Two Graves p-12

by Douglas Preston

  “So you are saying that the people in Nova Godói are responsible for the murders?” the colonel asked.

  “That is exactly what I’m saying.”

  “And your evidence?”

  Pendergast removed from the inside of his sports jacket several photographs from the crime scenes in New York. One by one, he laid them before the colonel, who perused them in silence.

  “Yes, these are the same as the local killings,” he said.

  “These killings occurred in New York. I have traced the killer to Nova Godói.”

  “But why New York?”

  “It is a long story, which I will be glad to tell you later. Now: do you need more evidence of what I say, or will this suffice?”

  “It is sufficient,” said the colonel, turning away from the pictures with disgust.

  “There are a few conditions. Two young men are hidden somewhere within the Nova Godói compound. They are twins. Neither is to be harmed—I’ll deal with them myself. I’ll provide you with sketches.”

  The colonel looked back at Pendergast, saying nothing.

  “There is one other. There will be a man in Nova Godói—a tall, powerfully built man with closely cropped snow-white hair. His name is Fischer. No one else is to touch him. He is mine and I will, again, deal with him.”

  A silence settled over the table.

  “Those are my only conditions,” Pendergast said. “Now—are you interested in hearing what I plan to do next?”

  For a moment, the colonel remained silent. Then a slow smile spread over his features. “I find that I am very much interested, Agent Pendergast,” he said.

  52

  THROUGH THE WINDOW OF THE LITTLE CABIN, CORRIE could see an early-morning frost glittering on the ground and rimming the twigs of the surrounding beech trees. A weak sun struggled through the checked curtains, and the woodstove, well stoked, radiated a welcome warmth. Jack bustled over it, oiling a griddle. A pan of sizzling bacon sat nearby.

  He glanced over. “Jack’s special blueberry pancakes, coming up.”

  “Let me help,” said Corrie, starting to get up.

  “No, no!” Jack turned, his apron already smeared. He was not, she had to admit, much of a cook. But then, neither was she.

  “I’m running the show, you just sit there.” Without asking, he grabbed the coffeepot and refilled her mug.

  “I don’t like doing nothing.”

  He smiled. “Get used to it.”

  Corrie sipped the coffee. She had arrived by the afternoon bus the day before, making sure no one followed her, and had walked from Frank’s Place all the way to the cabin. Her father had been ridiculously glad to see her. She had filled him in on the details of her investigation, and he was excited.

  “So is it really true Charlie doesn’t hustle the customers?” Corrie asked. While Charlie seemed convincing enough about other matters, she still found it hard to believe a car salesman could be scrupulously honest.

  “Not that I ever saw,” said Jack. “Old Ricco once had him into the office, left the door open, and was raking him over the coals for not getting with the program. Said it was ‘hurting morale.’ ” Jack laughed. “Can you believe it? Honesty hurting morale.”

  “So why do they keep him on if he won’t cooperate?”

  “Charlie can really sell ’em.” He ladled batter onto the griddle to the chorus of a friendly hiss.

  One thing was starting to dawn on Corrie. Her father’s problem wasn’t dishonesty, but the opposite: a sort of inflexible, priggish honesty that bordered on self-righteousness. She’d learned from him that he’d been let go from a previous job—selling stereo equipment—because he refused to go along with certain shady sales tactics. In that job, too, he’d threatened to go to the Better Business Bureau. And he hadn’t succeeded in selling insurance for similar reasons of punctiliousness.

  She watched him as he bustled about the stove. She couldn’t help wondering what she would have done in the same situation. Would she have gone along with the credit scam? Probably not, but she sure as hell wasn’t the type to go running to the law over something as small as jacking up interest rates by a point or two. The credit card companies, banks, and mortgage companies pulled that sort of shit a million times a day. She probably would’ve just quit the job.

  Once again, she wondered if she was really cut out for law enforcement. She simply didn’t have the instincts of someone who took satisfaction in punishing wrongdoers. How did Pendergast do it?

  Jack flipped the pancakes with a flourish. “Take a look at that.”

