Now Beth had put the phone away and was in motion again. “Come on, Meg,” she yelled over her shoulder. “Jen-girl.”
Jenny resisted the impulse to shoot a glance at Megan. That wouldn’t be smart: Megan was Beth’s best friend, and had been for two years, since sophomore year at Macalester. Megan had even decided to follow a vaguely similar career path. Beth was hoping to get an advanced degree in communications, specializing in public engagement. Megan was talking about doing graduate work in sociology, with a primary interest in ethnic relations. Jenny herself had been considering some kind of medical research, but a semester of organic chem had cured her of that. Now she was drifting instead toward an MFA in ceramics.
She pushed her way through the crowd a little morosely. The yelling that surrounded her made her head ache—and the three drinks under her belt weren’t helping any.
They passed the Colony Hotel, its white-and-blue arc deco façade gleaming in the artificial light, and continued northward. Theirs, Jenny mused, was an unlikely threesome. She knew, though no one had said it to her face, that she was the odd one out. But she didn’t make friends easily, and she’d invested too much time in Beth and Meg to just toss the relationships aside. That was why, when the other two had been offered interviews at the U of Miami Graduate School—travel expenses paid—she’d tagged along for the weekend. Although she didn’t like to show it, money wasn’t a problem in her family, and she’d bought the ticket herself. It wasn’t that she was all that eager to see Miami Beach, really—it’s just that she didn’t want to spend a long weekend alone in her Kirk Hall single. And who knew? It might be fun. Maybe Beth wouldn’t be her usual bossy self. Maybe it would be a fun, stress-free getaway.
Yeah. Good luck with that.
They crossed the street and passed a number of restaurants, one after another after another, all with bikini-clad seductresses or leather-lunged barkers standing out front, doing their best to entice tourists in for a meal. Then, suddenly, Beth veered toward a set of metal double doors, outlined in black light, with a leather-clad bouncer standing nearby. She looked back at them excitedly.
“Here we go!” she said as the man checked her ID.
Megan began pushing her way through the crowd with evident enthusiasm, ID already out for inspection. “Come on, Jen-girl!” Beth cried, gesticulating wildly.
Jenny hated being called “Jen-girl.” But she gamely followed her friends into the club. She caught a brief glance of a spotlit sign above the doorway: ELECTRIC OCEAN.
Inside, it was incredibly dark, and the atmosphere vibrated with the pulsing beat of merengue records a DJ was spinning. As her eyes adjusted, Jenny could make out a large dance floor in the center, with booths along the left-hand wall and a bar along the right. She could see that Beth and Megan were already on the crowded dance floor. Jenny began walking toward them, then turned instead and made her way toward the bar. Although she’d caught a buzz already, she needed a little more courage if she was going to dance.
The bartender took her twenty, pushed a tall vodka-cran toward her, then laid five ones on the counter. Jenny leaned against the bar, sipping her drink, watching the vague forms of the dancers as the flickering lights brought them in and out of view. Already she’d lost sight of her friends in the gyrating crowd.
Almost before she knew it the bartender had taken her empty glass and replaced it with another. Damn, they really push the booze in this place. She fished out a second twenty and handed it to him. Something even louder than the music blasted one of her eardrums; she looked over to see a skinny, goateed guy in a post-punk outfit yelling at her.
She turned to him. “What?”
“I said, are you a parking ticket?” he yelled back.
“Parking ticket? What are you talking about?”
“Because you’ve got fine written all over you!” He laughed wildly, eyes wide. His limbs were moving about constantly, the martini in his hand sloshing, and even in this light she could see his pupils were mere pinpricks. And here I thought guys in the Twin Cities were lame. The last thing she wanted at the moment was to be picked up by a creep.
