Verses for the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  It had in fact belonged to Coldmoon’s great-uncle, who’d carried it through the Second World War. But Coldmoon wasn’t thinking of this. He sat up in sudden outrage, a shower of papers falling away as he did so. A person’s gun, especially a law officer’s gun, was his most personal possession. Nobody else touched it—certainly not without asking, and not in this casual way.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

  Pendergast looked at him. “I’d have thought it obvious. I’m inspecting your weapon.”

  Coldmoon held out his hand. “Give me that. Right now.”

  Pendergast’s gaze fell on the hand for a moment before returning to Coldmoon’s face. Something in those cold cat’s eyes set off an instinctual alarm in the younger agent.

  The two stared at each other in silence for a long moment. Then Pendergast slid the magazine back into its chamber. “Agent Coldmoon,” he said. “We find ourselves in this remote and barren region, forced against our will to share unpleasantly close quarters. Under the circumstances, this bed—with its lone pillow—is the only spot in the entire state of Maine that I can call my own. You and your paperwork have taken up residence on the other bed. Now, since you have deliberately left your handgun on my bed—and since we, as gun owners and enthusiasts, know there is no greater transgression than handling another’s weapon without permission—your placing it here can only mean one thing: that you wished me to examine and appreciate it. I have now done so. And a fine vintage firearm it is.”

  And with this he slipped the weapon back into its holster and, saying nothing more, held it out to Coldmoon.

  Coldmoon took it and, equally silent, put it on the nightstand on the far side of the bed. It occurred to him that he had just been given a righteous dressing-down by his senior partner. As he got up to refill his coffee cup from the bubbling pot, it further occurred to him that he deserved it. Not only was Pendergast dealing with an obstinate boss and uncomfortable surroundings, but the case wasn’t going exactly as planned. The last thing he needed was being disrespected by his own partner.

  He picked up one of the case files and sat back down on his bed with a soft grunt. He supposed he should cut the guy a little slack.

  Coldmoon woke suddenly out of a dreamless sleep. The first thing he felt was confusion: it was not dark, but light. Then, blinking, he realized where he was: in room 101 of the Lowly Mackerel. He’d fallen asleep, fully dressed, while reading from the case file of the Katahdin police: a piece of paper was still clutched in one of his hands. Blinking, he could see Pendergast, sitting on the edge of the other bed, back to him. He was apparently still ruminating over the photographs of the death scene.

  Another ring, and Coldmoon realized it was his phone that had woken him. He dug it out of his pocket, noticed the time was quarter past twelve. “Yes?”

  “Agent Coldmoon?”

  Coldmoon’s remaining sleepiness vanished as he recognized the voice. “Yes, sir.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In a motel outside Millinocket.”

  “Okay,” came the brisk voice of Pickett. “Listen to me very carefully. I want you both to pack up your stuff. And then I want you to get on the earliest plane back down to Miami. I don’t care if you have to drive to Boston to catch it—you find that plane and get on it.”

  From his perch on the edge of the bed, Pendergast had swiveled around and was listening intently.

  “Will do,” Coldmoon said as he sat up and began pushing his feet into his boots. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up?” Pickett echoed with a furious iciness. “There’s just been a second murder in Miami—and my lead investigators are over a thousand miles away, chasing a wild goose. Now get the hell out of that motel and onto the road.”

  The phone went dead.

  12

  COLDMOON HAD NEVER been to South Beach in person; he’d only seen images of it on postcards, or shots of its nightlife splashed across websites advertising exotic vacations. Now, as their taxi from Miami International finished the slow, eight-block crawl across the island and turned from Fifth Street onto Ocean, he was confronted with quite a different picture. In the merciless early-morning glare, without benefit of neon and softening darkness, the famous boulevard looked tired and shabby, its hotel awnings and alfresco restaurant umbrellas sun-faded beneath the palms.

  One thing that was not different was the crowds. Even at nine in the morning, they were out in force, wearing shorts and T-shirts, bikinis and sun hats, cell phones almost invariably clutched and ready for any selfie opportunity. Several blocks ahead, Coldmoon could make out an even denser knot of people that could mean only one thing.

