“Neither had I.”
As they climbed into the Rolls, Hayward turned to Pendergast. “That was exceptionally well done,” she said.
Pendergast turned, inclined his head. “Coming from you, I accept that as a very great compliment, Captain Hayward.”
52
FRANK HUDSON PAUSED IN THE SHADE OF A tree on the walkway in front of the Vital Records Building. The air-conditioning inside had been cranked to Siberian temperatures, and coming out into the unseasonable heat and humidity made him feel like an ice cube dropped into warm soup.
Setting down his briefcase, he pulled a handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his pin-striped suit and mopped his bald crown. Nothing like a Baton Rouge winter, he thought irritably. Stuffing the hankie back into his pocket, patting it in place to leave a rakish corner exposed, he squinted in the bright sunlight toward the parking lot and located his vintage Ford Falcon. Near it, a stout woman in plaid was getting out of a beaten-to-hell Nova, all in a huff, and he watched her slam the door once, twice, trying to get it to latch.
“Bastard,” he heard the woman mutter to the car, trying to slam the door again. “Son of a bitch.”
He mopped again, replaced the fedora on his head. He’d rest here a moment longer in the shade before getting into his car. The assignment Pendergast had given him had been a piece of cake. June Brodie, thirty-five. Secretary, married, no kids, a good looker. It was all there in the files. Husband a nurse-practitioner. She’d been trained as a nurse herself, but ended up working for Longitude. Fast-forward fourteen years. Longitude goes bankrupt, she loses her job, and a week after that she climbs into her Tahoe. Drives to Archer Bridge a few miles out of town. Disappears. The handwritten suicide note left in the car says, Can’t take it anymore. All my fault. Forgive me. They drag the river for a week, nothing. It’s a favorite spot for jumpers, the river is swift and deep, lots of bodies are never found. End of story.
It had taken Hudson only a few hours to pull the information together, go through the files. He was worried he hadn’t done enough to justify his five-hundred-dollar-a-day salary. Maybe he shouldn’t mention it only took him two hours.
The file was complete, right down to a photocopy of the suicide note; the FBI agent ought to be pleased with it. As far as the pay went, he’d play it by ear. This was too lucrative a connection to take chances by gaming the man or trying to squeeze out a few pennies more.
Hudson picked up the briefcase and stepped out of the shade into the baking parking lot.
With a final curse, Nancy Milligan slammed the car door and it stayed shut. She was sweating, exasperated, and mad: mad at the unusual heat, mad at the old clunker of a car, and particularly mad at her husband. Why did the blame fool make her run his errands instead of getting up off his fat ass and doing them himself? Why the city of Baton Rouge needed a copy of his birth certificate at his age… it made no sense.
She straightened up and was embarrassed to see a man standing across the parking lot, fedora pushed back on his head, mopping his brow, looking in her direction.
In that very moment his hat flew into the air and the entire side of his head went blurry, coalescing into a jet of dark fluid. At the same time a sharp crack! rolled through the spreading oaks. The man slowly toppled to the ground, straight as a tree, landing so heavily his body rolled like a log before coming to rest, arms wrapped around in a crazy self-hug. The hat hit the ground at the same time, rolling a few yards and then, with a wobble, coming to rest on its crown.
For a moment, the woman just stood beside her car, frozen. Then she took out her cell phone and dialed 911 with numb fingers. “A man,” she said, surprised by the calmness of her voice, “has just been shot in the parking lot of the Vital Records Building, Louisiana Avenue.”
In answer to a question she replied, “Yes, he is most certainly dead.”
53
THE PARKING LOT AND PART OF THE NEARBY street had been marked off with crime-scene tape. A crowd of reporters, news teams, and cameras seethed behind blue police barricades, along with a smattering of rubberneckers and disgruntled people who couldn’t get their cars out of the lot.
Hayward stood next to Pendergast behind the barriers, watching the investigators do their work. Pendergast had persuaded her, against her will, that they should remain civilians and not involve themselves in the investigation. Nor should they reveal that the PI had been working for them. Hayward reluctantly agreed: to admit their connection to Hudson would involve them in endless paperwork, interviews, and difficulties; it would hamper their work and expose them to press reports and public scrutiny. Bottom line, it would almost guarantee they would never find Vinnie’s attacker and this man’s killer—evidently the same person.
“I don’t get it,” Hayward said. “Why go after Hudson? Here we are, interviewing everyone, blundering about, stirring the pot—and all he was doing was pulling some public files on June Brodie.”
Pendergast squinted into the sun, his eyes narrowed, and said nothing.
Hayward tightened her lips and watched the forensic team do their work, crouching over the hot asphalt. They looked like crabs moving slowly over the bottom of the sea. So far they had done everything right. Meticulous, by the book, not a single misstep that she could identify. They were professionals. And perhaps that was no surprise; the very public assassination of a man in broad daylight in front of a government building was not an everyday event in Baton Rouge.
“Let us stroll over this way,” Pendergast murmured. She followed him as he slipped through the crowd, moving across the large lawn, circling the parking lot, heading toward the far corner of the Vital Records Building. They stopped before a cluster of yews, severely clipped into oblong shapes, like squashed bowling pins.