She downed her drink and pushed away from the bar. In the hazy middle distance, illuminated by brief, flickering pulses of light, she could see a staircase lined in blue neon. People were filing up and down in a steady stream. The creep started yelling at her again, and to get away she forced her way over to the staircase and began to climb. She found herself in front of a second dance floor, just as dark, but instead of salsa music the air was full of techno-house. She walked over to the dance floor and stood at its edge, wondering if she should join in and try to make eye contact with somebody. As she did, she realized she wasn’t feeling that well. The floor seemed to be swaying a little under the assault of a thousand feet—but then she realized she was the one that was swaying. Five drinks was way beyond her usual limit—and those last two had been strong as fuck.
All of a sudden, she realized she had to get out. The suffocating blackness; the press of sweaty bodies; the inescapable pulse of lasers and throbbing electronic beats and wild screams—it was all too much. Panicky now despite all the booze, she forced her way out of the scrum and down the stairs—she might have fallen had there not been so many people descending ahead of her—and staggered toward the double doors that led to Ocean Drive.
Even the sidewalk crowds seemed a relief after the club. She walked a few feet, then leaned against the façade of the building, taking deep breaths. The panic was passing.
At that moment, two shapes came dashing up. Squinting against the bright neon, she made out her friends.
“Thought that was you I saw running by,” said Beth. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Jenny said. “Sorry. You want to go back?”
“Naw, there’s just a bunch of fuck-boys in there. Hey, listen: I heard about a club that’s really lit. It’s not far, just a block or two.”
Jenny took a deep breath. “You know what? You two go ahead. I think I’m going to catch an Uber back to the condo.”
Beth looked crestfallen. “Don’t crap out on us now, Jen-girl.”
“Really, I’m kind of wiped. Go ahead, have fun. I’ll see you later.” She reached for her phone.
But Beth was too quick: she already had hers out and was pulling up the Uber app. “It’ll take fifteen minutes, maybe double that, to reach you in this traffic. You’ve got time to at least check this other place out.” And without waiting for a reply, she finished scheduling the pickup and then began making her way up Ocean Drive, shoving her phone back into her fake Dolce & Gabbana bag as she did so.
Automatically, Jenny started to follow. But as quickly as the panic had gone away, something else started rising to take its place: the sick feeling she’d noticed earlier. It was coming back, big time. Damn, she thought: it was that fifth vodka-cran. Chugging it had been a mistake.
She stopped again, looking around at the infinitude of glittering lights. They blurred; came into focus; blurred again.
“Guys,” she said. “I’m really not feeling well. I think I’m gonna vom.”
But Beth and Megan were walking on, unable to hear her over the noise.
Jenny looked around quickly. The world was tilting in a sickening way, and her stomach was feeling worse by the second. She couldn’t just toss up a sidewalk pizza here, in front of a million people…but she felt a saliva faucet, which could only mean one thing, start up at the back of her throat.
There: just one building down was one of those service alleys that poked out in random spots along the boulevard. Without another thought she raced for it. As she ran into the sudden, narrow darkness, past foul-smelling dumpsters and doorways that opened onto greasy kitchens, the light and noise receded until she could actually hear her own feet on the bricks. There was only blackness before her, and—far away, it seemed—the glow of light from Ocean Court and, still farther, Collins Avenue. Amazing how things could change from being so overcrowded to so empty in just a few se
conds.
Suddenly, nature would let her go no farther. She leaned toward the closest wall, steadied herself with one hand, and let the scallop shu-mai, crispy duck, and black rice dumplings exit her stomach and return once again to the outside world. It went on and on, until nothing was left but dry heaves.
Slowly, the awful sensation of nausea passed. Jenny was still buzzed—and her sides had started to ache—but at least she felt human again. She took a deep, cleansing breath. It was almost cozy here in the dark; she felt a strange affection for the temporary privacy it had afforded. But Beth would probably have an APB out for her by now. A light breeze rustled the scraps of litter behind her as she turned back toward the boulevard. She’d call off the Uber and show her friends that she could party like—
And it was then that the rustling grew suddenly louder—louder than any breeze; a hand clamped down hard over her mouth; a strange sensation ran quickly across her neck; and then her throat abruptly filled with warm, gushing, choking blood.
