Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

“In a moment,” Pickett said. “I’d like to ask you a hypothetical question.”

“My favorite kind.”

“As you know, you’re now off the case. But hypothetically: if I were to keep you on, what would your next move be?”

Pendergast appeared to consider this. “I would look into the, ah, client list of Miss Carpenter. She seems to have been a freelance escort of the most enterprising caliber — I’m sure such a clever woman would have learned all kinds of secrets during her career.”

“The Miami PD is already doing that — and you know it.”

A brief pause. “Then I’d continue looking for commonalities among the three murdered women. All were killed at night, in high-traffic areas. Why would the killer take such chances? The care taken in the killings and the methodical nature of the graveside gifts would seem to place the killer at the far end of the organized-killer bell curve. That seems like fruitful ground for — what is the term? — traction.”

Pickett stirred impatiently. “Goddamn it, Pendergast. I’m not a fool, so stop treating me like one. Those are all obvious lines of inquiry. I don’t want to hear bullshit. I want to hear what you would look into — if you were given the chance.”

The next pause was much longer. Then Pendergast took off his dark glasses, folded them, and slipped them into the pocket of his jacket. Now it was his pale eyes that reflected the pool. “Very well,” he said. “It has always been my conviction that the old suicides, and the new murders, are fundamentally connected — beyond the obvious leaving of the gifts. Possibly even historically connected. The killer, despite his youth, may have a personal connection with these past suicides. At least one of which, we now know, has turned out to be a homicide. For these reasons I would put my main effort into investigating those earlier deaths. That’s how you’re most likely to track down this person — or persons.”

Pickett frowned. “But the old suicides appear to have nothing in common, either — except that they were all from Miami.”

“I repeat: Elise Baxter did not kill herself. She was murdered. A much closer look at the other two presumed suicides is in order.”

Pickett sighed in exasperation. “That’s assuming this assistant M.E. is correct — remember, the chief examiner was only partially involved in the autopsy.”

“I have every reason to think she was correct. Further, I suspect that Flayley and Adler were also homicides.”

“Flayley was just exhumed and autopsied, at your insistence — and the assistant M.E., whose opinion you seem so partial to, declared her death a suicide!”

“I’m aware of that. There is some kind of a slowdown in getting the autopsy records on Mary Adler, which, when available, might offer corroborating evidence. But I’m sure we’re not here just to bandy words: you asked me what aspect of the case I would ‘look into,’ and I answered the question.” Pendergast took another sip of his espresso. “So much for hypotheticals. What’s more, this is fruitless speculation, as I am on my way to the Beehive State. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to peruse my transfer orders.”

Pickett sat quite still for perhaps sixty seconds. Then, slowly, he reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope. Pendergast reached for it.

Grasping the envelope with both hands, Pickett tore it in two. Then he replaced the pieces in his jacket pocket.

“You have my permission to proceed along the lines you’ve just outlined,” he said.

Pendergast’s only reaction was the slight raising of one eyebrow. Sitting back, he withdrew his hand.

“Now I’d like you to listen to me very carefully, Special Agent Pendergast,” Pickett said, clasping his hands. “I’ve gotten where I am because I believe in the system and its rules. I also have a good understanding of the psychology of motivation and reward. But I’m not so blinded by ego as to believe I can’t still learn a thing or two. You’re an iconoclast — and you enjoy being one. Your method of operating violates just about every principle I hold true, save for one — and that is arithmetic. You get results. Like pursuing this Baxter autopsy, when everyone thought it was a dead end.”

Instead of responding, Pendergast simply finished his espresso.

“But getting results doesn’t change the fact that your methods are unusual. With unconventional methods, there’s no backstop against failure. What I mean is, those of us who follow the rules can feel secure even if we screw up. But if you break the rules, failure is magnified. And so here’s what’s going to happen. You and Coldmoon are going to stay here and finish this case — and do it your way. Naturally, I want to be kept informed of important advances. If you need help, let me know. Otherwise, I don’t want to know about your going off piste. Keep things on the down low... and get results . I’ll give you space to work, in exchange for one thing: if this case goes down in flames because of your methods, you’re going to take the full rap. Not Coldmoon. Not me. And sure as hell not the New York Field Office. Make no mistake — I will hang you out to dry.” He paused. “Deal?”

Pendergast gave a curt nod.

Pickett went on. “Another thing. No flying solo. This is a massive, sprawling case and you’re going to need backup. You’ve met Commander Grove. He’s there to get you whatever you need from Miami PD. This is a police department with some of the best resources in the country. They can get you the files and case data, they can throw a hundred cops at any problem you want solved, they can do surveillance, they can knock on doors, they can interview everyone on an entire city block if need be. You don’t have to keep Grove in the loop, necessarily — but tell him what you need and he’ll get it done.”

“He seems a competent enough individual,” Pendergast said.

“He’s got a damn good reputation. And don’t discount him because of the administrative position — he did more than his share of working the streets back in the day.” There was a pause. “Are we clear, Agent Pendergast?”

“Completely, sir.”

“Just remember: if things go south, it’s on you — and you alone.”

“That is how I always prefer it,” said Pendergast.

Pickett held out a hand; Pendergast grasped it briefly; then Pickett rose, turned, and — navigating the perimeter of the shimmering blue pool — disappeared into the darkness of the rooftop bar.

Charlotte Fauchet lay in bed at four o’clock in the morning, staring at the faint red glow on the ceiling cast by her digital alarm clock. A nightmare had woken her at two — she had been dissecting a cadaver, and the knife kept slipping until at last the cadaver sat up and berated her for incompetence. She had lain awake ever since, uneasy about the Flayley autopsy.

This wasn’t like her — having nightmares, feeling uneasy. Thanks to that dirtbag of a boss Moberly, she’d developed a pretty thick skin. What Agent Pendergast — who seemed so nice — had done to the man was terrifying... yet perversely karmic. He seemed like the kind of avenging angel who would make an unshakable friend — or an implacable enemy.

Her mind wandered back to the dream. Clearly, the Baxter autopsy had shaken her confidence. She’d confirmed it was a homicide. But was she right? And what about Flayley — had she examined her hyoid bone thoroughly enough? As she reflected on that moment — the appearance of Moberly, the way he’d pushed her aside, his horrid slashing at the corpse’s neck — she realized it had rattled her and, perhaps, broken her concentration. When she finished up the examination of the hyoid bone, she was flustered and hadn’t given it her utmost attention. She might have missed something.