Pendergast turned southward, then paused. To his left ran a narrow strip of shrubbery and sea oats, beyond which lay the beach; to his right stretched an unbroken procession of hotels, condominiums, and pleasure domes of various types, brilliant white against the cobalt sky. There was the faintest of breezes; the temperature was eighty degrees and the air pleasantly humid. A septuagenarian woman walked past wearing huge round sunglasses and a pink thong bathing suit, balancing carefully on Italian sandals with stiletto heels.
Pendergast gazed thoughtfully about for a few moments more. Then he straightened the knot of his necktie, shot his cuffs, and joined the scantily clad throng of pedestrians walking along the promenade. A leisurely half an hour’s stroll took him as far south as Twenty-Third Street, by which time the boardwalk had descended to a paved surface. Another few blocks, and the crowd of pedestrians thickened and milled about. The reason was obvious: a hundred yards ahead, the boardwalk was roped off by yellow crime scene tape.
Now the strip of shrubbery to his left had widened into a series of hedges and clipped topiary shrubs—each section maintained by a swanky hotel on the opposite side of the boardwalk. Beyond the elegant plantings ran a long berm. Turning down a narrow lane, Pendergast climbed the concrete steps to the top of the berm, his silvery eyes taking in everything. Here was another path, this one slender and sandy. Ahead and below stretched the beach itself, lined with rows of umbrellas and chaise longues, punctuated by the occasional lifeguard stand. Beyond lay the Atlantic, its brilliant cerulean turning a pale aquamarine as it neared the coastline.
He gazed seaward for a long moment, then he turned west, taking in the stunning display of wealth that made up this part of the island. Beyond he could make out Biscayne Bay and, still farther west, the spires of downtown Miami. It was now seven thirty, and the sun was preparing to dip below the horizon: something it had already done ninety minutes earlier, back in New York. Pink opalescent clouds gathered in the distance.
For a time Pendergast stood motionless, the light breeze riffling his hair. At last, he looked back down toward the section of shrubbery and boardwalk set off by yellow tape. A number of rubberneckers in the hotels opposite were doing the same. The murder had already hit the news feeds, but the police had managed to keep the stolen heart out of it.
Now, at the same leisurely pace, he descended the stairs again and approached the tape. Most of the cordoned area was made up of what appeared to be a chest-high hedge maze, meticulously pruned, set between the boardwalk and the sea berm. Pendergast stepped forward until the lower button of his suit jacket was just touching the tape. Clearly, the main event was over: the only people he could see within the cordon were a Crime Scene Unit worker—still wearing his mask and booties—and a police officer sitting on a nearby bench, evidently keeping the scene secure.
Pendergast had approached so quietly that the policeman remained unaware of his presence. It was only when he began to duck beneath the tape that the man looked over. The vacant expression on his face changed to one of annoyance, and he rose from the bench and began walking over, hiking up his pants and straightening the duty belt around his waist. He was in his late forties, with thinning chestnut hair, widely set eyes, and a florid face. Despite his relatively thin limbs, a noticeable paunch pushed against his shirt.
“Hey!” he said roughly. “You! Stop!”
Pendergast obliged—but not until he had slipped under the tape and straightened up once again.
The cop came up, frowning. Tiny blood vessels were sprinkled liberally over his cheeks. Below his shoulders were stitched the blue-and-gold patches of the Miami Beach PD. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is a restricted area. Get back behind the tape!”
“Excuse me, Officer,” Pendergast said in his most engaging voice, “but I believe my presence here is authorized.”
The cop looked him up and down. “What are you—an undertaker? They took the body away hours ago.”
“I am not, I fear, an undertaker, although you can be forgiven the misconception. I’m a special agent with the FBI.”
“FBI?” The cop’s wide-set eyes narrowed. “Let’s see your creds.”
“Certainly.” Pendergast reached into his suit pocket, removed a slim leather wallet, and raised it, letting it slip open. The top part contained his ID, with rank and photo; below was his shield.
The local cop scrutinized it carefully. Then he gazed back at Pendergast with less suspicion but increased animosity. “FBI,” he repeated. “I did hear something about you boys coming down. Something about liaising with us on this case.”
“That’s right,” Pendergast said. “How good of you to recall, Officer—” he glanced at the nameplate— “Officer Kleinwessel. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll just take a look for myself.”
But as he stepped forward, the cop put a hand on his chest to stop him. “You’re not going anywhere, pal.”
Pendergast did not like being touched. “I beg your pardon?”
