Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

“So what happened back there?” Coldmoon asked.

Pendergast settled into the seat. “A charming couple from Brisbane, on their way to Orlando. I advised against it and pointed out the wisdom of staying another day at their hotel — in an upgraded room, of course, at no charge to them.”

“Why not just flash your gold and take the damn cab away from them?”

“To such a lovely elderly couple? How uncouth.”

“So you conned them out of their taxi.”

“I did them a favor. No civilized person should have to set foot willingly in Orlando. I suggested the World Erotic Art Museum would be a better choice, just around the corner from the hotel.”

The cab turned onto Seventeenth, then accelerated dramatically, pinning the two agents to their seats. The driver threaded his way expertly between cars, honking and swerving, finally driving over the edge of a sidewalk.

“Run the light, please.” With this comment, another fifty landed in the front seat.

The cabbie ran the light and continued on. Coldmoon checked the apps again. No route was traffic-free, but this one was the least of many evils.

Ahead of them, a vista of intense blue suddenly appeared — Biscayne Bay. Thirty seconds later the road became a bridge, bisecting a parallel series of lozenge-shaped isles, glittering green and white in the cerulean, like jewels set into a Fabergé egg. Coldmoon stared at the gleaming high-rise condos and marinas before him, fringed by countless palm trees and seeming to rise out of the tropical water like dream castles. It occurred to him that had he been shown a picture of such a place during his childhood on the Pine Ridge Reservation, he would have assumed it was something out of a fairy tale.

His thoughts were interrupted by a violent screech of brakes that threw him against the driver’s headrest. Recovering, he saw a long line of brake lights ahead and what appeared to be an accident. He realized that Pendergast — and the driver, via the rearview mirror — was looking at him expectantly.

“Well?” Axel asked. “What now, Davy Crockett?”

Coldmoon glanced at his phone. They were on the eastern edge of Rivo Alto Island. “Make a left, two rights, then back onto Venetian Way.”

Without another word, the driver twisted the steering wheel, gunned into the oncoming lane, drove along it for a hundred yards, then made a left, the rear end fishtailing. Pendergast let another fifty-dollar bill drop gently into the front seat.

“You know, it would probably have been easier to just rent a chopper,” Coldmoon said.

To his surprise, Pendergast took the suggestion seriously. “Anything would be an improvement on this abominable traffic.” He was silent a moment. “This is the second time I’ve been late to a crime scene. I won’t be late to a third.”

The taxi, once again weaving in and out across both directions of traffic, now veered over the final island in the chain and approached the breastwork of hotels lining the mainland shore. “Right on Second Avenue,” Coldmoon said, observing that Route 1, too, was little better than a parking lot, thanks to construction ahead.

By way of answer, the cab shot across one intersection, then another, narrowly missing being T-boned by a moving van, then made a harrowing right onto Second, the rear tires smoking, again using the median strip, weaving among palm trees as if on a slalom course. And then the car lurched once again to a stop. This time, it looked more or less final: all lanes ahead were at a standstill, apparently blocked by the construction and spillover from Route 1.

“Damn,” he muttered.

But even as he spoke he saw Pendergast throw another bill into the front seat and get out. Coldmoon followed suit. Three blocks ahead, he could make out a patch of green: the cemetery.

“Eleven minutes,” Pendergast said. “Excellent. Perhaps we’ll even beat our friend the lieutenant.” And threading his way between the cars to the sidewalk, he began moving north at a smooth but rapid walk.

Special agent Coldmoon nodded to the two cops manning the gate as he passed into the City of Miami Cemetery. More cop cars were arriving, and activity was ramping up. He paused to cast a cold eye over the scene even as Pendergast skipped lightly ahead. An asphalt lane bisected the cemetery: a large grassy area surrounded by a green-painted fence and shaded by gnarled oaks. Lining the central lane were tombstones and mausoleums of various styles and shapes, some decrepit, others well kept. The cemetery looked venerable, and — judging by the vaults — was home to some pretty wealthy corpses. Strange place for a burial ground, though: almost in the shadow of downtown Miami.

When he had taken in the spirit of the place, he strode toward the mausoleum where the heart had apparently been found, a grim temple of granite roped off with crime scene tape, surrounded by a growing crowd of police and forensic teams. Pendergast was nowhere to be seen. He spoke to one of the local cops and learned the interior would be cleared and ready for their entry in about thirty minutes.

Coldmoon took a leisurely stroll beyond the crime scene tape, committing to memory all he could of the scene. This particular mausoleum was built from massive blocks, with two stone urns flanking the entrance and a heavy copper door covered with verdigris. The name carved above the lintel was FLAYLEY. As he passed the open front doors, he could see the shabby interior, brilliantly lit, where two CSU investigators in white suits moved about. They reminded Coldmoon of ancestral spirits, confused and wandering, seeking release from their earthly shackles.

On the far side, a distant figure caught his eye: a mourner in black, kneeling, head bowed in sorrow. Then he realized it was Pendergast. He ambled over to find his partner examining the grass, nose practically buried in the ground. A pair of tweezers was in his hand.

“Find anything?”

“Not yet.” Still, he slipped a test tube out of somewhere, put something invisible into it with the tweezers, and stood up. He continued to work his way in a circle around the mausoleum, as if, Coldmoon thought, “cutting for sign” — a tracking trick he had learned during his childhood.

“I would appreciate a second pair of eyes on the ground,” Pendergast said. “I’m looking for ingress and egress.”

“Since last night was a full moon, with a cloudless sky, you’re assuming he didn’t walk in by the service road.”

“Precisely.”

They made an excruciatingly slow loop, picking up every trace they could. Finally, when they got back to where they had started — with no success, it seemed — Pendergast squinted toward the mausoleum. “Ah. The chamber of the dead is now ready.”

Members of the Crime Scene Unit — under the watchful gaze of Lieutenant Sandoval — were packing up their gear and taking off their suits. Following Pendergast, Coldmoon ducked under the tape and entered the mausoleum.

Both right and left walls were lined with niches, three rows of five, making thirty crypts total, all sealed over save for one at the far left. A plaque of marble covered each crypt, carved with a name and dates, but some of the coverings had cracked and fallen to the floor, revealing the rotten coffins within. The floor was thick with dust and evidence of rat activity, while the walls were massively stained from roof leaks.

While Pendergast prowled around silently, Coldmoon focused his gaze on the niche in question. It was one of the newest.

AGATHA BRODEUR FLAYLEY

September 3, 1975

March 12, 2007

Its marble plaque had been removed and set aside. Hanging before the coffin on a string, like a Christmas ornament, was a human heart, swinging ever so slightly, cradled in a crude net made of roasting twine. A single drop of clotted blood hung from the bottom like an icicle. A sticky pool had formed on the floor below it.