11
IT WAS ALMOST four thirty when Pendergast returned to the lobby. He didn’t say exactly what he’d been doing in Elise Baxter’s room, and Coldmoon didn’t ask, although he noticed the man still had his parka on, zipped up tight; given the hothouse air of the hotel, perhaps he’d been undergoing his own version of a sweat lodge.
At the sound of activity, Young, the manager, waddled out of the back office, made sure there was nothing else they needed, again expressed regret that he couldn’t put them up, and gave them directions to Millinocket.
They stepped out into the bitter cold and got into the rented car, Coldmoon once again behind the wheel. Following Young’s directions and the car’s GPS, they began driving southeast over increasingly remote and poorly plowed roads. Now and then they passed a farm or commercial building, half buried in snow. Already it was getting dark, but Coldmoon didn’t mind; the night couldn’t be any bleaker than the day.
Ahead he saw a yellow-and-red sign peeking out from above the trees: the SaveMart that Sergeant Waintree had mentioned. A lower piece of the sign was missing, apparently blown away by a shotgun, exposing the fluorescent bulbs within.
“We’d better stop,” Coldmoon said.
Pendergast, who had been perusing the suicide photographs, glanced up. “Pardon?”
“We should pick up some food. Waintree warned us there might not be any restaurants open this time of year.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.” And Pendergast put the photos to one side and followed Coldmoon out of the car.
They were the only two customers in the dingy little market, which was about to close. Pendergast seemed strangely at a loss in the place: in the tiny produce area, he picked up a head of lettuce, turned it this way and that, put it back; he wandered up one aisle and down another, finally stopping at the herbal tea shelf.
He picked up a box with two fingers. “Coconut chamomile passion fruit?”
“Don’t look at me.” Coldmoon quickly made his own choices: a tin of sardines, a protein bar, ramen noodles, four packs of Twinkies, and a bag of the cheapest ground coffee he could find. Then he moved to the checkout. Pendergast followed a minute later, empty-handed.
When they got back in the car, Pendergast pulled the photos from the police folder again. The agent seemed to be lingering over one shot in particular: a full-frame view of the woman hanging from the curtain rod, the top of one ankle resting on the edge of the tub, head askew, tangled hair not quite able to mask the bulging eyes.
“What about it?” Coldmoon asked.
It took Pendergast a moment to reply. “I was just thinking.”
“About?”
“What you said to Pickett yesterday—that it seemed unlikely Ms. Montera and Elise Baxter were both randomly chosen.”
“Doesn’t it seem that way to you? That one of them must have been chosen deliberately?”
“Indeed.” Pendergast put the photo aside. “I agree the likelihood of both women being randomly selected is practically nil. But there is a third possibility.”
Coldmoon thought a moment. “You mean that both women, not just one, were deliberately chosen.”
“Yes. And if that’s the case, I fear it makes our task either much easier—or much harder.”
Already, Coldmoon was growing used to Pendergast’s Buddha-like pronouncements. As of yet, there was zero sign that Baxter’s death had been anything but a suicide, or that—to be honest—there was any real connection between the deaths at all. He gave a neutral grunt. He felt, more than saw, the agent glance at him a moment before turning his attention to the road.
There were a surprising number of cars parked in the lot that doglegged the Lowly Mackerel. When they went inside the lobby, the reason became apparent: in a blizzard the previous week, a fallen tree had taken out an electrical substation, leaving a few dozen homes without electricity. The families who had no relatives in the area had been forced to come here for accommodation. No, the owner said, there were no more rooms: he’d even opened up the second floor, which was usually mothballed for the winter.
Coldmoon watched while, in a feat of combined persuasion, threat, supplication, and bribery, Pendergast talked the owner out of his own room: 101, with two double beds, a color TV, and no Wi-Fi. “Guess I can always stay with my cousin Tom,” the man said as he pocketed a thick wad of folded bills. “You just wait in the lounge while I make up the beds and get my things stowed. Won’t be but a minute.”
The lounge was a sad-looking room with curling linoleum floors, a small kitchen, and a bumper pool table, currently unused. The manager went off to fix the room while Pendergast and Coldmoon approached one of the tables.
