“I imagine that required mediation, as well.”
Perelman grinned. “Some laws are stupid. Some people are stupid. My job was to show people why peaceful coexistence was better than getting jammed up or thrown in jail.”
“A Zen master with a badge.”
“Sometimes I have to raise my voice, though.”
“And Sanibel ended up a good fit?”
“I hadn’t planned on coming down here. But one thing led to another. And to be honest—I was born to live in a place like this.”
They passed through the checkpoint and over the bridge, then pulled in at the command center set up in the Turner Beach parking lot. The beach was still off-limits, of course, but most of the heavy work had been done. Some leftover crime scene investigators were fussing here and there in the sand. Coast Guard boats were still patrolling out past the breakwater, keeping a small flotilla of pleasure craft away.
They got out of the car and Pendergast paused a moment, taking in the scene with his peculiar silver-blue eyes.
In the command tent were several Department of Sanitation workers and a few of Perelman’s officers, including a sergeant by the name of Cranfield. They were sitting around a folding table, drinking coffee. As Pendergast and Perelman entered, the group began to rise.
Perelman motioned for them to remain seated. “This is Agent Pendergast of the FBI. Some of you may have met him yesterday.” He turned to Cranfield. “Anything else horrible wash up?”
“Just one foot in the last eight hours.”
“How’s it going otherwise?”
“The usual hassles with traffic, rubberneckers, and the odd journalist.”
Perelman nodded. “Let’s keep our status at condition yellow, then. We’ll review it again in another twelve hours.” He turned to Pendergast. “Want to take that walk?”
They stepped out into the merciless sunshine, crossed the asphalt, then ducked under the yellow tape and onto the sand. Pendergast paused again. “A shame to see so much trash on such a lovely beach,” he said.
“You can’t clean an active crime scene. We haven’t been able to run the raking machines since all this started.”
“Well, it would seem all the important evidence has been taken away. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to have your men help us pick up some of this refuse?”
Pick up trash? Perelman, trying to keep a neutral look on his face, unhooked his radio. “Cranfield?”
“Yes, Chief?”
“Please send Dixon and Ramirez out. With trash bags.”
A brief pause. “Ten-four.”
A minute later, two of the sanitation workers emerged from the tent, carrying large black bags. The four started slowly down the beach, Pendergast still in his expensive shoes. Ramirez bent down to pick up a plastic plate.
“That one won’t be necessary,” Pendergast said. “I will do the trash picking, if you please.”
And so they proceeded in fits and starts, pausing every now and then for Pendergast to pick something up—a potato chip bag, plant debris, pieces of driftwood, a plastic drink cover—and drop it into one of the bags the two sanitation men were holding. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to his choices. This had to be the strangest “stroll” Perelman had ever taken.
“Do you have that map I requested?” Pendergast asked while examining a rubber gasket, which he tossed back onto the sand.
Perelman brought out a piece of paper and gave it to Pendergast. It was a map of the beach, hand-drawn, with red dots documenting where each foot had washed up before being placed above the high tide line, along with the estimated time of arrival. The agent had asked for it yesterday evening, just before leaving for the morgue.
Pendergast paused to examine it. “This is most excellent, thank you.”
“My patrol officer, Laroux, made it. He fancies himself quite the artist.”
Pendergast kept it in hand while continuing down the beach, but it did not seem to alter the randomness of his progress. They walked on, the agent stopping every now and then to look over an evidence flag or pick up a piece of trash, examine it, and put it in the bag or toss it back onto the sand. While he proceeded, he peppered Perelman with questions: Had anything like this ever happened before—not with human feet, of course, but a strange and concentrated gift from the sea? Would it be worth interviewing the local fishermen? Did a lot of trash and seaweed usually wash up, in addition to all the shells? How often did they have to rake the beach? Perelman did his best to answer.
They were now nearing the far end of the beach, and Pendergast stopped to point out a large, old house on the dunes beyond the crime scene tape. “What a charming example of shingle-style Victorian architecture.”