  They were indeed perfectly golden brown, the tiny wild blueberries leaking a delicious-looking purple stain. Maybe he was going to pull it off, after all.

  “Real maple syrup to go with it,” Jack said, lifting up the bottle. “So Charlie’s got an actor friend who’s going in there wearing a wire. I love it. I should’ve thought of that.”

  “It won’t be admissible as evidence.”

  “Maybe not. But all they have to do is start poking around and asking questions, and the whole crappy business will come out. It’s a good idea—really good.”

  Corrie’s cell phone rang. She took it out. “That’s Charlie now.” She answered, putting the phone on speaker.

  “Corrie,” said Charlie breathlessly. “You won’t believe this. It’s unbelievable. We’ve nailed them. We don’t need my friend after all. I’ve got the smoking gun—proof that they framed your father.”

  “What? How?”

  “Yesterday, after you left, Ricco and the boys had a sales meeting. I was excluded. After the meeting, they all went over to the Blue Goose Saloon—to talk about the break-in, probably—leaving me to cover the showroom myself for the last hour of the day.”

  “And?”

  “Old Ricco had gotten something out of his safe for the meeting and didn’t shut it properly. Left it open just a crack. So I went in there—I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity—and inside I found an envelope of cash, something like ten grand, with a note on it to a guy named Lenny Otero. Attached was a report from this guy Otero, all written in longhand, which detailed his expenses and fees for a certain ‘project’ he had recently completed.”

  “What project?”

  “Framing Jack Swanson for bank robbery.”

  “It said that?” Corrie couldn’t believe it.

  “Son of a gun!” said Jack, leaping from his chair and smacking his fist in his palm.

  “Who’s that, your dad?” said Foote.

  “Yeah. I’ve got the phone on speaker.”

  “Good. Anyway, it doesn’t just come out and say it like that—not in so many words, of course. The report is written in a kind of oblique way, not naming names or anything, but when you read the whole note it’s as clear as day. Otero even asks Ricco at the end to burn the report. This is a smoking gun—no mistake about it.”

  “That’s fantastic!” Jack said. “What did you do with it?”

  “I had to leave it in there—but I photographed it with my cell camera. I’ve got the pictures right in my pocket. So listen, here’s what we need to do. We’ve got to go straight to the police, give them the pictures, and get them to raid that safe ASAP—I mean ASAP. The dealership opens at ten, that’s in three hours. We’ll just have to hope Ricco doesn’t come in early today. Corrie, you and I have to take this to the cops right now, this morning, so they can get a warrant and search that safe. We know it’s in the safe at least until ten o’clock. But if we wait much beyond that, God only knows, by eleven Ricco might have made the payment and burned the note and the safe will be empty.”

  “I understand,” said Corrie. Jack was crowding her, his face tense.

  “Listen, Corrie. I’ll come get you. We have to go together—two of Ricco’s employees will be better than one.”

  “Yes, but…” She thought fast.

  “Just tell him where we are,” said Jack. “You can trust him.”

  She shook her head.

  “How far away
are you?” Foote asked.

  “A little over an hour by car, but—”

  “That far? Shit. Look, I know you don’t want to give away where your father’s hiding, but we can’t wait.”

  “All right. I’ll meet you. There’s a country store in Old Foundry, New Jersey, called Frank’s Place. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “How will you get there if you don’t have a car?”

  “Don’t worry about me, the cabin’s not too far. I’ll be there.”

  She hung up. Jack seized her and hugged her. “This is great!” he said. Then his expression changed suddenly as acrid smoke filled the small cabin. “Oh, no. I’ve burned the pancakes!”

  53

  THE DOCKS OF ALSDORF, SUCH AS THEY WERE, LAY ALONGSIDE the Rio Itajaí-Açu, a broad, brown, odorous river flowing out of the deep forested interior of the southernmost provinces of Brazil. The docks were a busy area, thronging with fishermen unloading their catches in great wooden wheelbarrows, fish dealers shouting and waving wads of money, ice mongers trundling blocks, whores, drunks, and peddlers pushing food carts loaded with soft pretzels, knockwurst, sauerbraten, and—even more strangely—kebabs of tandoori chicken.