“Let’s divide the police material,” Pendergast said, tapping Waintree’s folder. “Then compare notes.”
“What’s there to compare? The autopsy and forensic reports total five pages. The interviews about the same. And the photos speak for themselves.”
“It is precisely because of the paucity of the report that we must think—to use a peculiar expression—‘outside the box.’ Reviewing the material from a fresh, even random, perspective may result in unsuspected discoveries.”
Resisting an urge to shake his head, Coldmoon gestured at the folder. “Have at it.”
Pendergast quickly sorted the papers into two small piles, then took a seat at the table, drew one pile toward him, and began silently leafing through it. Coldmoon meanwhile made a circuit of the room, inspecting the beat-up board games, shelves of paperback books, and other time-wasting detritus typically found in such a place. Going through the kitchen cabinets, he was happy to find a hot pot sitting on one of the shelves.
At that moment, the manager came in. “Room’s ready,” he said. “Want to take a look?”
“Sure,” said Coldmoon, scooping up a random paperback, the hot pot, and his share of the papers.
Pendergast didn’t look up from his reading. “I’ll follow later, thank you.”
The manager opened the door to 101 and Coldmoon walked in. It seemed clean enough—Coldmoon wasn’t particular—and the manager bid him good night. Dumping his satchel and windbreaker on the floor, Coldmoon gratefully slipped off his holster and service piece and dropped them on one of the beds. He plugged in the hot pot to make sure it worked. While he’d picked up ramen for dinner, that could wait—what he felt right now was seriously undercaffeinated. He filled the dinged-up pot with water, let it come to a boil, and threw in a couple handfuls of coffee grounds. Then he turned it down to a simmer, grabbed the papers and the Twinkies, and lay down on the empty bed, pushing off his boots with a sigh.
It was two hours and three packs of Twinkies later that a key sounded in the lock. Then Pendergast appeared in the doorway. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, then stopped again. He looked around the room—at the double beds with their stained coverlets; at the faded wallpaper, marked here and there with crayon; at the tiny bathroom with its single towel—then glanced at Coldmoon, who was lying on the bed
in his socks, paperback in his lap, a scattering of photocopies and Twinkie wrappers around him. Pendergast’s nostrils flared.
“There it is again,” he said.
“What?”
“That peculiar aroma. Something between a burnt cigarette filter and Drano.”
Coldmoon sniffed. It wasn’t his feet—at least, he didn’t think so. “You mean the coffee?”
“Coffee?”
Coldmoon nodded toward the hot pot. “Coffee. I made it when I got in.”
Pendergast looked over and waved his hand through the air as if to clear it. “Unfortunately, you’ve allowed it to boil, and now it’s ruined.”
“Well, that’s how I make it. I boil it for a couple of hours.” It was the way Coldmoon’s father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather had made coffee, and it was the only way he liked it. Growing up on Pine Ridge Reservation, there had always been a blue-flecked enamel pot of coffee simmering on the woodstove. As necessary, more grounds were thrown in and additional water added. The idea of filters or percolators was ridiculous. To his palate, a batch of coffee wasn’t really good until the grounds had been simmering at least a week.
Pendergast shuddered. He looked around once more, and as he did so a strange expression passed across his face almost too quickly for Coldmoon to register. Then the pale visage went neutral again. He unzipped his parka, hung it on the hanger screwed into the door, then sat down on the other bed, where Coldmoon had dropped his service piece. To Coldmoon’s vast surprise, Pendergast picked up the holster. Then, even more surprisingly, he pulled out the handgun.
“Browning Hi-Power,” he said as he hefted Coldmoon’s 9mm gun. “Nice balance. John Browning’s last design before his death, I believe. Not so different in functionality from my own Les Baer.” He fingered the cartridge disconnect, and the loaded magazine slid out into the palm of his left hand. “It appears to have seen a lot of action. A family heirloom, perhaps?”
Verses for the Dead Page 8
