Lam cleared his throat extravagantly. “Ahem. We start by turning the surface of the sea into millions of vectors and perform a fractal matrix analysis showing how each vector evolves over time—given various initial conditions of air and water temperature, wind, tides, waves, currents, solar gain, and other factors. It essentially draws a multidimensional Poincaré map of the ocean’s surface. We do our calculations using the Q machine supercomputer at Florida Atlantic University.” Lam tilted his head. “Am I making sense?”
Agent Pendergast tilted his own head back. “A Poincaré map? Is that all? Why on earth did you not consider a Ramanujan eleven-dimensional Matrix Attractor?”
Lam sat there, dumbfounded. “Um…what?”
“I think our guest is making a joke,” said Gladstone.
“Oh,” Lam said slowly. He was used, she realized, to having a monopoly on irony in the lab.
“No, I don’t have any questions,” said Pendergast, “for the simple reason that I have no idea what you were talking about.”
“But I tried to make it simple,” Lam said with a smirk, regaining his equilibrium.
“No matter.” The agent turned to Gladstone. “How well do your models actually work?”
Gladstone smiled. “So far, I’m sorry to say—total shit.”
The man winced and she saw, to her amusement, that the vulgarity had offended him. “But they will work, I’m sure of it. Let me show you the size of the problem. Wallace, could you please run the floater video?”
“Why not?” Lam came over to a terminal and began tapping. Soon an image of the eastern Gulf of Mexico and the coast of Florida came up.
“What Wallace is going to show you is an animated video of the track of every floater for which we have data, going back twenty years. There have been thousands.”
Black lines appeared on the chart, crawling every which way until a vast spiderweb covered the screen.
“You can see how crazy it looks.” She pointed to a great hairy bundle of lines coming up from the Caribbean, running along the coast of the Yucatán Peninsula, curling up into the gulf, looping back down the west coast of Florida, brushing the Keys, and streaming out into the Atlantic Ocean, leaving many eddies and swirls in the gulf itself.
“That’s the famous Loop Current,” she said. “But as you can see, even though many lines follow it, there are hundreds that don’t. It’s the ones that don’t—the exceptions—that I’m trying to fit into our mathematical model. Wallace is a genius and, as you’ve discovered, nobody understands his equations.”
“We’re making progress,” Lam said. “And I wouldn’t exactly term our recent results ‘shit.’ We’ve progressed to the ‘half-assed’ phase, at least.”
Gladstone laughed. “Another thing is that the results of our models go against a lot of traditional old-salt wisdom about the gulf, accumulated by generations of grizzled seafarers. A young woman like me and a Chinese American brainiac like Wallace—well, what could we possibly know? We’re not popular, to say the least. So…how can we help you, Agent Pendergast?”
“I wish to reverse engineer the journey these feet took to Captiva Island. Trace them to their origin. Can you do that?”
She had suspected this was where he was headed. “I can try.”
“And can you keep any data or information I share with you two completely confidential?”
“For extending the lease on my boat, I’ll sign an NDA in my own blood.”
“That won’t be necessary. Tell me what you need in order to do the analysis.”
“For starters, I’ll need all the data you have on where each foot washed up, and when—as precisely as possible. If there are any videos or photographs of the event, that would be great. Did anything else come ashore with them?”
“The usual flotsam and jetsam—seaweed, driftwood, and miscellaneous garbage.”
“Anyone collect it?”
“Yes.”
“Bring it to me.”
“There are two garbage bags full.”
“Wonderful. We love garbage that comes in from the sea. Every piece tells the tale of its travels.”
“Very good.”
She frowned. “Isn’t the Coast Guard also doing this sort of analysis? I sure as hell don’t want to get crosswise with them. They don’t like us as it is.”