Hayward, suddenly suspicious, watched Pendergast approach the bushes.
“This is where the shooter fired from,” he said.
“How do you know?”
He pointed to the tilled ground around the yews, covered with raked bark chips. “He lay down here, and the marks of his bipod are there.”
Hayward peered without getting too close and, with some effort, finally made out the two almost invisible indents in the ground where the bark had been pushed aside.
“Pendergast, you’ve got an admirable imagination. How do you know he shot from over here in the first place? The police seem to think it came from another direction.” Most of the police activity had been focusing along the street.
“By the position of the fedora. The force of the round kicked the victim’s head to one side, but it was the rebound of the neck muscles that jerked the hat off.”
Hayward rolled her eyes. “That’s pretty thin.”
But Pendergast wasn’t listening. Once again he was moving across the lawn, this time more rapidly. Hayward took off, struggling to catch up.
He crossed the four hundred yards of open ground, closing in on the parking lot. Expertly slipping his way through the crowd, he came up to the barricades. Again his silver eyes, squinting against the bright sun, peered into the sea of parked cars. A small pair of binoculars made their appearance, and he looked around.
He slipped the binoculars back into his suit. “Excuse me—Officers?” He leaned over the barricade, trying to get the attention of two detectives conferring over a clipboard.
They studiously ignored him.
“Officers? Hello, excuse me.”
One of the detectives looked over with obvious reluctance. “Yes?”
“Come here, please.” Pendergast gestured with a white hand.
“Sir, we’re very busy here.”
“Please. It’s important. I have information.”
Hayward was surprised and irritated by Pendergast’s whining, which seemed almost calculated to provoke skepticism. She’d taken pains to curry favor with the local cops—the last thing she wanted was for Pendergast to queer that now.
The detective approached. “Did you see it happen?”
“No. But I se
e that.” Pendergast pointed into the parking lot.
“What?” The detective followed his pointing finger.
“That white Subaru. In the front right door, just below the window trim, is a bullet hole.”
The detective squinted, and then shuffled off, threaded his way among the cars to the Subaru. He bent over. A moment later his head shot back up. He shouted at the team and waved.
“George? George! Get the team over here. There’s a round in this door panel!”
The forensic team hustled to the car, while the detective came striding back to Pendergast, suddenly interested, his eyes narrowed. “How’d you see that?”
Pendergast smiled. “I have excellent eyesight.” He leaned in. “And if you’ll excuse the speculation of an ignorant bystander, I would say that—given the position of the bullet hole and the placement of the victim—it might be worth examining the shrubbery at the southeast corner of the building as a likely place from which the shot originated.”
The detective’s eyes flickered to the building and along the trajectory, immediately comprehending the geometry of the situation. “Right.” He waved two detectives over and spoke to them in a low voice.
Immediately Pendergast began moving away.
“Sir? Just a minute, sir.”
But Pendergast was already out of hearing, mingling with the general hubbub of the crowd. He drifted toward the building, Hayward in tow, keeping with the moving masses of people. But instead of heading toward their parked car, he turned and entered the Vital Records Building.
“That was an interesting exchange,” Hayward said.
“It seemed prudent to furnish them with any available assistance. We need every possible edge we can obtain in this case. However, I believe”—Pendergast continued as they approached the receptionist—“that our adversary might just have made his second false move.”
“Which is?”
Instead of answering, Pendergast turned to the clerk. “We’re interested in seeing your files on a June Brodie. They may still be out of the stacks—a gentleman, I believe, was looking at them earlier today.”
As the woman was retrieving the file from a sorting cart, Hayward turned to Pendergast. “Okay. I’ll bite this one time. What was the first false move?”
“Missing me at Penumbra and hitting Vincent instead.”
54
New York City
DR. JOHN FELDER STEPPED DOWN FROM THE witness stand at the involuntary-commitment hearing and took his seat. He avoided looking in the direction of Constance Greene, the accused; there was something profoundly unsettling about the steady gaze from those violet eyes. Felder had said what he had to say and what his professional belief was: that she was profoundly mentally ill and should be involuntarily committed. It was moot, because she was already charged with first-degree murder with bail denied, but it was still a necessary stage in the legal process. And, Felder had to admit, in this particular case it was an eminently valid determination. Because despite her self-possession, despite her high intelligence and apparent lucidity, Felder was now convinced she was deeply insane—unable to tell right from wrong.
There was some shuffling of papers and clearing of throats as the judge wrapped up the hearing. “I note for the record,” he intoned, “that the alleged mentally ill person has not availed herself of legal counsel.”
“That’s correct, Your Honor,” said Greene primly, hands folded on her prison-garb skirt.
“You have a right to speak at this proceeding,” the judge said. “Is there anything you wish to say?”
“Not at present, Your Honor.”
“You have heard the testimony of Dr. Felder, who says he believes you are a danger to yourself and to others and should be involuntarily committed to an institution for the mentally ill. Do you have any comment on that testimony?”
“I would not wish to dispute an expert.”