“The Mortlach House,” Perelman said.
“An almost ideal location—although, situated beyond the dunes as it is, the house does seem rather exposed.” He paused. “It’s a trifle out of place—at least, compared to the other buildings around. Who lives there?”
“Nobody. In fact, it’s scheduled to be torn down.”
“What a shame.” He picked up a plastic tag and dropped it into one of the now-bulging trash bags. Then he straightened up. “Shall we return? I think I have enough trash.”
“Fine with me.”
They turned around and headed back, Ramirez and Dixon lugging the two full bags.
“Chief Perelman, I must admit that I’m curious. What are your thoughts on the commander’s theory?”
“He’s an experienced seaman—logged ten thousand hours on the water as a captain, just like he said—and his abilities are without question.” That wasn’t quite an answer, and Perelman knew it. He hesitated a second, then decided Pendergast deserved his trust. Exactly why, he wasn’t sure. “He’s old-school, used to absolute command—obviously, that makes him a little proud and not always willing to listen. But I’ve worked with him before. I respect his experience: a lifetime on the sea. His idea that the feet originated in Cuba does, at least to me, seem quite possible. Cuba’s changing but, sad to say, there are still many dissidents in prison.”
Pendergast, walking beside the chief, nodded.
“On the other hand…well, we’re not dealing with the set, drift, and windage of a four-hundred-ton Coast Guard cutter here. We’re dealing with shoes floating in the water. I’m not sure that falls within anyone’s experience—even the commander’s.”
As he was speaking, Perelman noticed movement in his peripheral vision. A black town car had turned off Captiva Drive and then continued along the road that dead-ended in the beach parking lot, where it pulled over before the tape. He frowned. What fresh hell was this—yet another bureaucrat out for a photo op? He thought he’d already met with or spoken to every city manager, councilperson, and reservist brass in Lee County who could claim even a modicum of authority.
But then the rear door opened and he realized he was wrong. A woman stepped out into the shade of the palms. She wore a large, stylish sun hat and a pale dress of what looked like organdy, tailored to accentuate her slender figure. As she approached, moving out of the shade and into the sunshine, Perelman realized that she was not only very young—hardly twenty-three or twenty-four—but remarkably attractive. Perelman was a cinephile, and this woman’s thin, curved eyebrows and bobbed mahogany hair reminded him of Claudette Colbert. No—even stronger in the chief’s imagination was a resemblance to the legendarily beautiful Olive Thomas, the silent film starlet who died in 1920.
But then this vision from the past slipped gracefully beneath the crime scene tape, and Perelman’s spell was broken.
“Just a minute, there!” he cried. In the distance, he could see a couple of his officers trotting in the direction of the black car.
A faint pressure on his arm. “It’s all right,” Pendergast said. “She’s with me.”
But the young woman had stopped of her own accord, unwilling to bury her heels in the sand, and was apparently waiting for them. Perelman called off his men and then the small procession—
FBI agent, police chief, and two workers lugging heavy bags of trash—made its way through the sand toward her.
“Constance,” Pendergast said as they drew near, “this is Chief Perelman of the Sanibel Police Department. Chief, allow me to introduce my ward and assistant, Constance Greene.”
The young woman removed her sunglasses and regarded him with violet eyes. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The deep contralto, with its mid-Atlantic accent, once again caused Perelman to feel a strange tug from the distant past.
“I’m surprised to see you here, though pleased,” Pendergast told her. “What prompted you to leave Eden?”
“I believe it was encountering the tree of knowledge.”
“Even the charms of paradise can pale with time.”
“I finished À rebours. And it occurred to me—after the security chief finished explaining the finer points of handling his M60—that it was selfish of me to stay behind, wallowing in luxury, while you were presumably toiling away on this investigation. Whether or not I can lend assistance with that, at least I can lend you my company.”
“Most kind.”
