Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

She paused briefly, examining her audience. “This time, however, he was more careful. He knew of a brick-lined ditch along the hidden side of the house, where an exit door had been planned for the basement but never built. He got the necessary tools and practiced with them. Then — just days before the demolition was to take place, to ensure there would be no squatters this time — he returned in his cover as a vagabond. Imagine his consternation when he found that, instead of squatters, the house had renters — viz., ourselves. But it was too late to back out. And so he was forced to work very slowly and quietly... unseen, usually at night. Unfortunately for him, I heard the faint tapping. And since I find the idea of spirits curious rather than frightening — and had time on my hands — I decided to investigate. And here we are.”

She nodded toward the man. “Gentlemen, Randall Wilkinson.”

There was a brief silence following this explanation. Then, Pendergast said: “Constance, brava .”

“Incredible to think he’s been alive all this time,” Perelman said.

Constance waved a hand at Wilkinson. “Ecce homo.”

“What do we do with him now?” Perelman asked after a moment. “I can think of many laws that were broken here: insurance fraud, conspiracy, tax evasion, contributing to the forgery of a death certificate, financial fraud... the list of felonies is downright staggering.”

Constance turned to Wilkinson. “How much profit did you make?”

The man spoke for the first time. He had, Coldmoon noted, a low, almost melodious voice. “Two million dollars from the insurance. My sister got the house — that was part of the deal, plus half a million. I kept one and a half million.”

“What happened to your sister’s portion after her death?”

“When she found she had cancer, she started wiring amounts to an offshore account, which I later collected. She had no children, you see.”

“You certainly had a devoted sister,” said Pendergast.

“We were very close.”

“And how much do you have left?” Constance inquired.

A hesitation. “About a million two.”

Constance turned toward Perelman. “Chief Perelman, do you know approximately how much money the historical society still needs to raise to purchase and restore the house?”

Another brief pause, during which Coldmoon heard Pendergast say something in Latin to Constance. She smiled as if complimented.

Perelman spoke. “About a million. Give or take.”

“Interesting coincidence,” Constance said. “I wonder how Mr. Wilkinson would feel about making an anonymous gift to the historical society, in order to save the house, in return for being allowed to go free?”

Nobody spoke for a minute. Perelman finally said: “I sweated bullets trying to solve this case. I failed, and it was humiliating. I’m not sure I’m so willing to let it go.”

“Consider the alternative,” Pendergast interjected smoothly. “If you arrest him, all that money will go back to the insurance company — and ticky-tacky condos will replace this beautiful old mansion. Captiva Island will never be the same.”

Perelman swallowed. He looked around the room. All eyes were on him. “Doesn’t that make us all conspirators to defraud the insurance company?”

“Naturally,” said Pendergast. “But sometimes a little bending of the law to the greater good is the wiser option. The insurance company wrote off the loss long ago. The town you serve will benefit. Most important, we can keep a secret — can’t we, gentlemen? Constance?”

A long silence ensued. Then, slowly, Perelman nodded. “I imagine an anonymous gift would be very well received by the historical society.”

Constance looked at Wilkinson. “We’ll hold this medical equipment in trust until the donation clears. And then we will turn it over to you to dispose of.”

Wilkinson clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. “Thank you.” It was probably Coldmoon’s imagination, but, quite suddenly, the air in the basement seemed to lift.

“Excellent,” Pendergast said to Constance. “Most excellent.”

“There’s just one thing,” Perelman said with a half smile.

Everyone glanced his way.

“If this means the passing of the Mortlach ghost... well, shouldn’t we have an exorcism?”

“No,” said Coldmoon immediately.

“Yes,” Constance said at the same time.

“A small ritual does seem appropriate,” Pendergast said. “But first, I imagine Mr. Wilkinson is both tired and in need of refreshments.”

“And a bathroom,” Wilkinson said.

“Naturally. In that case, while Mr. Wilkinson is making use of the facilities, and someone is getting him a drink, I shall scour the manse for a bell, book, and candle.” And with that he turned and vanished up the stairs.

The bell 429 skimmed low above coral reefs and emerald waters, Assistant Director in Charge Pickett once again peering out the copilot’s window. The mysterious island, awash in tropical green, came into view on the horizon, set like a gem on the wide expanse of sea. As they drew closer, he made out the ornamental ranks of palm trees, the boathouse, the gleaming white marble walkways and buildings, and the helipads beyond. One helipad was occupied: an AgustaWestland 109 Grand sat upon it, sleek and luxurious, with a top speed nearly double that of his ride. The 429 settled down near it. As Pickett opened the door, he felt like he was stepping out of a Yugo parked next to a Rolls.

The same two men were waiting for him in their starched and pressed uniforms. They led him along the crushed-shell paths and up the staircases of white marble. But this time, they went not along the covered passage to the courtyard where he had initially met Pendergast, but rather in another direction entirely, to arrive at a large temple-like structure built of the same bone-white marble. It was surrounded on all four sides by Corinthian colonnades, topped with entablatures and a trapezoidal roof. This, Pickett thought, was so outrageous it could only be the island’s main house.

The attendants brought him up to a front portico, where he found Pendergast and Coldmoon seated in chairs, waiting for him. A refreshing breeze blew among the columns, rustling the royal palms nearby and bringing with it the scent of honeysuckle. Pendergast was dressed once again in his trademark black suit, his face and silver-blue eyes pale in the bright sun. Coldmoon also was in traditional mufti: old jeans and a plaid shirt. To one side lay a curious assortment of luggage: elegant, slab-sided Louis Vuitton suitcases beside a pair of beat-up, dirty backpacks. Pickett noticed the junior agent looked completely, even ridiculously, out of place in these surroundings — and his face betrayed his discomfort.

“ADC Pickett,” Pendergast said, rising to shake his hand as he came up the steps. “How nice of you to see us off like this.”

This was spoken with the casual tone of a tourist about to board a cruise ship. To observe Pendergast’s manner, one would think the last frantic week had never happened: the inquiries, depositions, arrests, warrants, and raids, all done under a cloak of secrecy. Pickett had kept a tight lid on the story even within the FBI, doing his best to bury the proceedings in the bureaucratic red tape his department was so good at providing.

“I couldn’t very well let you go without giving you a summary of what’s happened since you left to, ah, finish your interrupted vacation,” Pickett said.

“Thank you; we’re most anxious to hear about it.” Pendergast motioned him to a chair in the shade next to them.

Pickett whisked a newspaper from beneath his arm and laid it to one side as he sat down. “As you might imagine, there’s been a massive reckoning in Lee County. Commander Baugh has been relieved of his post, pending an official Coast Guard inquiry; the police chief of Fort Myers has been reprimanded; and Baugh’s aide-de-camp, a certain Lieutenant Darby, has been arrested on charges of espionage, along with another Coast Guard officer named Duran. There are many more arrests to come. It’s early days still.”