Verses for the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  “The reason I asked you to come,” Pendergast said, “—beyond, of course, the opportunity to pay your respects to Ms. Baxter—was because I understand you’re the people in the immediate area, outside her family, that knew her best. I wanted to see if any of you could think of a reason her grave was, ah, chosen in this way, and to hear why you think Ms. Baxter took her own life.” He turned to the closest person: a stout, middle-aged woman in a floral dress with blond highlights. “If you wouldn’t mind introducing yourself, ma’am?”

  The woman looked around at the others. “I’m Claire Hungerford.”

  “And how did you know Ms. Baxter?”

  “I worked with her at Sun and Shore Realty.”

  Pendergast said, “Thank you.” His voice was an almost tangible unguent of southern gentility and charm. “How did you become acquainted?”

  “We both specialized in Coral Gables real estate. I still do. We were the two real estate agents in the office who got the Silver Palm in back-to-back years.”

  “The Silver Palm?”

  “It’s an award from the franchise for the agents with that year’s highest increase in sales volume.”

  “I see. And is that why the two of you were chosen for the Maine conference?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Looking back on it now, what was your impression of Elise Baxter’s state of mind at the time of the convention?”

  The woman played nervously with her hair. “Nothing stood out. She was just her usual self.”

  “She didn’t act unusual in any way? Especially quiet or moody, for example?”

  “No. But she was always rather quiet. I mean, I worked in the same office with her for two years, but I still didn’t know her that well. She was never what you’d call the life of the party, although—”

  “Yes?” Pendergast pounced.

  “Well…I think she might have had a little too much to drink that night.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because she left the banquet a little early. Before the final presentations. She spoke to me a moment as she was leaving, and I noticed her walk was a little unsteady.”

  “What did she speak to you about?”

  The woman blinked at the question. “She asked if I’d be joining her on the bus trip to L.L. Bean in the morning.”

  “I see. And that was the last time you saw her?”

  “Yes.”

  The next three inquiries proceeded in a similar fashion. A college roommate; a childhood friend from the neighborhood; a man she’d often partnered with at Arthur Murray. They all, Coldmoon observed, had relatively vague and unremarkable memories of Elise Baxter: she’d been a pleasant young woman, ambitious but reserved. She’d demonstrated nothing to indicate suicidal behavior, but nothing to rule it out, either.

  At last, Pendergast thanked them profusely and bid them good day. As the group began to break up, he raised a hand to stop the fifth person, who had so far been silent: a man of perhaps sixty, a bit scruffier than the rest, wearing a weather-beaten sun hat, a white T-shirt, and faded green pants.

  “Carl Welter?” Pendergast asked.

  “Yes,” the man replied. He had a husky voice that bespoke years of unfiltered cigarettes.

  “Do you know why you were asked here?”

  The man kept looking from Pendergast to Coldmoon and back again. “I wasn’t no friend of the dead woman.”

  “No. But you were the watchman on the midnight-to-eight shift the night before last—when the object was left on her grave.”

  “I already spoke to the police about that yesterday. Twice.”

  “I’m aware of your statement. And you told them—” here Pendergast reached into his suit pocket, took out an official-looking piece of paper, and consulted it— “that you were in the vicinity of the groundskeeper’s shed, sharpening a lawn mower blade, when you heard the creak of metal, as if a gate was being opened. This was—” another exaggerated examination of the paper— “between two and two fifteen AM. You naturally investigated, but it was a dark night, the moon was veiled, the front gate was closed and, in short, you found nothing amiss.”

  “That’s what I told them,” the man said a little belligerently, nodding to underscore the statement.

  “And it was a lie,” Pendergast said in the same buttery voice.

  “What in—?” the old man croaked, then fell silent.

  “A transparent lie, easily exposed. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t received a third visit from the authorities as a result. But, Mr. Welter, if you’re honest with me, I can promise that we will all overlook your indiscretion.”

