Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

“That’s just fine,” the young woman said, leading them away from reception and down a long, unfurnished corridor. “Ms. Fleming will take the lead in asking the questions. She’s a great host, really nice, and with her experience in Philadelphia and Hartford we were lucky to get her. Your segment starts in ten minutes.” They passed a window; glancing in, Coldmoon saw two ghostly faces and a dark room full of monitors, mixers, and other video and sound equipment.

They paused in an intersection while Natalie took a second to inspect Pendergast more closely. “Hmmm. Well, we can’t do anything about the black suit, but otherwise I don’t see many issues. Let’s just run you past makeup, then we’ll get you wired up and do a sound check.”

Natalie ushered Coldmoon and Grove into what Coldmoon assumed must be the green room, then she took Pendergast farther down the hall, still speaking to him as reassuringly as if he were about to undergo an operation.

Coldmoon looked around the green room. There were couches, overstuffed chairs, a table with fruit and cheese platters, and a small glass-fronted refrigerator filled with bottles of water and diet soda. The only studio he’d ever been in was a radio station outside of Rapid City, and it had consisted of two rooms and a toilet. This place — with its whispered ventilation, high-tech equipment, and free food — was a revelation. He helped himself to a bottle of water and took a seat.

Grove sat down beside him. The normally phlegmatic commander had an eager air about him; Coldmoon almost expected the man to rub his hands together with glee. “This is perfect,” he said. “I was actually quite relieved when Pendergast called this morning to say he’d agreed to an interview with WSUN. Not only agreed, but suggested it. Its market penetration is the best in Miami-Dade, and the viewing demographics are ideal.”

“Nice that it could be arranged so quickly,” Coldmoon replied, cracking the top of the water bottle. “I understand you helped with that.”

“Carey and I are old friends.” Grove reached over and grabbed a slice of gouda from the table. “And this is the perfect opportunity to reassure the public. But I’m a little bit unclear as to what he’s planning to say. He implied it had something to do with what that reporter, Smithback, has been writing about.”

“Sorry,” Coldmoon said. “I just don’t know.”

“I’m sure your partner means well, but these newspaper reporters — they’ll twist anything to sell more copies.” Grove snagged another piece of cheese. “At least we can count on Carey to give things the right spin. She’s a class act, a real pro. And calming the waters a little will help folks sleep easier until we lock this guy up.”

There were footfalls in the hallway, and then Natalie reappeared with Pendergast still in tow. The agent did not look pleased. They had put some kind of orange foundation on his face — probably to keep his pallor from appearing truly corpse-like under the bright studio lights — but here, in normal lighting, he looked like a wax doll.

“Okay.” Natalie checked her watch. “Three minutes. Let’s go to Studio B and get you wired up.”

They started down another neutral hallway, Grove and Coldmoon bringing up the rear. Pendergast was still silent.

“A little case of nerves?” Grove asked him. “No, I guess not — working in New York, you must have conducted more than your share of press conferences. Anyway, Carey’s not going to throw you any hardballs. Everyone wants the same thing here — reassurance.”

Grove continued his sporadic coaching as they went through one set of double doors, down a short corridor, through another set of doors — and suddenly they were in Studio B: a large, warehouse-like space with cables snaking all over the concrete floor, people standing around the periphery, and a semicircle of three cameras facing a small set dressed to look like a living room, with a backdrop of the Miami Beach shoreline behind it. Coldmoon looked around in surprise. It was so fake — just partial walls and no ceiling, nothing but black drapes and cinder-block walls surrounding it, and a flooring of engineered wood that ended mere feet away from the set dressing — that he found it hard to believe any viewer would buy the illusion. There was a desk with silk flowers, some potted palms, and two plush director’s chairs placed on either side of a glass table. A woman sat in one of them, and Coldmoon recognized her as the person who’d buttonholed him on the way into Miami Police headquarters. A tiny army of cosmeticians and sound engineers surrounded her. A man holding a two-way radio stood back between the hooded cameras, gazing with a watchful air; Coldmoon figured he must be the producer, or director, or whatever. The woman in the chair appeared to be in a fussy mood, muttering at the people swarming around her and even slapping away the hand of one woman holding a touch-up brush. Meanwhile, Pendergast had been shown to his seat and was having a microphone threaded up beneath the back of his jacket and pinned to his lapel.

“One minute,” called a voice from the darkness behind the cameras. The lighting around the set, already bright, went up a notch. Several cameras on dollies adjusted their positions.

“You gentlemen please stand there,” Natalie said in a low voice to Coldmoon and Grove. “We go live in a minute.” She pointed her clipboard toward a sheltered spot that allowed views of both the set itself and monitors displaying live feeds.

“Thirty seconds!” came the disembodied voice. Now the sycophants vanished from the stage and the newswoman — her face suddenly lighting up with a brilliant, welcoming smile — turned to Pendergast. They engaged in some back-and-forth Coldmoon couldn’t make out. Then the producer pointed at them with an exaggerated gesture; the monitors stopped displaying advertisements and test patterns and focused on the set; and out of nowhere came a bit of calypso-based theme music.

“Welcome back to News 6 at Seven ,” the woman chirped, “Miami’s number one source for everything you need to know. I’m Carey Fleming. As I mentioned at the top of the show, we’re lucky enough to have as our next guest a highly decorated member of the FBI, Special Agent Aloy—” to Coldmoon’s amusement, she stumbled over Pendergast’s first name — “Pendergast. He’s the lead agent in the FBI’s investigation of the Mister Brokenhearts murders, and he’s here today to bring us the exclusive, latest developments in the case — as well as what we, the public, should know about this monster.”

Fleming turned her attention from the cue light to her guest, putting on a serious face. Two of the cameras swiveled obligingly in Pendergast’s direction. “Agent Pendergast, thank you and welcome.”

Pendergast nodded in return.

“I understand you’re based in New York. I hope you’re enjoying our beautiful city, despite your unfortunate reason for coming.”

“Miami is indeed a most delightful place.”

A gratified smile. “But perhaps it’s not your first visit. After all, I can tell from your accent that you’re not from, as we say, up north.”

“That is correct. I grew up in New Orleans.”

“How nice.” Fleming glanced at a small teleprompter set low into the wooden floor that, Coldmoon assumed, displayed notes for the interview. “What can you tell us about progress in the case? Especially since this third brutal killing.”

“Nothing,” Pendergast replied.

Coldmoon felt Grove stir restlessly in the darkness beside him.

If Fleming was surprised by this reply, she concealed it well. “Do you mean nothing new has been discovered since the killer’s letter appeared in the newspaper?”