  Amid these multitudes an odd figure made his way—a stooped man dressed all in khaki, with a salt-and-pepper Van Dyke beard, hair clamped down under a Tilley hat. He was carrying a backpack bristling with butterfly nets, bait-station setups, jars, traps, collecting heads, funnels, and other obscure lepidoptery equipment. The figure was trying to get down to the landing quays, pushing through the heedless crowds, his shrill, querulous voice protesting in broken Portuguese as he shoved his way toward a shack at the far end of the floating quay, which sported a hand-painted sign reading ALUGUEL DE BARCOS.

  Belmiro Passos, a skinny man in a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, occupied the shack, eating a large soft pretzel and watching the figure approach. Behind Passos were boats—mostly battered Carolina skiffs with decrepit Yamaha engines—which he would rent to anyone for almost any purpose, legal or otherwise. His customers were primarily travelers going up- or downriver, visiting hard-to-reach villages, or fishermen whose own boats were out of order. Occasionally, Belmiro would rent to the rare adventure tourist, naturalist, or sport fisherman. As he watched the figure draw near, he immediately pegged him as a naturalist, and not only that but a butterfly collector, of which there were not a few who came to Santa Catarina State because of its varied and exotic butterfly population.

  The agitated man finally broke free of the throngs of fishermen and came huffing over. Belmiro greeted him with a broad smile.

  “Yo… eu… quero alugar um barco! Alugar um barco!” the man shouted, stammering over the words and mixing Spanish with Portuguese to create almost a new language.

  “We speak English,” said Belmiro quietly.

  “Thank God!” The man shucked off his pack and leaned against it, panting. “My goodness, it’s hot. I want to rent a boat.”

  “Very well,” said Belmiro. “For how long?”

  “Four days, maybe six. And I need a guide. I’m a lepidopterist.”

  “Lepidopterist?”

  “I collect and study butterflies.”

  “Ah, butterflies! And where you go?”

  “Nova Godói.”

  At this Belmiro paused. “That is very long way up the Rio Itajaí do Sul, deep in the araucaria forest. It is a dangerous journey. And Nova Godói is private. No one go there. No trespass.”

  “I won’t bother anybody! And I know how to deal with people like that.” The man rubbed his fingers together to indicate money.

  “But why Nova Godói? Why not go to Serra Geral National Park, which has many more rare butterflies?”

  “Because the Nova Godói crater is where the last Queen Beatrice butterfly was sighted in 1932. They say it’s extinct. I say it isn’t, and I’m going to prove it!”

  Belmiro gazed at the man. Fanaticism shone in his watery eyes. This could be quite profitable if handled correctly, even though he would probably lose a boat and perhaps even become involved in an unpleasant investigation.

  “Nova Godói. Very expensive.”

  “I have money!” the man said, removing a fat roll of bills. “But, like I said, I need a guide. I don’t know the river.”

  A slow nod. A guide to Nova Godói. Another problem. But not impossible. There were those who would do anything for money.

  “How about you?” the man asked. “Will you take me?”

  Belmiro shook his head. “I have a business to run, doutor.” He didn’t add that he also had a wife and children he’d like to see again. “But I find you a guide. And rent you a boat. I call now.”

  “I’ll wait right here,” said the man, fanning himself with his hat.

  Belmiro went into the back of his shack, made a call. It took a few minutes of persuasion, but the man in question was one of those whose greed knew no bounds.

  He came back out with a large smile. With what he planned to charge on this rental, he could buy two good used boats.

  “I found you a guide. His name is Michael Jackson Mendonça.” He paused, observing the man’s unbelieving scowl. “We have many Michael Jacksons in Brazil, many here who loved the singer. It is a common name.”

  “Whatever,” said the man. “But before I hire him, I’d like to meet this… ah, Michael Jackson.”

  “He come soon. He speak good English. Lived in New York. In the meantime, we finish our business. The cost of the boat is two hundred reals a day, doutor, with a two-thousand-real deposit, which I return when you bring boat back. That does not include Senhor Mendonça’s fee, of course.”

  The fanatical naturalist began counting out the bills without even batting an eye.