Pendergast paused before answering. “I think it’s safe to assume that everyone involved should be doing this sort of analysis. It’s the most obvious investigative path. However, the Coast Guard—at least those assigned to this mission—are, as the expression goes, ‘old-school.’ They have the latest technology, but they prefer to rely on their own experience with the sea—including making use of fifty-year-old paper charts. It is my belief they are underestimating the complexity of the problem—perhaps by a vast margin. I know enough about meteorology to realize that Earth’s natural systems don’t always run in predictable patterns. As a result, I would prefer to work with somebody comfortable with cutting-edge tools and theories—and unlikely to discard possible results simply because they don’t follow received wisdom. In any case, your role will remain confidential.”
“Fair enough. So…what does the Coast Guard think?”
“That the feet came from a Cuban prison.”
“Sounds like a reasonable assumption to me.”
“The problem is that it is an assumption. Having made the assumption, they’re now trying to massage the data to prove it.”
“And you think that’s putting the cart before the horse?”
“It’s the cardinal error of any criminal investigation.”
She nodded. She was pretty sure this was going to end up a god-awful mess. She wasn’t at all sure she could pull off the analysis—Pendergast was right when he said it was a complex problem. But she couldn’t very well say no to the FBI, could she? And besides, there was something strangely magnetic—from an intellectual standpoint—about the pale man in the pale suit.
13
LOREN MAYFIELD, ESQ., was poring over the final pages of a particularly complex irrevocable trust when a knock sounded on the door of his inner office. He put the document down with relief and called, “Come in.”
The door opened and Evelyn, his secretary, stuck her head in. “That woman who called you this morning for an appointment is here, Mr. Mayfield.”
“Good. Please send her in.” Mayfield pushed the trust document aside and straightened his tie. The woman had refused to say what she wanted to see him about. As a lawyer, Mayfield liked a mystery. The more mysterious, the greater the potential for a sizable retainer.
When the woman was shown in, however, Mayfield temporarily forgot about money. She was young, extraordinarily beautiful, and wore a dress that, although prim and conservative, could not hide the contours of her body.
He stood up, his instincts as a lawyer immediately reasserting themselves. Down, boy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Loren Mayfield. Please have a seat.” He pointedly did not mention the fine weather they were having, or how well his visitor looked today, or any other ice-breaking small talk of that ilk.
“I’m Constance Greene. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“My pleasure.” Now that the initial surprise was wearing off, Mayfield realized that the woman’s clothing was not just prim but downright old-fashioned. Nobody wore ankle-length dresses on Sanibel; just slipping into a pair of flip-flops was considered formal. He wondered if perhaps she was Amish, or a member of some other antique Christian sect. He glanced out the window but saw no three-wheeled bicycle parked outside. No matter; he’d find out soon enough. He rested his elbows on his desk and interlaced his fingers, giving her his full attention. “How may I help you, Ms. Greene?”
“I’m here about the Mortlach House.”
“Ah.” Perhaps that explained the dress. Did she want to use the house for some kind of photo shoot, maybe? If so, she’d have to hurry up.
“I was told to direct any inquiries to you.”
Mayf
ield nodded. “I represent the current owner of the house, yes.”
“Excellent. We wish to rent it.”
“We?”
“My guardian and I.”
“For what purpose?” A fancy-dress ball? Mayfield wondered. Something kinky?
“To reside in, naturally. It seems ideally situated.”
At this, the lawyer had to chuckle. “I’m sorry, Ms. Greene, but I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“Why? Is there a problem with the house?”
“No. It’s been meticulously maintained.”
“Are others living there? Or perhaps it’s unfurnished, or requires cleaning?”
“In all cases, the answer is no. The Mortlach House cannot be rented because it is scheduled to be demolished in a matter of days.”
This information did not surprise the young woman. She smoothed down her dress with remarkable composure. “So I understand. But certainly some accommodation could be reached.”
Mayfield shook his head. “Ms. Greene, I wish you had walked in here five years ago.”
“Five years ago I would not have been in a position to rent that house.”
