Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

“A heart’s just been found,” Sandoval told them as the uniform retreated. “On a grave in the city of Miami. Excuse me.” And the lieutenant turned and vanished into a scrum of uniformed police.

Pendergast came up behind Coldmoon as the babble increased and said: “My blood alone remains. Take it, but don’t let me suffer long.”

Coldmoon turned to him in surprise. “Was that Crazy Horse, at Camp Sheridan?”

“Marie Antoinette, actually. In Paris.” Pendergast turned back and gestured in the direction of Miami. “Shall we go see what present Mister Brokenhearts has left us this time?”

The spasm of activity increased in intensity — and then, quite suddenly, Coldmoon sensed a change. Cops began to disappear. One minute they were talking in small groups, gesturing into phones — and then they were gone. The uniforms remained, manning the taped barriers and guarding the evidence, but the plainclothes seemed to vanish as if into thin air. At the same time, he started hearing the whoop whoop of sirens. Unmarked cars that had been hidden among the throngs of onlookers now started to detach themselves and force their way into the street, driving on sandy meridians and against the flow of traffic in order to make headway. Behind him came another series of whoops, and he turned to see one of the police cars that had been blocking the rear alley shoot off with a squeal of rubber. But the two of them, Coldmoon realized, weren’t going anywhere — they’d taken a taxi to and from the airport, and Coldmoon’s requisitioned Mustang was parked back at his hotel. He felt like the kid stranded at the end of musical chairs. “What the hell are we going to do for a car?” he asked. “And where’s the crime scene? ‘City of Miami’ is kind of vague.”

Pendergast ducked under the tape and away from the crime scene, moving fast, threading his way through the onlookers. Coldmoon hurried to follow. Pendergast stopped outside a souvenir shop, plucked a map of Miami from a rack near the entrance, and, with a whiplike movement, opened it. Together they peered at the map. He pointed to a rectangle of green amid a sprawling grid of printed streets. “ Ecce! ”

Coldmoon squinted in the bright sunlight. “City of Miami Cemetery .”

“Approximately four miles from our present location.”

Coldmoon glanced around again. Plenty of cars, barely crawling — but no cabs, no limos, no cop cars offering empty seats.

The proprietor of the store had spotted them and was making her way out from behind the cash register. Pendergast stuffed the map back into its rack and took off down Ocean Drive at a brisk walk. Coldmoon swung in behind him. Ahead loomed one of South Beach’s omnipresent art deco hotels. Pendergast jogged up the curving drive to the bellman’s station, dodging parked cars and passersby. A lone taxi idled at the hotel’s front steps, its yellow paint job faded almost white by the sun. Its trunk was open and the driver was shoving suitcases into it, while a heavyset elderly man was helping an equally elderly woman prepare to get into the backseat.

Pendergast introduced himself to the white-haired man, shaking his hand and giving a courtly bow to the woman. Coldmoon began to approach, but something told him he’d have better luck hanging back. Other people started to appear: valets, bellmen, someone who looked like a concierge. For a minute, this small knot surrounded Pendergast and the elderly couple, hiding the three from Coldmoon’s sight. And then the group began to break up, the bellmen taking the luggage from the trunk and lugging it back to the hotel. Now it was the white-haired gent who was shaking Pendergast’s hand, nodding and beaming. As the couple began to ascend the steps toward the hotel entrance, Coldmoon — coming forward — caught the old man’s parting words: “Thanks again, mate!”

“Good day.” Pendergast slammed the trunk closed, then ushered Coldmoon into the still-open rear door. “After you.”

Coldmoon slid in. The cabdriver, who had watched all this transpire with bewilderment, frowned. “What the hell, ese ? That was a forty-dollar ride, man.”

“I think you’ll find this ride more profitable,” Pendergast said, getting in beside Coldmoon and closing the door. He opened his FBI shield, showed it to the driver. “You know the best way to Miami City Cemetery?”

The man — late thirties, with a tiny ponytail and a Cuban flag tattooed on one arm — didn’t seem impressed. “Yeah.”

Pendergast reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a thick sheaf of folded banknotes. “How fast can you get us there?”

The driver was still standing on the pavement. “In this traffic? Shit, maybe twenty, thirty minutes.”

Pendergast threw a fifty-dollar bill into the front seat. “How about ten?”

The driver got in and grabbed the bill. “I haven’t got wings, man—”

Another fifty went into the front seat. “Then perhaps you could grow a pair. Of wings, I mean.”

The cabbie scowled. “Listen, I’ve already got three points on my license, and—”

“You’re forgetting that we’re FBI. Just get us there the fastest way — the fastest way — you can.”

“Yeah,” Coldmoon added for emphasis. He figured the man might even be up to the task — he looked more like a getaway driver than a cabbie. He peered into the front seat, trying to make out the man’s taxi license. “Put the hammer down — Axel.”

The driver slammed his door and peeled out of the hotel parking loop, almost immediately getting stuck on Ocean Drive.

Pendergast turned to Coldmoon. “Do you have a preferred traffic app on your phone?”

“Waze.”

“Open it, please. Check the traffic to the cemetery. Open a backup app as well, in case the suggested routes differ.”

The cab veered onto the shoulder, avoiding the stalled traffic, then swerved sharply left at Ninth Street.

“Mind explaining what went on back there?” Coldmoon asked as he woke up his phone and dialed in the Miami City Cemetery.

“Just a moment.” Pendergast leaned forward. “What route are you taking?” he asked the driver.

The man braked violently at the intersection of Collins Avenue, forcing Coldmoon to grab the oh-shit handle above his window. “The causeway, then Biscayne.”

Pendergast looked inquiringly at Coldmoon, who looked in turn at his phone. MacArthur Causeway was a solid red line of traffic, stretching all the way from Miami Beach to the mainland. He shook his head.

“No,” said Pendergast.

“What do you mean, no?” came the reply from the front seat. “You want to get there or not?”

“Venetian Way looks like a better bet,” said Coldmoon, jumping back and forth between traffic apps.

“Over the islands ? You crazy, man, or—”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Pendergast interrupted. “My friend here will provide the directions; you will follow them, breaking any and all traffic laws necessary to keep us moving; and I’ll keep handing you money. What do you say?” And he peeled off another fifty and tossed it into the front seat.

The driver, Axel, glanced at it, then — jamming his foot on the gas again — shot across Collins Avenue to the screaming protest of oncoming horns. For a busted-up old taxi, Axel’s ride had plenty of juice.

“Flashers on, please, and take the median strip to the light,” said Pendergast.

“Whatever.” The cab mounted the curb and tore along the grass, fishtailing slightly.

“Right on Meridian, left on Seventeenth,” Coldmoon told the cabbie.

Pendergast settled back as the cab swerved back onto the roadway and shot along Meridian to a symphony of blaring horns.