Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

“It’s looking good.” Morse licked ketchup from his fingers. “Damn good, in fact. Of course, the fucking lieutenant is going to snag a piece of the collar if we do bring him in.”

“That sucks ass.” Smithback watched as Morse drained his gin and tonic, signaled the waitress for another. “Sounds like my life story.”

“Yeah? That editor — what’s his name, Kraski — still riding you?”

“Always.” This was a bit of an exaggeration, but it never hurt to get in some brotherly bonding over shared sufferance.

“Wish I had a bone I could throw your way in return,” Morse said. “But it’s been pretty quiet. Except for those two killings, of course.”

“Yeah.” Smithback took another sip of his beer. He was faced with a bit of a dilemma. It was true he normally didn’t handle homicides — and Morse knew it. On the other hand, the two Herald reporters who usually monopolized the murder beat were presently on vacation. His father had always harped on the importance of instinct — “trust your gut,” he liked to say — and even though the cops were being unusually tight-lipped about the recent killings in Miami Beach, it was obvious they were linked. Both victims were women who had their chests hacked open with “a heavy, bladed instrument.” That was all the cops would say, but he’d happened to be in the right neighborhood two days before, when half of the law enforcement of South Beach suddenly peeled off for Miami City Cemetery. It was no secret there’d been a big fuss at another cemetery just a few days earlier. He’d kept his ear to the ground, heard rumors that a body part — a heart, supposedly — had been found. Didn’t take a rocket scientist to put the pieces together. And Smithback’s own gut was telling him he should take advantage of his colleagues’ vacations before some stringer did.

He wanted this story. But he didn’t want to alienate Morse, lose him as a source. So he’d surprise the sergeant with a nugget of information that not only was tasty, but would imply he knew more than he actually did — a version of what, in game theory, was called the “ultimatum game.” If he played it right, maybe he’d learn something.

“Yeah,” he said. “The killings. Someone must be going ballistic.” He finished his Morning Wood. “Otherwise, why call in the feds?”

Morse looked at him with surprise and suspicion. “You know about that?”

Smithback shrugged as if it weren’t important. After all, he wasn’t a homicide reporter. “Sure. Pendergast wouldn’t be down here otherwise.”

“Pendergast?”

“Yeah. Special Agent Pendergast and I go way back.” This was the nugget; and it was, in fact, partially true. His brother had spoken of Pendergast many times, in a tone alternating among frustration, admiration, and fear. Roger had even met the agent a few times: first, at Bill’s wedding, and again when Bill was murdered and Pendergast handled the case. The last time he saw the FBI agent was at Bill’s funeral. So when he’d spied the gaunt, black-clad man at the city cemetery two days before, it had not only been a huge surprise but also confirmed his own suspicions — serial murder. The agent hadn’t answered his question on the subject, but then, he hadn’t needed to.

The suspicion in Morse’s expression receded, but the surprise remained. “This Pendergast tell you much?”

Smithback had guessed right: the sergeant seemed almost as curious about the case as he was. But he’d have to tread carefully. Trust your gut. “Not all that much. Just that weird shit at the cemeteries.”

To his relief, Morse nodded. “ Weird isn’t the word,” the cop said as a fresh G&T was placed before him. “Those notes are definitely from a psycho. I mean, who’d use a candy-ass name like that?”

Damn. Time to improvise. “Yeah,” Smithback said, still hitting the nonchalance hard. “When I first heard about that, I figured the guy was, you know, messing with you. Like Jack the Ripper or something.”

Morse snorted. “At least Jack the Ripper has some balls. But Mister Brokenhearts ? How fucked up is that?”

“Seriously fucked up.” And Smithback looked down as quickly as he dared, picking up his sandwich and taking a bite to conceal a look of triumph. Not only had he just confirmed some suspicions and made a huge score — that the killer called himself Mister Brokenhearts — but he also hadn’t burned his bridges. Morse would think he’d gotten everything from Pendergast.

He’d lied, but only to get the truth. And he’d done it subtly, successfully employing the ultimatum game. Both sides of his dad would be proud of him.

“How’s the burger?” he asked the sergeant through a mouthful of grouper.

The two notes, smeared with blood, lay between sheets of glass on the stage of a stereo zoom microscope under bright light. To Agent Coldmoon they looked like pages from a rare manuscript. The forensic document examiner — the FBI field office in Miami employed an expert who did nothing but analyze pieces of paper — was a short guy of about forty, massive, with a shaved head, a weight lifter’s body, and a wrist tattoo just peeking out from under the cuff of his lab coat. His name was Bruce Ianetti. Despite the slightly gangsterish look, he also managed to exude the nerdy air of a man who treasured the arcane knowledge of a field most people didn’t even know existed.

Pendergast took the lead, and Coldmoon — still bleary from that day’s rushed trip to Ithaca and back — once again had to conceal his admiration for the man’s chameleonlike ability to handle people from all walks of life, roughly or kindly, adopting various temporary guises of his own as the situation demanded.

“It was hell prying these two letters away from Miami PD,” Ianetti was saying, or rather bragging, after Pendergast had asked him for a tour of his lab and listened with great attentiveness as the man gushed on and on about the latest technology.

“So I understand,” said Pendergast, his voice oozing sympathy. “I’m delighted these letters are now in the hands of someone with your competence. Tell us, Dr. Ianetti — what have you discovered?”

“It’s mister, not doctor, but thanks for the promotion.” He laughed. “Anyway, we found no DNA, fingerprints, or any sort of physical evidence. It’s a very fine paper, 100 percent cotton fiber mill, cut with a razor or X-Acto knife from a much larger sheet. Thirty-two-pound weight, linen finish. Ideal for writing: smooth, almost buttery, with minimal feathering or bleed. Chemical analysis of the paper and its coating indicates it is almost certainly of the Arches brand, cold-pressed, made in the Vosges region of France.”

“Most interesting,” said Pendergast. “A rare paper, then?”

“Unfortunately not. Arches is one of the most famous and widely used watercolor papers in the world. Tracing it may be impossible, since the user clearly cut it in such a way as to avoid including the watermark or edges. He handled it with great care, not leaving a speck of DNA or any other physical trace.”

“But the stock itself is recently made?”

“I’d say within the last few years.”

“I see. And the pen and ink?”

“The note was written with an old-fashioned fountain pen — you can tell from the almost calligraphic effect of the lettering that the pen had a very flexible, iridium-tipped nib of the kind commonly manufactured in the 1920s and ’30s. The nib is wide, but not a stub. The ink is triarylmethane blue, and naturally it’s of much more recent vintage than the pen. Most likely it’s Quink — high quality, but widely available. Shame, really, given all the boutique inks available today, which would be easier to narrow down.”