“No. What I mean is, five years ago an offer like yours would have seemed a gift from God. Now, however, I’m afraid it’s simply too late.”
Ms. Greene raised her eyebrows in mute inquiry. Lawyer though he was, Mayfield was tempted to forgo his natural reticence and mention a detail or two. Doing so would, at least, keep this attractive woman in his office a little longer and delay a return to the irrevocable trust.
“My client bought the Mortlach House not quite a decade ago, when it was somewhat the worse for wear,” he told her. “He lives up north—in the greater New York area—and thought it would make a good investment property, winter rentals and so forth. He replaced the roof and some rotted timbers, had it furnished and redecorated and repainted. But rentals turned out to be few and hard to come by.” He leaned forward. “You know small towns and their gossip.”
“I assume you’re referring to the murder.”
Mayfield sat back at once. “Yes. It took place in 2009. I don’t know all the details, beyond the fact that the owner was murdered—with an ax, apparently, judging by the, ah, evidence left behind—and the murderer never caught. Naturally, the disappearance of the body made the gossip, if anything, even more active than it normally would have been.” Mayfield pursed his lips. “The owner’s estate really should have included this information in the seller’s disclosure. Instead, they waited until things quieted down and then sold the property to somebody far away who didn’t know the history.”
“The buyer could have sued.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t get into details of that sort, especially since I did not represent him until after the sale was complete. Suffice it to say, my client believed a total restoration would take care of things. Unfortunately, that was not the case—again, thanks to these island folk and their gossip.”
“Your secretary mentioned to me that no matter how many times they repainted the walls, blood kept oozing out. And that the few people who stayed overnight reported tapping noises and once or twice the clanking of chains, echoing faintly in the small hours.”
He would have to talk to Evelyn about this. “Ridiculous, don’t you think? In any case, my client has patiently kept the house in perfect shape, but with this nonsense refusing to go away, and seasonal visitors always getting wind of the stories somehow, it’s become a money sink rather than an investment. Condominium developers have been interested in the parcel all along, and my client has determined the time has come to demolish the house and sell the land.” At a nice profit, he thought privately. “It is, quite simply, an albatross of a property.”
“But I’ve told you already. We would like to rent it.”
Mayfield shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid things have gone too far for that now.”
The office fell silent for a moment. Then Ms. Greene said: “It’s a shame to raze such a beautiful structure. I’m surprised the local historical society isn’t doing something about it.”
“Oh, they’ve done all they can. Held candlelight vigils, put together one fund-raiser after another. But my client was determined and had the zoning laws on his side, and they weren’t able to meet his price. Maybe if the murder had been solved, things would be different, but it’s still on the books, and so…” Mayfield spread his hands in a gesture of futility.
While he’d spoken, his visitor had been writing something. “To my mind, an unsolved murder is merely icing on the cake. If you can have the house aired and cleaned, we’ll move in tomorrow.”
“But, Ms. Greene, I’ve explained to you that—”
There was a low sound as the woman tore away a strip of paper, then handed it across the desk. Mayfield saw it was a check, from a private New York bank, made out to his firm in the amount of ten thousand dollars. The handwriting was old-fashioned and self-assured. On the memo line was written Week no. 1.
Week number one.
“May I assume, Mr. Mayfield, that amount will stave off the bulldozers and wrecking balls—at least temporarily?”
Mayfield looked from the check to her and back again. “I…” he began.
Ms. Greene seemed to take this as assent, because she rose from her chair. “Thank you so much for your consideration. We’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon for the key. May I suggest four o’clock?”
And when the lawyer made no reply, she smiled, inclined her head ever so faintly, then turned and exited the office.
14
AGENT PENDERGAST STEPPED into the room—part office, part laboratory—that Dr. Crossley had lent him in the low, sand-colored building that housed the district medical examiner for Lee County. Another man was there already—short and thin, in his late forties, with dark hair parted carefully down the middle as slick and shiny as an Eton schoolboy’s. He quickly stood up as the agent entered. There was a wheeled tray beside him, on which sat four evidence bags, their surfaces scuffed and cloudy.
