Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

Coldmoon stood up. “Thanks for going through this with me again. I’m very sorry for your loss, and we’ll do all we can to bring the perpetrator to justice.”

Mrs. Montera, still dabbing at her eyes, tried to wrap up some tamales for Coldmoon to take along, but he gently declined. “ Encuentre al hombre que hizo esto ,” she said, pressing his hand.

Down on the pavement, Coldmoon looked up Edge on his cell phone. He called and asked for Lance Corvin.

“He’s kind of busy right now,” a voice shouted back over the sound of throbbing music. “Try later.”

“When do you close?”

“Three.”

Coldmoon glanced at his watch as he got into the Mustang. A few minutes past eight. As a suspect, this Lance Corvin sounded too good to be true... which meant he probably was. Cape Coral, he recalled, was pretty close. With any luck, he’d interview this Corvin, get a statement, and be back in his hotel room by nine.

It was turning into another beautiful night. Only half paying attention, he punched the nightclub’s name into the traffic app of his phone, then dropped it on the passenger seat and pulled away from the curb. Although he hadn’t told Pendergast, not being on hand to examine the scene of Felice Montera’s homicide had irked him. This talk with her family had, if nothing else, helped create a human being from the victim — something that was very important to him, and which made the tragedy of her death that much greater.

Guided by the soothing voice of the GPS, Coldmoon made his way out of the crowded side streets of Little Havana and onto a main thoroughfare, where after a few miles the traffic grew mercifully thin. In retrospect, he was pleased he’d agreed to divide the evening’s investigative responsibilities with Pendergast. The senior agent had remained in his suite at the Fontainebleau, tracking down by phone old acquaintances of Elise Baxter. Coldmoon knew how that worked; one acquaintance would lead to another, then another. Pendergast would be up calling half the night, long after Coldmoon had hit the sack.

Lulled into tranquility by these thoughts, Coldmoon only became aware something was amiss when the GPS guided him onto the westbound ramp for I-75. What the hell ? The freeway stretched ahead of him, a divided highway disappearing into utter darkness, with only the occasional pair of headlights to relieve the monotony.

He quickly pulled onto the shoulder, consulted his cell phone, then let out a string of particularly graphic Lakota curses. Cape Coral wasn’t near Coral Gables, or Coral Springs, which he had confused it with — it was way the hell over on the west coast of the state, at the far end of an arrow-straight ribbon of freeway known as Alligator Alley.

Alligator Alley. “Sweet mother of fuck,” Coldmoon murmured. A hundred and forty-five miles. Two and a half hours. Each way.

Briefly, he considered pulling through a break in the highway meridian and heading back to his motel. But he immediately realized that would never work. The interview with the boyfriend was critical, even if it was ground already covered by Miami PD. He’d already promised Pendergast he’d interview the ex-boyfriend. No way could he give any possible suspect a pass — even if his conscience allowed it.

With a sigh, he hit the gas, turned back onto the freeway, and headed west. Within minutes, even the other headlights had vanished, and there was nothing but high-mast lighting poles for company. Unrelieved blackness lay to his left and right. He let the speedometer drift up to eighty, then ninety, before inching above one hundred. If a state trooper stopped him, hopefully the fellow law officer would give him a pass. If not — well, it was turning into that kind of a night anyway.

It was ten thirty when he pulled the Shelby into the empty valet spot directly in front of The Edge. To Coldmoon, the building looked like an abandoned processing plant that had been gussied up with a bit of neon. A line of people, dressed to party, were waiting behind a velvet rope leading to the entrance. Two burly men in jeans and leather vests flanked the door, through which came the muffled thump of dance music. His mood had not been improved by passing through Alligator Alley.

A valet approached his window. “Keys?”

“Where’s Lance Corvin?” Coldmoon asked.

“That’s him,” the valet said, pointing at one of the men in leather vests.

“I want to talk to him.” He grabbed his phone, opened the car door, and got out.

“Sir, you can’t leave your car—”

“I said, tell him I want to talk to him.”

But Corvin had picked up on the exchange and was already coming over. He pushed the valet aside — none too gently. “Yeah?”

“Lance Corvin?”

“What about it?”

“I’m Agent Coldmoon of the FBI.” Coldmoon considered digging his shield out of his back pocket, but decided he wouldn’t bother. He leaned back on the car. “I have some questions about Felice Montera.”

The bouncer’s expression hardened. “The cops have already asked me all about that.”

“Good for them. Now I’m asking you.”

“I was working here night before last. A million people must have seen me.”

“Maybe. But the club closes at three. Ms. Montera wasn’t killed until four.”

“Corvin!” the other bouncer said, gesturing at him. “Tell that jackass to move his car and get back here!”

“That’s one hour to cross the state. You think I grew wings or something?” Corvin said.

“Maybe you left work a little early that night.”

Corvin crossed his heavily muscled arms. “Look,” he said, “I didn’t kill that bitch. Okay? Question answered. Now move your fucking car.”

The events of the evening — the sense of loss in the Montera apartment; the inconsolable expression on the face of the victim’s mother; the wearisome drive through a trackless landscape — came together. The normally phlegmatic Coldmoon took a step toward Corvin, so close his chest was actually touching the bouncer’s crossed arms. He leaned into his face and spoke in a whisper.

“Did you just say ‘ fucking ’ car? About my Shelby ?”

Although the bouncer was taller than Coldmoon and had at least fifty pounds on him, some instinct of self-preservation caused Corvin to slowly ease his arms down to his sides. But he did not step back. “It isn’t against the law to swear,” he said, his voice faltering.

Still staring at Corvin, inches from his face, Coldmoon slid out his cell phone. “While we’re considering how the law applies to my eight-hundred-fifty-horsepower Super Snake, I’m going to call a magistrate judge and get a warrant. And then we’ll go back to Miami, where you and I will spend all night together in a little room with a very bright light.”

“I, um, wait. I have proof.” Corvin finally took a step back and reached into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and held it out. “I got this driving home the night Felice was killed.”

Coldmoon examined the paper. It was a traffic summons. Corvin had received a ticket from the Cape Coral police for speeding, two nights before. The time on the summons was 3:50 AM.

He looked at it a moment longer, then used his cell phone to take a photo of the summons. Staring wordlessly into Corvin’s face, he relaxed his fingers and let the ticket fall, where it fluttered down onto the bouncer’s shoes. Then, getting back into the Shelby, he started the engine, pulled away from the curb, and mentally prepared himself for the long, dark, featureless drive back to Miami.

The lodge at Katahdin was not actually near the mountain bearing the same name. It was many miles outside of Baxter State Park, on what looked like the edge of an endless forest, not far off the interstate. Coldmoon could imagine few places more different from Miami Beach. Maine had seen a lot of snow that winter, and though it was late March everything was still obscured by drifts of white: mailboxes, woodsheds, even cars and trailers were hardly more than protuberances in the snow cover. The only patches of color came from the sand on the plowed streets, which turned the snow an evil reddish color. The late-morning scene reminded him of the long winters he’d spent growing up in Porcupine, South Dakota.