound as the woman tore away a strip of paper, then handed it across the desk. Mayfield saw it was a check, from a private New York bank, made out to his firm in the amount of ten thousand dollars. The handwriting was old-fashioned and self-assured. On the memo line was written Week no. 1 .

Week number one.

“May I assume, Mr. Mayfield, that amount will stave off the bulldozers and wrecking balls — at least temporarily?”

Mayfield looked from the check to her and back again. “I...” he began.

Ms. Greene seemed to take this as assent, because she rose from her chair. “Thank you so much for your consideration. We’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon for the key. May I suggest four o’clock?”

And when the lawyer made no reply, she smiled, inclined her head ever so faintly, then turned and exited the office.

Agent Pendergast stepped into the room — part office, part laboratory — that Dr. Crossley had lent him in the low, sand-colored building that housed the district medical examiner for Lee County. Another man was there already — short and thin, in his late forties, with dark hair parted carefully down the middle as slick and shiny as an Eton schoolboy’s. He quickly stood up as the agent entered. There was a wheeled tray beside him, on which sat four evidence bags, their surfaces scuffed and cloudy.

“Ah, Mr.... Quarles, is it not?” Pendergast said. “Thank you so much for agreeing to work with us on this matter.”

“My pleasure, Agent Pendergast,” the man said, shaking the proffered hand. “Peter Quarles, forensic examiner, FTG.”

“Yes, yes. FTG—?”

“Footwear and Tire Group.”

“Yes, of course.”

“As soon as your courier package arrived at Huntsville yesterday morning, I dropped everything and began an analysis of the specimens. The Bureau placed the highest priority on this case.”

“Excellent. I look forward to hearing the results.” Pendergast sat down and offered him a place across the room’s small conference table. “Tell me about this, ah, Footwear and Tire Group. I haven’t worked with that forensic subspecialty before at the Bureau.”

“The most problematic tire work is done in Quantico, the rest in Huntsville. ‘Footwear and tire’ is a little deceiving, of course — because there are so many items that require specialized knowledge, each of us in the group had to develop broader areas of expertise. In addition to shoes, mine includes hats, neckties, and men’s underwear.”

“I see.”

“Boxers only, however. Briefs are handled in Quantico.”

“I would never have suspected.”

Mr. Quarles nodded, pleased. “And may I compliment you on your own pair?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your pair. Of shoes. John Lobb, if I’m not mistaken. A beautiful example of bespoke handcraft.”

“You are most kind.” Pendergast crossed one leg over the other and glanced pointedly at the evidence bags.

“But here I am, wasting your time with pleasantries!” Quarles rose, wheeled the metal tray over, and adjusted its height so that it hovered barely an inch above the table. The evidence bags on the tray, Pendergast knew, each contained one of the shoes that had floated ashore — two right and two left, in different sizes, including the one the M.E. had originally sliced up.

“I examined all four examples carefully. Since they’re without question from the same source and identical, I’ll simplify things by focusing on one,” Quarles said as he pulled on a pair of gloves. Then he selected an evidence bag, slid open the seal, and removed a shoe. Although it was still in one piece — barely — it had been sliced, cross-sectioned, punched, and cut for samples so many times that it looked more like a flayed bird than a shoe. Quarles set the item before Pendergast. A faint smell of seawater and rotten fish reached Pendergast’s nostrils.

“As one who appreciates fine footwear, you probably don’t need me to describe the traditional shoemaking process to you: creating the last; stretching the shell; steaming the upper; adding the lining, tongue, and hardware on the stitching line; and so forth. This,” Quarles said, shaking the shoe for emphasis so that it flapped, “is not that kind of shoe. It is a cheap, mass-produced item almost certainly made in China. It was created for a specialized environment rather than for everyday streetwear. It’s clearly not a fashion product: it’s strictly utilitarian. I don’t find any match to this shoe in our databases.”