“They told me you were staying at the Flamingo View Motel—” she pronounced the name as if it were some species of slug— “but when I arrived there, I assumed it was a misunderstanding and didn’t venture inside to inquire.”
“Not a misunderstanding, alas. I’m sure ADC Pickett had intended to book me into a more suitable place. I’ll sort things out shortly.”
“Don’t make any changes on my account. I understand that sleeping in hovels builds character.”
Pendergast turned back to Perelman, who had been following this exchange with curiosity. “Thank you for humoring me and my interest in trash. I enjoyed having a chance to talk. No doubt we’ll see you again soon.”
“Stop by in the evening, if you’re free. If I’m not tinkering with my boat, you’ll usually find me on my veranda, playing guitar, drinking tequila, and pretending to read poetry. Ms. Greene, it was a pleasure to meet you.” And with a nod to his workers, Perelman turned back toward the command tent.
“One moment, please!” he heard Pendergast call. The agent gestured at the two bags of garbage. “Allow me to take those off your hands.”
Perelman frowned. “What?”
“You were kind enough to drive me to the beach. These men were kind enough to carry the bags while I filled them with trash. The least I can do is spare you the trouble of disposing of them.”
“But why—?” Perelman stopped, realizing he wasn’t going to get a straight answer. He nodded to the two sanitation workers, who followed Pendergast and his ward back to the town car, where Pendergast directed the men to put the bags in the trunk. Then the workers returned to the chief and watched as the gleaming black car made a three-point turn and then took off south, over the bridge and toward the Flamingo View Motel.
9
ROGER SMITHBACK ASCENDED the outside steps leading to the dingy attic apartment, trying to be as quiet as possible and not wake the occupant of the first floor. The climb was more difficult than before: that fifth Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks had really done a number on his cerebellum.
He gained the landing and steadied himself a moment, breathing deeply and taking in the nocturnal landscape. Similar little Cape Cod–style houses spread out around him, lining the banks of a man-made canal. He could hear cars, singing, the faint crash of surf, and the endless drone of insects.
Opening the door, he turned on the light, then tacked across the room to an easy chair, which he flounced down into. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and quickly hunted for the photos he’d surreptitiously taken that evening. Thank God, there they were—and decently exposed. Smithback knew how to deploy the more unsavory arts of reportage, but the darkness of the bar had made him worry.
He let his phone hand sink to the floor, then closed his eyes. Immediately, the room began to spin. He opened his eyes again and glanced at his watch. Just after nine. Kraski would still be in his office; he never left the place if he could help it.
After being unceremoniously escorted from the crime scene, Smithback had returned to the mainland, where he’d picked up his Subaru, then driven back to Sanibel—an ordeal in itself—intending to book a motel room. But with the influx of press, they’d become scarce as hen’s teeth. Even the crappiest motels were showing NO VACANCY signs. In the end, he’d been forced to rent a “second-floor suite” from a private homeowner—a post office retiree—at an outrageous rate. The “suite” consisted of one room and a bath, as well as a landlord who would talk his ear off every time they ran into each other. Worse, it was in a frumpy section of Sanibel known as Gumbo Limbo—near the causeway and far from Turner Beach. The silver lining was that the “suite” came with a coveted A-class beach permit, marking him as a resident and, as such, free to wander…as long as he steered clear of that red-haired dickwad from the Coast Guard. Of course, residents couldn’t approach any closer to the crime scene than nonresidents, but at least his movements weren’t restricted and he could get through the checkpoints.
That still left the problem of obtaining more information. Kraski had practically soiled his linen over the photographs and story, praising Smithback effusively for getting the exclusive. Praise from the editor of the Herald was rare, and Smithback had eaten it up. But that was yesterday’s news. As good as it was, Kraski wanted more, and he had quickly reverted to his usual grumpy and demanding persona.