  As the cab began creeping northward, Pendergast—who, other than discussing the contents of the Katahdin police file, had remained mostly silent during their frenetic attempts to get from Maine to Miami—turned to him. “In case I neglected to mention it,” he said, “I want to thank you for endorsing my suggestion that we go to the site of Elise Baxter’s death. Without a pattern established, there was no way to know in advance that the killer would strike again, strike so soon, or strike in the same city. Nevertheless, I regret our absence prevented us from being here at the time of the killing.”

  Coldmoon shrugged. “I go with my partner,” he said once again. And then he added: “Right…or wrong.”

  Pendergast’s only response was to turn his ice-chip eyes back to the hubbub ahead of them.

  The taxi managed to proceed a few blocks before hitting a dead stop, blocked by pedestrians, police cars, and other cabs. Coldmoon and Pendergast opened their doors. Pendergast gave the cabdriver a generous tip, along with instructions to drop their luggage off at his hotel, then the two made their way through the throng to the congested spot that—as Coldmoon had anticipated—surrounded a large area marked off with crime scene tape. For the first time, he noticed members of the press among them, fruitlessly shouting questions and pointing mikes.

  Pushing their way past the gawkers, they presented their IDs and ducked under the tape. Coldmoon gave the scene a quick once-over. They were facing a narrow alley that ran west between a Vietnamese restaurant on one side and an über-trendy art deco hotel on the other. Scattered along the inside periphery of the tape were various knots of police officers, both in uniform and in plainclothes, either talking to witnesses or simply standing guard. Farther down the alley, a couple of CSU workers were standing around what was obviously the spot where the body had been found. The other end of the grimy alley was blocked by police cars and emergency vehicles, flashing light bars striping the surrounding façades.

  Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, Coldmoon recognized the tableau itself. This was an advanced homicide scene. As he looked around at all the police, ranks made evident by various lapel pins and shoulder badges, he was reminded of the words of Joseph, legendary leader of the Nez Percé: White men have too many chiefs.

  A person sorted himself out from the bustle and came forward. Coldmoon took in the details: short, lean, middle-aged, Hispanic with brilliant black hair, dressed in light-colored pants and a tie but no jacket. He seemed to know Pendergast—at least, he was not surprised to see a man wearing a full-on black suit and somber tie, like some Secret Service agent parachuted down here into the middle of Sodom.

  Pendergast stepped forward, extending his hand. “Lieutenant Sandoval,” he said. “Allow me to introduce my partner, Special Agent Coldmoon.”

  Sandoval shook Pendergast’s hand, then Coldmoon’s.

  “I read the brief you prepared for us on the Montera killing,” Coldmoon said over the cacophony. “Comprehensive, thanks.”

  Sandoval nodded. “You just got here,” he said to Pendergast with the faintest of accents. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Alas, yes.”

  If Sandoval was surprised, he didn’t show it.

  “Let me bring you up to speed.” He motioned them away from the mob, farther into the service alley. “Time of the homicide was aro
und eleven thirty PM. The victim is Jennifer Rosen of Edina, Minnesota. She was spending a long weekend here with two college friends.”

  “Who found the body?” Pendergast asked.

  “A dishwasher working in the restaurant adjoining the alley.” Sandoval had a funny habit of wiping his index finger across his upper lip, as if to smooth a nonexistent mustache. Now he used the finger to point toward a greasy-looking door beside a dumpster. “The friends weren’t far behind him, though—they got here maybe four, five minutes later.”

  “How much time passed between the murder and the discovery of the body?” Coldmoon asked.

  “Not long. According to the M.E., she’d recently bled out when the dishwasher found her, lying there.” And Sandoval pointed past the dumpster toward a patch of concrete busy with chalk outlines, evidence flags, and ponded blood.

  “And what did he see?”

  “Nothing. At least, so far as we know. He only speaks Vietnamese, so we had to get an interpreter for the statement.” Sandoval looked over his shoulder at a dazed-looking Asian man in a dirty white smock, sitting on a trash can and flanked by two cops with digital recorders. “He went out with a few bags of garbage and found Rosen on the ground, motionless. For a moment, he was too shocked to notice anything else. When he did look around, the alley was empty.”

