Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

Pendergast paused. He recalled a certain level of grumbling in the FBI about Miami law enforcement. They seemed to have a collective chip on their shoulders when it came to the FBI, dating back to the tenure of an overly zealous SAC of the Miami Field Office. There had been one especially unpleasant contretemps a few years back in which the FBI attempted to cuff an MBPD bicycle officer and remove him from the scene of a crime. Now, it seemed, the favor was being returned.

Pendergast closed his shield but kept it in hand. “I have my orders,” he said, “and they state that my task is to examine the site of this homicide.”

“And I have my orders. And they say not to let anyone onto this crime scene until I hear differently from my sergeant. Now get back on the other side of that tape... sir .”

“Officer,” Pendergast said in a tone of infinite patience, “you have seen my credentials. You yourself acknowledge that the FBI will be assisting. I would be most obliged if you’d kindly step aside and allow me to investigate.”

“ Investigate? ” The cop laughed. “I guess you think you’re some kind of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Officer Kleinwessel, there is no reason to be insulting.”

“I’m just stating a fact. And that fact is, you and your deductions will just have to wait until tomorrow — that is, unless you have written authorization saying otherwise.”

Pendergast considered this. He had his orders from Pickett, of course — but they sat, along with tomorrow’s plane ticket, on his office desk, which he had not visited in several days. Now he leaned forward against the restraining hand.

“You mentioned Sherlock Holmes,” he said in a mellifluous drawl. “I never much cared for the fellow myself — he always seemed so needlessly melodramatic. But very well; if it’s Sherlock Holmes you want, then Holmes you shall have.” He paused a moment. “Officer Kleinwessel, I see no reason that we should not be friends. Do you?”

Kleinwessel’s response was to give Pendergast a small push toward the tape.

“And as your friend , I feel honor-bound to warn you that you are putting your career, your marriage — and possibly your life — in jeopardy.”

“I don’t know what kind of bullshit you’re talking. But I’ll only tell you once more. Move away from this crime scene or I’ll handcuff your ass.”

“I fear it is not bullshit at all. Since your retirement is approaching, and you no doubt wish to retain that meager pension you have coming, you might consider doing a better job of concealing your drinking habit. Although perhaps it’s academic — that Cuban Hound brand of rum you favor is not only high-proof, but rife with damaging aldehydes and esters. Unless you start abstaining immediately, it seems likely that cirrhosis of the liver will make your retirement one of short duration.”

He paused. Kleinwessel opened his mouth. “What the hell—?”

“Your wife must be a patient woman, having to endure your drinking all these years. If she knew you had a mistress as well — a rather down-market mistress in Opa-Locka, too — it would undoubtedly be the final straw. And so you see, Officer Kleinwessel, I do care about you. I’ve just explained how your job, marriage, and life are in jeopardy — hidden jeopardy, for the time being. Of course, it’s always possible that your indiscretions might come to light.” And with this, Pendergast replaced his ID wallet in his suit pocket — making a show of removing his cell phone at the same time.

The color had drained from the policeman’s face, leaving him deathly pale. He looked around, as if appealing for invisible aid. “How could you—” He almost choked. “How could you—” he spluttered, face aflame, unable to finish.

“Are you asking me, sir, how I have made my, as you called them, ‘deductions’?”

Pendergast waited in silence, but Officer Kleinwessel seemed unable to formulate a reply.

“Well then: I observe from the ring on your right little finger that you graduated from the police academy nineteen years ago — the date is graven for all to see — meaning that your twenty is almost up. Yet for all your time on the force, you wear neither insignia nor chevrons, meaning that you remain of low rank: the very fact you were assigned to guard an inactive crime scene speaks volumes. Hence the minimal pension. And while we’re on the subject of rings, I see you are not wearing your wedding ring. The pale band of skin around your ring finger, however, suggests it has recently been removed — and the callus on your knuckle implies that taking it off and putting it on again is a common procedure. As for the nature of your mistress, a mere glance at your clothing is sufficient. When the Opa-Locka neighborhood northwest of here was incorporated early in the twentieth century, its founders famously employed a Moorish architectural theme. As part of this theme, an exotic ground cover from the Middle East, known as Erodium glandiatum , was planted in the public areas. The seed of that Erodium species has a most characteristic appearance: long and thin, one end like a corkscrew and the other feathery, like the gills of a lobster. Opa-Locka happens to be this plant’s unique and only habitat in the United States — that, plus its odd-looking seed, has anchored the fact in my memory. You currently have at least two specimens of said seed clinging to your person: one behind your right knee, and another peeping from the cuff of your trousers. The former is fresh, the latter rather bedraggled — indicating that you have been in the vicinity of Opa-Locka at least twice in recent days, and probably more, while in uniform. Alas, Opa-Locka has not prospered over the years. If that were not enough to establish the social stratum of your paramour, then the very faint odor of cheap perfume — Night of Desire, if I’m not mistaken — wafting from your person would suffice.”

The cop had lowered his arms and retreated several steps, looking at Pendergast as if he had some kind of contagious disease. “How the fuck do you know all that?” he asked, his voice high.

“Elementary, my dear Kleinwessel.”

“I haven’t had a drink in ten years,” the man said in a whining tone. “You can’t prove that I have. What’s this shit about Cuban Hound rum?”

“There is no point lying to me, Officer. As I said, I’m trying to help. The protruding abdomen evident from the strained buttons of your shirt, taken with the overall gauntness of your physique, is indicative of advanced ascites. The phymatous rosacea evident on your face is also suggestive. As for the type of alcohol, not only is Cuban Hound the cheapest, most potent, and most readily available brand of spirits in the region, but its distinctive pint bottle is most convenient for carrying discreetly... and apart from the aroma, I note that the rear right pocket of your trousers has grown rather shiny in precisely that shape. Now, Officer, may I proceed with my work? Or—?” He raised his cell phone with a smile.

For a moment, the officer’s jaw worked futilely, the muscles of his face alternately clenching and relaxing. And then, without a word, he stepped aside.

“Much obliged,” Pendergast said. As he glided past, he paused to put a hand lightly on Kleinwessel’s shoulder. “I shall be sure to have a word with your sergeant, telling him how very useful you have been. Perhaps we can get you that chevron, after all.” Then he leaned in, as if to impart a secret. “By the way,” he said in a low tone, “poor Conan Doyle got it all wrong: Sherlock Holmes used the process of induction — not deduction.”

He then moved on unimpeded through the hedge maze, occasionally pausing here and there to kneel, take a loupe from his pocket, and examine something in the mulch that lined the path. At one point he removed a pair of tweezers from his suit jacket, plucked a tiny item from the undergrowth, and placed it in a small test tube.