  The man opened his mouth to protest, but Pendergast folded the paper, returned it to his pocket, and continued. “Please don’t waste our time with protests. I bring it up at all only as a formality—to make sure this graveyard has nothing more to tell us. The item was not left on Elise Baxter’s grave at two AM, you see—for the simple fact that, at that time, it was still in its owner’s chest. Ms. Montera was not killed until four.” He paused, watching the groundskeeper’s reaction. “In truth, Mr. Welter, you heard nothing that night. The only real question is: why did you lie about it?”

  The man began looking between them again, only now his expression had become hunted.

  Pendergast let the pregnant silence grow. Then, just as he drew in breath to speak, Coldmoon suddenly interjected. “You were sleeping one off,” he told the groundskeeper.

  Now both Welter and Agent Pendergast turned toward him.

  Coldmoon went on. “Your shift began at midnight. Given the two six-packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon you drank, I’d say that by midshift your blood alcohol concentration must have been around 0.2 percent, leaving you in no condition to notice any disturbance, much less investigate it.”

  “You—” the groundskeeper began again, then fell silent one more time.

  “The fact is, you lied about hearing something because you didn’t want the management to know you were drunk on duty. Isn’t that right?”

  Nobody moved.

  “Just nod your head if that’s right, Mr. Welter,” Coldmoon said. “Once will be enough.”

  After a moment, the groundskeeper gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Very good,” said Coldmoon. He glanced at Pendergast. “Anything else you want to ask?”

  “No, thank you,” said Pendergast.

  The car was quiet while they drove south. As they passed through North Beach, Coldmoon finally asked: “Where are you staying?”

  “The Fontainebleau. And you?”

  “Holiday Inn.”

  “You have my sympathies.”

  “So, I gotta ask, the Bureau’s picking up your tab—?”

  “No, it is not. Since I believe your hotel is farther along than my own, would you mind dropping me off? I’ll have Lieutenant Sandoval send over a second copy of the case file for your review, along with any new lab reports. We can reconvene this afternoon. Will that suit you?”

  “Sure.”

  After another minute or two, Coldmoon felt Pendergast’s pale eyes swivel toward him. “Do you know why I asked those people to speak to us as a group, rather than individually, and at the grave site?”

  “No.”

  “Ah.” Pendergast settled back in his seat.

  “But if I had organized such a gathering,” Coldmoon said, “I’d have done it for two reasons. First, it would throw them off balance, having to make a statement in front of witnesses—and beside the grave of their old friend, too. Kind of works on a person’s superstitions, lying about a friend at their grave site. Second, if I’d decided that those people had little to add to the investigation, I wouldn’t want to waste more time interviewing them than necessary.”

  “Very good,” Pendergast said, and remained silent for about a mile before speaking again. “How did you know the groundskeeper was—as you put it—sleeping one off?”

  “The same way you knew: those dozen empties stashed behind his hut. Aft
er the murder, in all the excitement, he obviously didn’t have time to get rid of them—just stuff them back there and hope nobody noticed. And he decided to make up something vague to tell the cops. Imply he was awake.”

  Silence from the passenger seat.

  “That is how you knew—right?” Coldmoon asked.

  “Ah, here we are!” Pendergast cried abruptly as the expansive sweep of the Fontainebleau’s arrivals drive came into view. Coldmoon pulled in and Pendergast exited the vehicle.

  “Shall we say three PM in the pool area?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  Pendergast closed the door. Then he walked around to the driver’s window and put his elbows on it. “About those empty beer cans,” he said, leaning in slightly. “It would appear that roving eye of yours indicates attention to detail, rather than lack of interest. How lucky for me.”

  “What—?” Coldmoon began to ask. But Pendergast had already turned away, and without another word he disappeared into the crowds milling around the hotel entrance.

  7

  AT A QUARTER past three, Agent Aloysius Pendergast sat in a private cabana just beyond the vast, comma-shaped shadow of the Fontainebleau’s Chateau Tower. The cabana’s privacy walls—thin canvas—were rolled down on either side, limiting his view to those palm trees and sunbathers facing the Atlantic. Pendergast was not interested in the view; although his padded chair was angled toward the light, his eyes were closed and half hidden by a Montecristi Panama hat of exceptionally fine weave.