“Very well.” The judge handed a sheaf of papers to a court officer, and received another in return. “And now I have a question of my own.” He pulled his glasses down his nose and looked at her.
Felder was mildly surprised. He had attended dozens of involuntary-commitment hearings, but rarely, if ever, had a judge asked questions directly of the accused. Usually the judge concluded with a pontification of some kind, replete with moral urgings and pop-psychology observations.
“Ms. Greene, no one seems to be able to establish your identity or even verify your existence. The same is true of your baby. Despite a diligent search, there appears to be no evidence that you gave birth. The latter point is a problem for your trial judge. But I also face significant legal issues in committing you involuntarily without a Social Security number or evidence that you are an American citizen. In short, we do not know who you really are.”
He paused. Greene looked at him attentively, hands still folded.
“I wonder if you’re ready to tell this court the truth about your past,” the judge said in a stern but not unkindly tone. “Who you really are, and where you are from.”
“Your Honor, I’ve already told the truth,” said Constance.
“In this transcript you indicate that you were born on Water Street in the 1970s. But the record shows this cannot be true.”
“It isn’t true.”
Felder felt a certain weariness creep in. The judge should know better; this was fruitless, a waste of the court’s time. Felder had patients to attend to—paying patients.
“You say it right here, in this transcript I have in my hand.”
“I do not say it.”
The judge, exasperated, began to read from the transcript:
Question: When were you born?
Answer: I don’t recall.
Question: Well, of course you wouldn’t recall, but surely you know the date of your birth?
Answer: I’m afraid I don’t.
Question: It must have been, what, the late ’80s?
Answer: I believe it would have been more in the early ’70s.
The judge looked up. “Did you or did you not say these things?”
“I did.”
“Well, then. You claim to have been born in the early 1970s on Water Street. But the court’s research has proven this to be untrue beyond any doubt. And in any case you look far too young to have been born more than thirty years ago.”
Greene said nothing.
Felder started to rise. “Your Honor, may I interject?”
The judge turned to him. “Yes, Dr. Felder?”
“I’ve already thoroughly explored this line of questioning with the patient. With respect, Your Honor, I would remind the court that we are not dealing with a rational mind. I hope I won’t offend the court by saying that in my professional opinion, there will be no useful result from this line of questioning.”
The judge tapped the folder with his glasses. “Perhaps you’re right, Doctor. And am I to understand that the nominative next-of-kin, Aloysius Pendergast, defers to the court in this matter?”
“He declined any invitation to be heard, Your Honor.”
“Very well.” The judge gathered up another sheaf of papers, took a deep breath, and looked out over the small, empty courtroom. He put his glasses back in place and bent over the papers. “This court finds—” he began.
Constance Greene rose to her feet, her face suddenly flushed. For the first time, she looked like she was experiencing emotion; in fact, to Felder she looked almost angry. “On second thought, I believe I shall speak,” she said, her voice suddenly possessing an edge. “If I may, Your Honor?”
The judge sat back and folded his hands. “I will allow a statement.”
“I was indeed born on Water Street in the ’70s—the 1870s. You will find all you need to know in the city archives on Centre Street, and more in the New York Public Library. About me; about my sister, Mary, who was sent to the Five Points Mission and later killed by a mass murderer; about my brother, Joseph; about my parents, who died of tuberculosis—there’s a fair amo
unt of information there. I know, because I have seen the records myself.”
The silence stretched out in the court. Finally the judge said, “Thank you, Ms. Greene. You may be seated.”
She sat down.
The judge cleared his throat. “The court finds that Ms. Constance Greene, age unknown, address unknown, is of unsound mind and represents a clear and present danger to herself and others. Therefore, we order that Ms. Constance Greene be committed involuntarily to the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for appropriate observation and treatment. The term of this commitment shall be indefinite.”
He gave a tap with the gavel for emphasis. “Court dismissed.”
Felder rose, feeling oddly dispirited. He threw a glance toward the unknown woman, who had risen again and was now flanked by two muscular guards. Standing between them, she looked small and almost frail. The color had left her face, which was once again expressionless. She knew what had just occurred—she had to know—and yet she showed not the slightest hint of emotion.
Felder turned away and walked out of the courtroom.
55
Sulphur, Louisiana
THE RENTAL BUICK HUMMED ALONG THE diamond-cut concrete of Interstate 10. Hayward had set the cruise control at seventy-five miles an hour, despite Pendergast’s murmured observation that, at seventy-nine miles per hour, they would arrive in town five minutes earlier.
They had already logged two hundred miles on the Buick that day, and she had noted that Pendergast was becoming uncharacteristically irritable. He made no secret of his dislike of the Buick and had suggested more than once they switch to the Rolls-Royce—its windshield freshly repaired—but Hayward had refused to get into it. She couldn’t imagine conducting an effective investigation while tooling around in a Rolls, and she wondered why Pendergast would even consider using such a flamboyant car for work. Driving his wife’s vintage sports car had been bad enough; after twenty-four hours of that, Hayward had returned it to its garage and insisted on renting a much less exciting but infinitely more anonymous vehicle.
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