Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

“Commander Grove,” Pendergast said, “now that we have a clearer sense of what we’re looking for, I was hoping the research and external relations departments of the Miami PD — which I understand are your jurisdiction — could cast a net for us. Specifically, a search for deaths, declared as suicides, that match the MO of Baxter, Flayley, and Adler. It’s true we haven’t yet gotten confirmation on Adler, but I think it’s worth searching for additional suicides possibly tricked out to look like murder — don’t you?”

“I do — very good idea.” Grove began jotting notes in a small, leather-bound notebook.

“It will be a rather wide net, and I’m afraid your people will have a lot of work on their hands. You’ll need to search for suicides matching the following characteristics: female, aged twenty to forty, who resided in Greater Miami but died out of state, hung with a knotted bedsheet, and leaving no suicide note. If any autopsies resulted in a conclusion of murder, or even suspicion of it, include those as well. For the time being, to make the search more manageable, you might limit things to states east of the Mississippi.”

“Got it,” Grove said, still writing. “And the time interval?”

“January 2006 to January 2008.”

Coldmoon glanced at Pendergast. With such broad parameters, he figured they’d probably get a list as long as the phone book. Thank God they had Grove and his ability to marshal the data-gathering resources of the Miami PD.

Grove stood up. “If there’s nothing else, gentlemen, I’ll get right on it.”

“We’re greatly indebted to you for this assistance, Commander,” Pendergast said.

“Think nothing of it. Maybe you can give me a tour of Twenty-Six Federal Plaza next time I’m in New York.”

“It would be my pleasure.” And Pendergast turned away as Grove followed Lieutenant Sandoval out of the war room and down the corridor.

Smithback had just gotten into the newsroom and was settling into his cubicle for the morning when the pool secretary, Maurice, came up to him with a crate of mail.

“A bunch of letters for you,” he said.

“Can’t someone open them up and see what they are? I’ve got research to do.”

“We did open them up. Six are supposedly from Mister Brokenhearts himself. Mr. Kraski has those in his office and wants to see you tout de suite .”

Smithback groaned as he stood up and threaded his way through the cubicles to the editor’s office. Kraski was a big guy in a sweaty shirt and tie — no jacket — with a flat-top crew cut that had gone out of style in 1955. He looked like he’d studied the textbook on being a tough, foulmouthed newspaper editor. The only thing he lacked was the cigarette hanging off the lip. Underneath, of course, he was the sweetest guy in the world — a cliché right out of The Front Page .

“Where the hell have you been?” Kraski said by way of greeting.

“Hey, boss, it’s nine thirty. And that was quite a scoop I got yesterday, with the shrink story. I mean, two of the dead women had been seeing him! And the bastard tried to attack me when I asked him about it. I ran a background check and found the guy assaulted his wife during a divorce five years ago — he had to take anger management classes. That’s why they eased him out of his practice. I tell you, the man looks like a serial killer.”

“Maybe.” Kraski waved his hand. “Then how do you explain what’s right here on my desk: six letters to you from Mister Brokenhearts?”

“They’re bullshit, of course.”

“You think so? Take a look.” He pushed them over. Five of them were on cheap paper, with strange handwriting, one in crayon. The sixth letter was in an expensive, creamy envelope.

He pulled a letter out at random.

Hey Smithback, I’m Mister Brokenharts and I’m going to rip your fucken balls off and...

It went on in that vein, replete with misspellings and grammatical abominations. He pulled out another.

Dear Roger Smitback, I am Mister Brokenhearts I got two women hostate they are at 333 Ocean Way Drive Allmeda you better come now or I gong kill them...

He pushed that one aside as well and took up the creamy envelope. He slid out the letter and unfolded it. It was written in an elegant cursive hand, each letter carefully formed. Smithback began to read, a chill forming along his spine.

Dear Roger,

You, perhaps, understand. Their deaths cry out for justice. Hers most of all. Until she is at rest, I cannot rest. She was my reason for life, and why I must survive. Do you understand? I must atone. If you cannot help me do so, I will have to continue on my own — and this will not end well.

Yours truly,

“Jesus.” He looked up at Kraski. “This letter... it might be the real deal.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“We’ve got to bring this to the police — right?”

“Sure, sure. Thing is, we don’t really know it’s Brokenhearts. I mean, there’s five other letters here — and that’s just today’s mail. On top of this psycho shrink of yours.” He stabbed at the envelope with his finger. “This is your story. Get to work. As soon as your piece goes live — say, two hours from now? — we’ll turn all six over to the police.”

Smithback took the letter and envelope. “Okay.”

“Get a sample of that shrink’s handwriting. Maybe we can figure out whether it’s the same guy. But we need to fact-check the shit out of your piece, so be careful. Only sourced, on-the-record stuff. You have a tendency to opinionate. Don’t.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get your ass going.”

Smithback carried the letters back to his desk, shoved the crate with the others away with his foot, and got to work. The first thing he did was read the letter again, and he was struck by a phrase that stood out from the rest. She was my reason for life, and why I must survive. He googled it and found it was an altered quotation from the novel Atonement by British novelist Ian McEwan. Juicy. Very juicy. He’d have to put that in.

A letter from Brokenhearts, addressed to him personally. And a troubled shrink with not one but two links to the case. Game theorists speculated that evolution was a direct result of successful outcomes. If that was true, he was quickly evolving into a star homicide reporter.

He began to write, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Coldmoon looked around the room, hands on his hips, lips pursed. It felt like he’d stepped back in time, or perhaps fallen into the set of the movie Key Largo , with the ceiling fans, the potted palm in the corner, the big wicker chairs with the round backs, the beadboard walls, the jute rugs... and the stifling heat. In the middle of the huge room was an ornate Victorian table surrounded by chairs and littered with documents, files, and photographs — nary a computer. Behind it, the busy, faded wallpaper pattern on the rear wall was disturbed by two corkboards and a series of large maps. It was hard to believe an old, decaying place like this could still exist on the edge of Little Havana. The distant noise of rush-hour traffic on the Dolphin Expressway filtered through the windows. The fans turned slowly, stirring the dead air, and the late-afternoon sun came in through the louvered windows, striping one wall with bars of light.

Pendergast was seated in one of the wicker chairs in his white linen suit, his fingers tented, an evidence box on the table beside him. In another corner Coldmoon saw the cabdriver Axel lounging on a couch, cleaning his nails with a switchblade.

“Come in, Agent Coldmoon, and make yourself at home.”