Unlike his deceased brother Bill, also a reporter, Roger Smithback preferred to keep a low profile when he worked. One of the skills he’d picked up while pounding the beat in Miami had been to quickly ID restaurants and bars—which ones were for tourists, which ones were for locals, which for cops, which for wiseguys, and so on. So he’d spent the evening hopping from one promising-looking bar on Periwinkle Way to another, drinking seltzer and keeping his ears open. And eventually, this strategy had led him to the Reef Bar and a certain Paul Rameau. Rameau was a friendly giant of a medical technician who’d seen enough over the past thirty-six hours to need to drown those sights in the flowing bowl: specifically, high-ABV dry-hopped craft beer. Smithback had managed to get a barstool next to him and they’d soon become, if not fast friends, at least drinking buddies.
Rameau, it seemed, had a capacity for beer that matched his enormous size. And so Smithback found it necessary, for reasons of comradeship and credibility, to switch from seltzer to scotch.
He shook his head, forced himself to sit up in the chair. Christ, he’d better call this in before he fell asleep. He took another quick look at the photos, then pulled up his contact list and pressed a button.
His phone was answered on the first ring. “Kraski.”
“Hey, boss.”
“Smithback. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. What you got for me?”
Just like a baby bird, beak wide, frantic with hunger. Already his coup of the previous day was ancient history. Smithback, who was interested in game theory, decided his best strategy was to play to Kraski’s impatience and string him along a bit.
“It’s rough out there,” he replied. “Really rough.”
“Yeah?”
“Something this unprecedented—well, there’s nothing in the playbook. The authorities are working on instinct. Starting with a complete shutdown on information.”
“Have you been drinking? You’re slurring your words.”
“In service of a lead, I assure you.”
“All right. Go on.”
Smithback didn’t respond. He was mentally adding up how many beers he’d bought Rameau and wondering whether he could expense them all or not.
“Roger?” Kraski asked. “You there?”
“Yes, boss.”
“So what you got?”
“The locals don’t know anything; I’ve asked around. But I’ve rented a room and I’m well positioned if anything should come up.”
“Now that you’re on the crime beat, you know you’
ve got to dig.”
“They’ve got this one squeezed up tighter than a duck’s ass.”
Silence over the line. Then a sigh of exasperation. “Smithback, I admire how you jumped into this case. But being my best investigative reporter means you have to bring me product—and, on a hot case like this, daily, not next week. You showed real initiative yesterday—so where’d that go today?”
Best investigative reporter. That was more like it. Smithback knew he’d gamed Kraski about as far as he could with this no-info sob story. “I was just getting to that. I’ve got product.”
“Yeah?” Instantly, annoyance was replaced with eagerness. “Like what?”
“Like the number of feet that washed up. The count’s broken one hundred—how’s that? And they’ve been in the water a long time, close to a month.”
“Holy shit. Where are they from?”
“Nobody knows. They’re doing DNA and all kinds of other tests.”
Smithback could hear the creak of the chair as Kraski rolled it up to his desk. “What else?”
“That’s more than anybody else has.” And I had to spend an entire evening getting a shell-shocked technician drunk just to get that. But he’d decided to hold back the really big scoop—or at least, what he hoped was going to turn into the big one.
“Okay.” Kraski knew better than to ask for Smithback’s source. “You’ll write it up and send it to me, pronto?”
“On it now.”
“That’s some good work, Roger. Keep it up.” And Kraski hung up.
Smithback sat back. It was good work.
But he’d done more. Much more. When Paul Rameau was at his drunkest and friendliest, Smithback had heartily suggested they exchange phone numbers. Rameau gave Smithback his number. Then Smithback suggested getting his contact info into Rameau’s phone by calling it from his own.
Which accomplished exactly what he hoped: Rameau took out his phone to check it and kept it out when Smithback gushed about how much he liked the OtterBox case. That led to Rameau talking about how, in his line of work, he dealt with a lot of disgusting and corrosive fluids, which made the rugged OtterBox ideal, especially since he had to use it for work almost every day.
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