  54

  CORRIE SWANSON LEFT THE CABIN AND TOOK THE SHORTCUT over the ridgeline and down the switchback trail to the main road. She had left her father consumed with anxiety, pacing about, issuing a constant stream of unnecessary advice, warnings, and various if-this-then-that predictions. His whole future depended on her and Foote pulling this off—they both knew it.

  The woods were cold and barren, the bare branches of the trees knocking against each other in a rising wind. A storm was coming, portending rain or, perhaps, even sleet. She hoped to hell it would hold off until they could go to the police and get them to raid the dealership. She glanced at her watch. Eight o’clock. Two hours.

  The trail came out on Old Foundry Road, and she could just make out Frank’s Place about a mile down the road, with its dilapidated sign, the Budweiser Beer neon flickering fitfully. She began walking toward it quickly, along the shoulder of the road. As she drew closer, she could see through the windows the early-morning crowd already ensconced inside, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. She collected herself, then pushed in through the creaking door nonchalantly.

  “What can I do for you?” said Frank, straightening up and making a failing attempt to suck in his gut.

  “Coffee, please.”

  She took one of the small tables and checked her watch again. Eight fifteen. Foote would be here by eight thirty at the latest.

  Frank brought over the coffee with half-and-half and sugars. Three sugars and three half-and-halfs made the weak-ass coffee barely palatable. She gulped it down, shoved the mug out for a refill.

  “Looks like weather,” said Frank, refilling.

  “Yeah.”

  “How’re you and your dad getting on up there?”

  Corrie tore three more sugars open at once, dumped in the contents, followed by the half-and-half. “Good.” She kept her eyes on the plate-glass window that looked out across the parking area and gas pumps.

  “Hunting season starts in a few days,” said Frank, operating in friendly, advice-giving mode. “Lots of hunting up there around Long Pine. Don’t forget to wear orange.”

  “Right,” said Corrie.

  A car pulled in, moving a little fast, and stopped with a faint screech. An Escalade Hybrid with smoked windows—Foote
’s car. She got up abruptly, threw some bills on the table, and went out. Foote opened the muddy passenger door and she slipped into the fragrant leather interior. Foote was dressed in his usual suit, immaculate, but nevertheless looking tense. Even before she could shut the door he was moving, pulling onto Old Foundry Road with a screech of rubber.

  “I called the Allentown police,” he said, accelerating. “Explained everything. They were skeptical at first, but I managed to turn them around. They’re expecting us and are ready to get the ball rolling with a warrant if they like what I show them. Which they will.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’m just protecting myself. And I think your dad got a bum rap.”

  He accelerated further, checking a radar detector clamped to his visor. They were flying down the country road, trees flashing by on either side. He headed into a corner, driving expertly, the wheels whispering a complaint of rubber as they took the turn.

  “Oh, shit,” said Corrie. “You just missed the turn for Route Ninety-Four.”

  “Damn, so I did.” Foote slowed down and moved to the shoulder to pull a U-turn. He glanced over at her. “Hey, put on your seat belt.”

  Corrie reached around by the door to pull out the seat belt, fumbling for the latch, which had somehow slipped down in between the seats. As she did so, she felt a sudden movement behind her, turned partway, and felt a steel arm whip around her neck and a hand stuff a cloth into her face, choking her with the stench of chloroform.

  But she was ready.

  Hand tightening around a box cutter she’d kept hidden up her sleeve, she brought it up sharply, slicing deep into the meaty part of Foote’s palm and twisting as she did so. Foote roared in pain, dropping the cloth as he grasped at his injured hand. Corrie twisted all the way toward him and brought the blade of the box cutter up against his throat.

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  Foote did not reply. He was gripping his injured hand.

  “Just what kind of an idiot do you take me for?” she said, pressing the edge of the blade deeper into his throat. “Maybe you fooled my dad with your working-class-hero bullshit. But not me. I had you pegged from the beginning. The only honest salesman on the lot, my ass. It was all just too nice and neat and convenient. And that crap about an itemized bill in the safe, for frame-up services rendered? Shit.”