  There was a rustle just outside, then a waiter appeared. “Sir?” he said over the fugue of nearby conversation.

  Pendergast opened his eyes.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you. Would you care for another julep?”

  “Thank you. Please ask the bartender to use Woodford Reserve this time, and to muddle in less sugar and more mint.”

  “Sir.” And the waiter vanished. Pendergast raised one hand to lower the brim of his hat a little farther, then settled back into motionlessness. He had replaced his usual dead black suit with one of crisp white linen; one leg was crossed casually over the other, and the horsebits of his alligator slip-ons gleamed gold in the sun.

  He remained unmoving while the waiter refreshed his drink, taking the old glass away. He did not stir at the cries and shouts that occasionally erupted from the swimming pools around him. When a particular shadow crossed the canvas wall of his cabana, however, he opened his eyes.

  “Agent Coldmoon,” he said. “How nice to see you again.”

  Coldmoon, appearing at the entrance, nodded.

  “Please, have a seat. Would you care for one of these morsels?” And with a languid wave, Pendergast indicated a small tray of dates, stuffed with chèvre and wrapped in crisp strips of bacon.

  Coldmoon stepped in and perched awkwardly on one of the cabana’s deck chairs. “No thanks.”

  Pendergast flagged down a passing waiter. “Something to drink, then?”

  “Not right now.” Coldmoon, too, had changed and was now wearing faded jeans, worn square-toed roper boots, a leather belt with a Navajo sand-cast buckle, and a long-sleeved denim work shirt. A sheaf of papers was tucked under one arm.

  “Ah,” Pendergast said, indicating the papers. “Homework.”

  Coldmoon said nothing.

  Pendergast picked up one of the dates and popped it into his mouth with a dainty motion. “I’m curious. Do you—as you asked me this morning—have any theories?”

  Coldmoon put the folder on the chair. “The autopsy added nothing new. Forensic toxicology results won’t be in for some time, but I doubt we’ll find anything there. Background checks and initial interviews don’t raise any red flags—so far, no persons of interest, nobody who had a particular reason to want her dead.”

  Pendergast nodded.

  “And it’s like you said. Superficially, the Montera killing shows indications of both organized and disorganized behavior.”

  “Curious, isn’t it?”

  Coldmoon pursed his lips. “On the one hand, it would appear to be the random, impulsive action of a sociopath. On the other, the crime scene was carefully controlled and reveals no useful evidence beyond what the perp wanted us to find.”

  A scream sounded nearby, followed by a splash, then laughter and a quick burst of Italian. Coldmoon, Pendergast noted with interest, was possessed of unusual inscrutability. He sat stiffly on the edge of the reclining chair, as if determined to resist the comfort it promised. As usual, the man’s green eyes were never still.

  “Why ‘superficially’?” Pendergast asked.

  “Because sociopaths don’t feel remorse. Their defining characteristic is lack of empathy for other people. There’s a contradiction there.”

  “Which is?”

  “The note on the grave.”

  “Acta est fabula, plaudite!” Pendergast said. “Precisely what troubles me. Why would a sociopath kill somebody at random, with a spectacular degree of violence, in order to leave a present on a grave with a note full of sorrow and contrition? And how did he make his choice, Agent Coldmoon? Killing Ms. Montera where he did meant getting her heart to a cemetery more than a dozen miles away, with precious little time to spare. Why not choose a victim closer at hand?”

  “He could be playing with us. The note, even the grave, could be a diversion.”

  “Yes. And that is precisely why we have to go to Maine.”

  Coldmoon raised an eyebrow. On his impassive face, the small gesture spoke volumes.

  “Ah. Do I sense an objection?”

  Coldmoon’s answer, when it came, seemed carefully chosen. “Going to investigate Elise Baxter’s suicide—I’m assuming that’s your idea—would seem a low priority right now.”