  “What about Ocean Drive?” Pendergast asked. “Any eyewitnesses?”

  “Yeah. Too many. It took the EMTs and the first squad car about eight minutes to respond, and when they got here there were already a hundred people hovering around, who all claimed they’d seen the killer—including Ms. Rosen’s two friends, who are still over at Eleven Hundred Washington giving statements. You think it’s crazy here now? You should have seen it last night.” Sandoval shook his head.

  “Any of the eyewitnesses check out?” Coldmoon asked.

  “Not so far. I mean, their stories all contradict each other, and given the state of the victim…” The lieutenant fell silent.

  “Please go on,” Pendergast urged.

  “The MO was similar to the Montera woman. Throat cut expertly with a knife, then the chest hacked open with a hatchet or some similar heavy, single-bladed instrument. It was an efficient job, done quickly. The perp or perps took the girl’s heart and vanished immediately, leaving her dead on the pavement.” Sandoval shook his head. “Of all the would-be witnesses out last night, not one mentioned seeing a blood-spattered man carrying a hatchet and a human heart.”

  “Was she forced into the alley?”

  “Apparently not. She seems to have come in here with the intention of—well, being sick. Copious amounts of vomit were found near the body, and it matches traces of partially digested food from her stomach.”

  “Security cameras?” Coldmoon asked.

  “None in the alley. As for evidence, all the onlookers who came rushing in to see the body after its discovery, trampling over everything—well, you can guess how that complicates our job.”

  “Photos?”

  “Got a whole bunch. And that’s about it, so far.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Sandoval turned away, disappearing into the noisy throng that lined the tape cordoning off the boulevard. Coldmoon watched him go. Then he looked at Pendergast. “Similar MO, different setting. The killer had an objective, and he accomplished it quickly and without drawing attention to himself.”

  “Yes,” Pendergast murmured. He glanced away, toward the grimy, sad-looking spot behind the dumpster where the young girl’s life had ended. “The logistics are impressive.”

  Coldmoon considered this. “You mean, that he was able to kill and cut out a human heart, and then escape?”

  “Precisely. Passing through an area with heavy pedestrian traffic—not unlike Jack the Ripper in its own way. Why choose such a busy location, with such a high risk of being seen?” He turned toward Lieutenant Sandoval, who was coming back with a handful of photographs. “Are there any cemeteries in the vicinity?” he asked.

  Sandoval handed over the photographs, thought a moment. Then he shook his head. “None except Bayside, but in Miami proper, quite a few.”

  “Then I would advise—” Pendergast was interrupted by a tumult behind them, voices raised in pitch and urgency. An officer in uniform pushed through, went up to Sandoval, and spoke in his ear.

  “A heart’s just been found,” Sandoval told them as the uniform retreated. “On a grave in the city of Miami. Excuse me.” And the lieutenant turned and vanished into a scrum of uniformed police.

  Pendergast came up behind Coldmoon as the babble increased and said: “My blood alone remains. Take it, but don’t let me suffer long.”

  Coldmoon turned to him in surprise. “Was that Crazy Horse, at Camp Sheridan?”

  “Marie Antoinette, actually. In Paris.” Pendergast turned back and gestured in the direction of Miami. “Shall we go see what present Mister Brokenhearts has left us this time?”

  13

  THE SPASM OF activity increased in intensity—and then, quite suddenly, Coldmoon sensed a change. Cops began to disappear. One minute they were talking in small groups, gesturing into phones—and then they were gone. The uniforms remained, manning the taped barriers and guarding the evidence, but the plainclothes seemed to vanish as if into thin air. At the same time, he started hearing the whoop whoop of sirens. Unmarked cars that had been hidden among the throngs of onlookers now started to detach themselves and force their way into the street, driving on sandy meridians and against the flow of traffic in order to make headway. Behind him came another series of whoops, and he turned to see one of the police cars that had been blocking the rear alley shoot off with a squeal of rubber. But the two of them, Coldmoon realized, weren’t going anywhere—they’d taken a taxi to and from the airport, and Coldmoon’s requisitioned Mustang was parked back at his hotel. He felt like the kid stranded at the end of musical chairs. “What the hell are we going to do for a car?” he asked. “And where’s the crime scene? ‘City of Miami’ is kind of vague.”