“Like I said—I heard about you boys coming down. What I heard from my sergeant was the FBI would be here tomorrow. Not today. The paperwork hasn’t cleared our end. Unless you can produce a letter of authorization, I can’t let you onto this crime scene.”
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.
Dusk was gathering by the time he reached the far side of the hedge, where the lone CSU worker was packing up and preparing to leave. Pendergast showed him his FBI shield, and the man proved far more helpful than the officer had been. He pointed to an area beneath the hedge wall where numerous marker flags had been placed. The mulch was almost black here, and very damp—soaked with a great deal of blood. Pendergast knelt once again and pressed the ground lightly with his fingertips, noting its sponginess.
He removed a small penlight and shone it around. “What can you tell me about the killing?”
“It seems the initial attack was a knife wound across the neck,” the technician said, pulling down his mask. “She was dragged from the path into this isolated spot, her throat cut from behind with a very sharp knife, her chest chopped open with the edge of some large instrument—probably a hatchet—and her heart removed. The M.E. believes she was already unconscious at the time of excision—it was loss of blood that killed her. The body was rolled beneath the hedge—here—and mulch kicked loosely over it.”
“Blood spatter?”
“What you’d expect. Primarily projection spatter onto the underside of the hedge and in the surrounding mulch.”
“When was the proximate time of death?”
“Around four o’clock this morning, give or take.”
“And she was found by—?”
“A couple of newlyweds from Seattle. They chose that spot to fool around.” The man nodded toward a nearby bench.
“This was around ten thirty, I believe?”
“Ten fifteen, yes.”
From his kneeling position, Pendergast looked around. The hedge was thick, and at four in the morning on a moonless night the spot would be very dark indeed. The boardwalk and beach would be deserted, or nearly so. He glanced upward; the view of the nearby hotels was obscured by palm trees and ornamental bushes. Given the populous nature of the barrier island, it was a well-chosen location for a murder.
“May I have a moment?” he asked. “I’m not gowned up.”
“No worries, we’re all done here,” the CSU worker replied.
Pendergast searched the area carefully for fifteen minutes, occasionally employing his loupe, tweezers, flashlight, and cell phone camera. But it was as Kleinwessel had said—there was very little to see.
At last he stood. “Thank you for your patience.”
“Of course.” The man picked up his case and began walking toward the exit to the hedge maze.
Pendergast fell in beside him. “Is there anything else of note about the murder?”
“Nothing, except that we found a couple of bloody footprints leading away from the scene.”
“Footprints?” Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “That would seem worthy of note.”
“They were made by a pair of cheap men’s sandals, size large. Available in any store, easily disposed of. Can’t get more generic than that. Good luck tracing those—everyone wears them, day and night.”
“Everyone?”
“All the tourists, and probably half the residents.” They were approaching the crime scene tape. “This is the Florida coast, right? You plan to go sunbathing in those?” And he nodded toward Pendergast’s bespoke J
ohn Lobb shoes, the leather shining dully even in the dying light.
“I see your point.” Pendergast paused. “Day and night, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Ah.” And Pendergast stopped a moment to gaze off into the distance. “What quaint customs you have here, my friend.”
5
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, a white Nissan Altima pulled up in front of a house on Tigertail Avenue in the northeast section of Coconut Grove. It sat there idling at the curb for a minute while the driver fiddled with various knobs, buttons, and display screens. At last the engine died, the driver’s door opened, and Special Agent Pendergast emerged. He dusted himself off, gave the vehicle a baleful glance, then crossed onto the pavement and approached the house.
It was a well-maintained Mission-style dwelling of white stucco, perhaps fifty years old, and surrounded by the heavy “hammock” of trees the town was known for. Although it was located in a bustling residential neighborhood—Pendergast could hear the drone of lawn mowers and the chatter of children on their way to school—this particular house seemed to be asleep. He mounted the front steps, paused for a moment, then pressed the doorbell.
There was a sound of chimes within, and ten seconds later came the soft sound of approaching steps. The door opened and an elderly man appeared. He was almost as tall as Pendergast, dressed in a crisp polo shirt and Bermuda shorts. A thin covering of white hair was roughly combed across his sunburnt pate. He gazed at Pendergast in mute inquiry.
“Good morning,” Pendergast said. “Harold Baxter, I believe?”
“What can I do for you?”
“My name is Special Agent Pendergast, FBI.” He removed his shield and showed it to the man. “I’m very sorry to intrude on your privacy, but I wonder if I might have just a few minutes of your time.”
The man blinked. “The police were here yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes, I’m sure they were. I promise I won’t be here as long as they were.”
Verses for the Dead Page 3