  “Consider: the evidence we’ve seen in Ms. Montera’s murder has led nowhere.”

  “But that evidence is still coming in. The crime’s only thirty-six hours old.”

  “All the more reason for haste. It can wait another thirty-six while the Miami Beach PD finish their lab work. More killings might be in the offing.”

  “With respect, Agent Pendergast, that’s not how the Bureau prosecutes this kind of case. The crime was committed here. This is where we’re supposed to look for the killer, especially if he might strike again.”

  Pendergast was silent for a moment. Then he took a contemplative sip from his mint julep. “I was afraid you’d say that. But there’s a great difference between looking for a killer and finding him. Who knows where he will strike again? The next here, if there is one, may be Alaska. No—the best place to pick up his trail is at the beginning, with the suicide of Elise Baxter. We must be like David Livingstone, searching for the source of our own Nile.”

  “Nice metaphor. But even if I agreed with you, there’s a problem.”

  Agent Pendergast uncrossed his feet. “I assume you mean our friend Pickett.”

  Coldmoon nodded.

  “Do forgive me—I’m not used to being leashed.” Pendergast took another sip of his julep. “Ah, well, it was simply a suggestion. Perhaps you should call him and get his refusal immediately. Any later and it might interfere with my dinner appetite.”

  Coldmoon looked around the cabana exterior for a moment. Then he took out his phone, dialed, and put it on low-volume speaker.

  The call was answered on the third ring. “Pickett.”

  “Sir, this is SA Coldmoon. I have SA Pendergast listening in.”

  “Very well. Progress?”

  Coldmoon wasted no time on preliminaries. “Sir, Agent Pendergast believes we should go to Maine.”

  “Maine? What the hell for?”

  In one lithe movement, Pendergast’s loafers were off the deck chair and on the tiles. “Sir,” he said, leaning toward the phone, “I believe the local authorities have the investigation well in hand, and I’d like to investigate the link between the two women.”

  “Link? From what I’ve seen, the killer chose that grave site at random.”

  “How c
an we be certain of that?”

  “What link could there possibly be?” Pickett asked impatiently.

  “We don’t know yet. I put in a request to have Ms. Baxter’s body exhumed, but her parents are objecting. And—”

  “And I’m not surprised. What are you implying: that she wasn’t a suicide? That she was murdered? Is this your ‘link’?”

  “As I said, there’s no way to know—not without an exhumation.”

  “All you need to know would be in the pathologist’s report and the original autopsy. Stop focusing on this suicide and forget the idea of a second autopsy. What you’re supposed to be investigating is a murder that took place in Miami. Have you spoken to the family of the dead girl, what’s her name, Montoya?”

  “Montera. No, we have not. However, Agent Coldmoon and I have both read the transcripts of their interviews with the Miami Beach police, and they are—”

  “Frankly, Agent Pendergast, this is precisely the kind of out-of-left-field move coming from you I worried about. Like chartering a private jet to get down to Miami twelve hours early.”

  A pause. Pendergast said nothing.

  “Even assuming you’re right, your first priority is clearly with a fresh homicide—not a suicide that happened a decade ago and fifteen hundred miles away. I can’t sign off on this. You can get whatever files you need from Maine shipped down. If you find something—then go.”

  “The Maine files are likely to be useless—”

  “Agent Pendergast, this is one investigation that’s going to be run by the book. Now—”

  “Sir,” Coldmoon interrupted. “I agree with Agent Pendergast.”

  There was a long moment of dead silence. And then the voice from New York said: “You do?”

  “The MBPD appears to be doing a thorough job, with great backup from the Miami PD. There’s a window of opportunity. I think we should take it to check out this avenue of investigation.”

  “But I told you—the selection of victim and grave site could well be random.”

  “I agree one of them is most likely random, sir,” Coldmoon said. “But I don’t think we should assume both are random. The letter seems specifically addressed to Baxter.”