  Pendergast ducked under the tape and away from the crime scene, moving fast, threading his way through the onlookers. Coldmoon hurried to follow. Pendergast stopped outside a souvenir shop, plucked a map of Miami from a rack near the entrance, and, with a whiplike movement, opened it. Together they peered at the map. He pointed to a rectangle of green amid a sprawling grid of printed streets. “Ecce!”

  Coldmoon squinted in the bright sunlight. “City of Miami Cemetery.”

  “Approximately four miles from our present location.”

  Coldmoon glanced around again. Plenty of cars, barely crawling—but no cabs, no limos, no cop cars offering empty seats.

  The proprietor of the store had spotted them and was making her way out from behind the cash register. Pendergast stuffed the map back into its rack and took off down Ocean Drive at a brisk walk. Coldmoon swung in behind him. Ahead loomed one of South Beach’s omnipresent art deco hotels. Pendergast jogged up the curving drive to the bellman’s station, dodging parked cars and passersby. A lone taxi idled at the hotel’s front steps, its yellow paint job faded almost white by the sun. Its trunk was open and the driver was shoving suitcases into it, while a heavyset elderly man was helping an equally elderly woman prepare to get into the backseat.

  Pendergast introduced himself to the white-haired man, shaking his hand and giving a courtly bow to the woman. Coldmoon began to approach, but something told him he’d have better luck hanging back. Other people started to appear: valets, bellmen, someone who looked like a concierge. For a minute, this small knot surrounded Pendergast and the elderly couple, hiding the three from Coldmoon’s sight. And then the group began to break up, the bellmen taking the luggage from the trunk and lugging it back to the hotel. Now it was the white-haired gent who was shaking Pendergast’s hand, nodding and beaming. As the couple began to ascend the steps toward the hotel entrance, Coldmoon—coming forward—caught the old man’s parting words: “Thanks again, mate!”

&
nbsp; “Good day.” Pendergast slammed the trunk closed, then ushered Coldmoon into the still-open rear door. “After you.”

  Coldmoon slid in. The cabdriver, who had watched all this transpire with bewilderment, frowned. “What the hell, ese? That was a forty-dollar ride, man.”

  “I think you’ll find this ride more profitable,” Pendergast said, getting in beside Coldmoon and closing the door. He opened his FBI shield, showed it to the driver. “You know the best way to Miami City Cemetery?”

  The man—late thirties, with a tiny ponytail and a Cuban flag tattooed on one arm—didn’t seem impressed. “Yeah.”

  Pendergast reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a thick sheaf of folded banknotes. “How fast can you get us there?”

  The driver was still standing on the pavement. “In this traffic? Shit, maybe twenty, thirty minutes.”

  Pendergast threw a fifty-dollar bill into the front seat. “How about ten?”

  The driver got in and grabbed the bill. “I haven’t got wings, man—”

  Another fifty went into the front seat. “Then perhaps you could grow a pair. Of wings, I mean.”

  The cabbie scowled. “Listen, I’ve already got three points on my license, and—”

  “You’re forgetting that we’re FBI. Just get us there the fastest way—the fastest way—you can.”

  “Yeah,” Coldmoon added for emphasis. He figured the man might even be up to the task—he looked more like a getaway driver than a cabbie. He peered into the front seat, trying to make out the man’s taxi license. “Put the hammer down—Axel.”

  The driver slammed his door and peeled out of the hotel parking loop, almost immediately getting stuck on Ocean Drive.

  Pendergast turned to Coldmoon. “Do you have a preferred traffic app on your phone?”

  “Waze.”

  “Open it, please. Check the traffic to the cemetery. Open a backup app as well, in case the suggested routes differ.”