Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

More nodding from Pendergast.

“And the handwriting?” Coldmoon asked. Handwriting analysis was one of his pet interests.

“Here’s where it gets interesting. Normally, in handwritten notes such as these, the writer makes an attempt to disguise their handwriting — sometimes by writing with the nondominant hand, sometimes by using block letters. It’s quite easy to tell genuine handwriting from disguised — on many levels. But the writer here has not tried to disguise his handwriting. As you can see, it’s a nice cursive, easy and natural, not labored, pleasing to the eye. As for the nature of the handwriting itself—”

At this point the phone on Ianetti’s desk chimed, and he held up a finger to excuse himself. A moment later he was back. “We’ve got a visitor,” he said. And as he spoke a man entered the lab, dressed in a gray suit.

“Commander Gordon Grove,” the man said, extending his hand to Pendergast. He was of average height, with a thoughtful face, gray eyes, and long gray hair brushed back. He had a bit of a paunch, Coldmoon noticed, but the suit was cut well enough to keep it hidden. If he was armed, the weapon was hidden as well. “And you must be Special Agent Pendergast. Given what a busy day it’s apparently been for you, I wasn’t sure I’d find you here this late.”

Pendergast took the hand.

The gray-haired man turned to Coldmoon. “And Agent Coldmoon.” The man clasped his hand in a large, cool grasp and gave it a pleasing shake. He then turned to the document examiner. “Bruce and I go way back to his days in Miami PD. He’s the best forensic document examiner in the country.”

Ianetti blushed, tattoo and all. Coldmoon exchanged a glance with Pendergast. Who’s this guy? he wondered.

“I don’t know if you gentlemen remember the Two Bridges murder about six years back? I was still a homicide detective then, and it was Bruce who cracked the case by proving that a certain will’s signature page was a different kind of paper from the rest of the document and must have been forged.”

“There was more to it than that,” said Ianetti modestly.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Grove told him. “Anyway, the reason I’m here is because — not to put too fine a word on it — the MPD and Miami FBI have a difficult history. Sometimes a little pressure is necessary to make them play nice together. These two key pieces of evidence are a perfect example.”

“Thanks for shaking them free of the MPD so quickly,” Ianetti said. And then he added hastily: “Sir.”

“Happy to help.” Grove turned to Pendergast. “ADC Pickett asked the Miami PD for a liaison, and I’m that man. There was a regrettable misunderstanding between a Miami officer and an FBI agent a few years back, and in the wake of that it’s become my job to smooth over relations between local and federal authorities. You’d be surprised how much red tape this lets us avoid. I’m here to make sure you get what you need, when you need it.”

“Thank you very much indeed,” said Pendergast.

“Enough about me.” Grove turned to the document examiner. “Mr. Ianetti, I believe you were about to share with us your findings on the handwriting?”

Ianetti cleared his throat. “The question always comes up: what can you tell about the perp from the handwriting? I’m afraid that in the past twenty to thirty years, the ‘science’ of handwriting analysis — graphology — has been thoroughly debunked.”

“Debunked?” Coldmoon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a pseudoscience. Graphology is on the same level as astrology, palmistry, and crystal ball gazing.”

“I don’t buy it,” Coldmoon said. “You can tell a lot about a person from how they write. Messy handwriting means a messy person, a bold signature indicates a big ego, and so on.”

“It’s very attractive to think that,” said Ianetti. “But a 1982 meta-study — a study of studies — proved beyond doubt that graphology was hopeless when it came to predicting personality traits. It turns out, for example, that many extremely well-organized people have illegible handwriting and vice versa.” He arched an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t believe in astrology or the power of crystals?”

Coldmoon didn’t answer. What he’d been taught to believe growing up was nobody’s business. He glanced at the commander, who was nodding. “Local police forensic labs have mostly abandoned graphology,” he said.

Throughout this Pendergast’s face had remained studiously neutral. Coldmoon looked once again at his partner, who placed a pensive finger to his lips, then lowered it again and spoke. “And yet,” he said quietly, “there’s a great deal about the killer’s psychology we can learn from these notes. We’re dealing with a highly organized individual who quotes Shakespeare and Eliot, uses fine paper and rare vintage pens — in short, a man of literary pretensions. You point out that searching for the paper or ink would prove difficult — especially in this day of online purchasing — but your people might want to look into book clubs, libraries, and other haunts where a self-identified literary gentleman might hang out.”

“Excellent suggestion,” said Grove. “I’ll put our people on that.”

“Anyway,” Ianetti said, “that’s about all I can tell you — except that that the perp is almost certainly left-handed.”

“Indeed?” Pendergast raised his eyebrows.

“It’s much harder to tell than people think. However, this writer definitely employs what we call the sarcasm stroke: on the handwritten t ’s, the finishing cross ends with a sharp cut from right to left, rather than the other way around.”

This bit of erudition was absorbed in silence.

“My report will be ready first thing tomorrow morning,” Ianetti said. “I’ll email you a copy.”

“You’ve been most helpful,” Pendergast replied. “Thank you.”

They headed out of the lab, Grove accompanying them. As they reached the door, the commander glanced at his watch, then turned to them. “My goodness — seven thirty already. I have to run, but I’m glad I caught up with you. I just wanted to make your acquaintance and ensure you’re getting everything you need.” Cards came out and he pressed one into each of their hands. “Call me if you have any problems.”

“Much obliged,” said Pendergast drily, tucking the card into his black suit pocket.

As Grove headed down the corridor, Coldmoon looked at the card. It read: Gordon Grove, Commander, Liaison for External Affairs, Miami Police Department .

“Liaison,” murmured Coldmoon. “In other words, Ass Covering 101. Nice way to ease into your pension. If we fuck up, it’s our fault. If they fuck up, it’s our fault.”

“There are many essential police skills they don’t teach you at the Academy,” said Pendergast. “Ass covering, as it is so charmingly termed, being the most important.”

He stood motionless in the humid darkness, all senses alert. He was aware of the faint breeze, now at last turning cool, as twilight became night, drying the perspiration on the nape of his neck. He was aware of various smells, some sharp and close, others farther away: crushed grass, roasting pork, diesel, salt water, cigar smoke. His mind tuned in the fragments of sound that enveloped him: the blatt of a boat horn, distant laughter, thumping bachata from a discotheque, angry acceleration of a motorcycle, screech of brakes. Most of all, he was aware of the light: at night, it seemed rare, precious — more real. You didn’t notice light during the day; you were immersed in it; you put on your sunglasses and ignored it. But at night it was different. Darkness was like the setting of a gemstone, and the qualities of light were as numerous as its colors: soft, low, intense, gauzy, tremulous. The sodium streetlamps; the high-rise stacks of light that were the hotels; the yachts whose mooring lights gleamed out of the velvety darkness of the creek. He was most comfortable in the dark, because he could become safe, invisible, and unnoticed. This anonymity was a cloak that deserted him in the day, and he had to guard against the resulting exposure. He had learned this long ago, through painful experience and through the Lessons. It was the dark, and the nonexistence it conferred, that made it possible to do his sacred duty — to complete the Action that was as necessary to him as breathing. Action ... this moment of being a nobody wrapped in the night was the best time, when he could forget the shame and regret and be in the moment, his senses heightened without fear. While preparation was meticulous, the Action itself could never truly be predicted. Always there were variations, surprises. It was like poetry in that way; you never knew where a great poem would lead. It was like a battle in which the outcome was obscured in fog and smoke — the “poem as a field of action,” as William Carlos Williams wrote.