Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

“Speaking of timetables,” Pendergast said, “it appears these feet have been in the water about three weeks. I’m curious to know how that fact will drive your investigative plans.”

There was a sudden silence. The commander looked at him, his frown mingling with uncertainty. “Three weeks? How would you know that?”

“Or perhaps four, on the outside — the laboratory examination will provide more specifics. You see, Commander, the life cycle of the lowly barnacle is most useful in matters of forensic marine biology. They develop on a set schedule, and a juvenile barnacle in the early sessile phase was visible on the sole of the shoe I was examining. Barnacles — something you should look into at your earliest opportunity.”

When Baugh turned to the bald police chief from Fort Myers and asked why this barnacle observation had not yet been reported, Pickett took Pendergast a few yards away from the group. “You can see how it is,” he said, an irritated crease in his brow. “Already the jackasses are out in force. The case is so bizarre it’s thrown all the local agencies into confusion. Commander Baugh is claiming jurisdiction, given that these damned feet are coming in from the sea. Naturally, it’s important for the FBI to be represented.”

“Naturally.”

“No doubt a task force will be set up, and I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that Commander Baugh will be put in charge. You’ll have to appear subordinate to the commander. I’ll expect regular reports.”

Pendergast took a deep breath. “Sir, are you forgetting what I said earlier?”

“I remember what you said. But tell me: have you ever seen anything like this before?”

“No.”

“Never in your experience? Nothing remotely like it?”

A pause. “No.”

“Do you have even the slightest idea of a reason why sixty, seventy human feet would wash up on a beach in the middle of a Florida resort island?”

“Not the slightest.”

“And yet, you’re not curious about it?”

Pendergast did not answer the question.

“There you go.” Pickett looked pleased, as if he’d just checked a chess opponent. “ That’s why you must take this case. Because it is absolutely outside of all our experience. You have to know.”

“I do not particularly like boats or the sea.”

“Dramamine,” said Pickett. “And I was thinking you could use some help on this case. Like last time, I mean. A partner.”

Pendergast went quite still.

“It’s worth mentioning that Agent Coldmoon’s still around. He’s applied for a posting to Colorado, and if it’s approved — which it will be — it will take a few weeks to process.” Pickett paused to brush some sand from his cuffs. “And after all, you worked so brilliantly together.”

Pendergast remained still. “I made every effort to be accommodating to Agent Coldmoon. Are you implying I could not have solved the Brokenhearts case on my own?”

The long silence answered the question. “We’re dealing with something quite different here,” Pickett went on, “but equally baffling. Coldmoon is an agent whose qualities complement yours.”

“As I recall,” Pendergast said coldly, “through haste and impetuousness, Agent Coldmoon fell into a pit and I had to rescue him.”

Pickett held up his hands. “All right, all right, let’s forget about Coldmoon. You know I always believe partnering is the better strategy, but never mind. If I give you free rein to explore this on your own, using your own methods — observing the task force chain of command, of course, but with total freedom from our end — will you agree to investigate?”

As Pickett asked the question, a look came over Pendergast’s face. This expression, too, resembled one commonly seen in a chess match, when checkmate was at hand. “If those are your orders, then I would have no objection to remaining a few days, merely to satisfy my curiosity. Sir.”

“Then let’s inform Commander Baugh at once.” And putting one arm lightly over Pendergast’s shoulder, Pickett began leading the way back to the group clustered nearby on the sand.

Roger Smithback, reporter for the Miami Herald , hadn’t waited to get his editor’s green light on the story. When his police band scanner picked up news of feet washing up on a beach on Captiva Island, he had jumped into his Subaru and driven like hell across the Florida peninsula, his radar detector and laser jammer both working overtime to avoid the cops. Smithback was familiar with Sanibel from having taken an expensive vacation there with a girlfriend (now ex — and a pox on her), and he realized it posed a serious access problem. As he drove, he pondered the logistics of reaching the crime scene and getting the scoop. First, he was going to be hours late. There were plenty of newspapers and other media outlets closer by who would be sending out reporters. The Fort Myers News-Press was going to get at least a two-hour jump on him, not to mention the Tampa Bay Times , the Sarasota Herald-Tribune , and the Charlotte Sun . The other problem was physically getting onto Captiva Island. The cops would certainly have set up checkpoints. One would no doubt be at the Sanibel Causeway, which he could probably lie his way through. The bigger problem was getting from Sanibel to Captiva. There was only one connection between the two islands, the Blind Pass Bridge. If memory served, that bridge ended right at the beach where the feet were washing up. It was sure to be locked down tight.

But no way was Roger Smithback, senior reporter of the Herald , going to join a crowd of miserable journalists sweating behind some barrier, pleading for a crumb of a story. He was going to get onto Captiva Island if it was the last thing he did — and the logical way to do it was by boat. As he drove, he poked away at his smartphone, made a few calls, and soon had a plan worked out. Instead of driving onto Sanibel, he would take the nearby causeway to Pine Island, drive south to St. James City, and from there hire a boat to take him across Pine Island Sound to the Captiva Island Yacht Club. The yacht club had a courtesy car available for yachtsmen, which would drive him wherever he wished on the island. All he had to do was act like some rich yachting bastard, passing out lots of twenties as tips.

Smithback then texted Kraski, his editor, and told him he was covering the story — just so it wouldn’t get assigned to anyone else. Screw proper channels: this one was his. Feet washing up on a beach — he fairly tingled at the ghastly appeal of it.

Three and a half hours after leaving Miami, his plan executed perfectly, Smithback found himself waving goodbye to the nice gentleman from the yacht club who had dropped him off near the southern end of Captiva Drive. Captiva was a narrow island, exclusive, with a single road down the middle, driveways on either side leading to million-dollar waterfront houses. In scoping out the scene from afar, Smithback had decided the best way to get close to the action would be to sneak through someone’s yard to reach the gulf-side beach. Access from the public parking lot would surely be closed off and swarming with cops.

He picked a house that looked unoccupied and slipped down the driveway, skirted around the side, then across a backyard to a path that ran through sea grape and hopbush to the broad expanse of beach beyond. He paused in the shrubbery to take off his shoes and socks, shove them in his reporter’s bag, and roll up his pants — to create the appearance of a local beachcomber.

Where the path joined the beach, it was blocked with fluttering strings of yellow crime scene tape. As he looked up and down the shore, he could see that the entire beach had been taped off — and the law enforcement response was massive. There were several Coast Guard vessels cruising back and forth near the shore, with Coast Guard servicemembers dipping nets into the sea, fishing out feet. The beach itself was patrolled by police dune buggies and officers on foot. It looked like multiple departments had turned out — Fort Myers and Sanibel at the least — and there were also a number of Coast Guard Auxiliary regulars in blue jumpsuits. Two Coast Guard helicopters circled above, but there were no media choppers anywhere. Good.