“Ah, Mr.…Quarles, is it not?” Pendergast said. “Thank you so much for agreeing to work with us on this matter.”
“My pleasure, Agent Pendergast,” the man said, shaking the proffered hand. “Peter Quarles, forensic examiner, FTG.”
“Yes, yes. FTG—?”
“Footwear and Tire Group.”
“Yes, of course.”
“As soon as your courier package arrived at Huntsville yesterday morning, I dropped everything and began an analysis of the specimens. The Bureau placed the highest priority on this case.”
“Excellent. I look forward to hearing the results.” Pendergast sat down and offered him a place across the room’s small conference table. “Tell me about this, ah, Footwear and Tire Group. I haven’t worked with that forensic subspecialty before at the Bureau.”
“The most problematic tire work is done in Quantico, the rest in Huntsville. ‘Footwear and tire’ is a little deceiving, of course—because there are so many items that require specialized knowledge, each of us in the group had to develop broader areas of expertise. In addition to shoes, mine includes hats, neckties, and men’s underwear.”
“I see.”
“Boxers only, however. Briefs are handled in Quantico.”
“I would never have suspected.”
Mr. Quarles nodded, pleased. “And may I compliment you on your own pair?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your pair. Of shoes. John Lobb, if I’m not mistaken. A beautiful example of bespoke handcraft.”
“You are most kind.” Pendergast crossed one leg over the other and glanced pointedly at the evidence bags.
“But here I am, wasting your time with pleasantries!” Quarles rose, wheeled the metal tray over, and adjusted its height so that it hovered barely an inch above the table. The evidence bags on the tray, Pendergast knew, each contained one of the shoes that had floated ashore—two right and two left, in different sizes, including the one the M.
E. had originally sliced up.
“I examined all four examples carefully. Since they’re without question from the same source and identical, I’ll simplify things by focusing on one,” Quarles said as he pulled on a pair of gloves. Then he selected an evidence bag, slid open the seal, and removed a shoe. Although it was still in one piece—barely—it had been sliced, cross-sectioned, punched, and cut for samples so many times that it looked more like a flayed bird than a shoe. Quarles set the item before Pendergast. A faint smell of seawater and rotten fish reached Pendergast’s nostrils.
“As one who appreciates fine footwear, you probably don’t need me to describe the traditional shoemaking process to you: creating the last; stretching the shell; steaming the upper; adding the lining, tongue, and hardware on the stitching line; and so forth. This,” Quarles said, shaking the shoe for emphasis so that it flapped, “is not that kind of shoe. It is a cheap, mass-produced item almost certainly made in China. It was created for a specialized environment rather than for everyday streetwear. It’s clearly not a fashion product: it’s strictly utilitarian. I don’t find any match to this shoe in our databases.”
“What kind of specialized environment?”
“There are many settings in which specific footwear is required. There are disposable, nonwoven foam ‘scuffs’ for spas, hotels, and the like, usually color-coded for size. On the other end of the spectrum are the kind of heavy-duty, polyethylene-coated shoe coverings used in biohazard environments or clean rooms. This is neither of those.”
Pendergast nodded for the technician to continue.
“When a shoe resists easy analysis, we must turn to its component parts to look for an answer.” Quarles picked up a small metal instrument from the tray, almost like a dental pick, which he used for demonstration. “The shoe—I use ‘shoe’ here in the most generic sense—is cheaply made, of inferior materials, and lacks many standard components, such as an inner lining. The top was formed through a process known in the trade as ‘SMS’—meltblown polypropylene, sandwiched between layers of spunbond polypropylene. Usually, such footwear would have three or four plies of material, but these have only two—more evidence of how cheaply they were made. The exterior layers are not woven into a breathable material. That gives them fluid resistance at the expense of comfort.”
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