Verses for the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  Ianetti blushed, tattoo and all. Coldmoon exchanged a glance with Pendergast. Who’s this guy? he wondered.

  “I don’t know if you gentlemen remember the Two Bridges murder about six years back? I was still a homicide detective then, and it was Bruce who cracked the case by proving that a certain will’s signature page was a different kind of paper from the rest of the document and must have been forged.”

  “There was more to it than that,” said Ianetti modestly.

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Grove told him. “Anyway, the reason I’m here is because—not to put too fine a word on it—the MPD and Miami FBI have a difficult history. Sometimes a little pressure is necessary to make them play nice together. These two key pieces of evidence are a perfect example.”

  “Thanks for shaking them free of the MPD so quickly,” Ianetti said. And then he added hastily: “Sir.”

  “Happy to help.” Grove turned to Pendergast. “ADC Pickett asked the Miami PD for a liaison, and I’m that man. There was a regrettable misunderstanding between a Miami officer and an FBI agent a few years back, and in the wake of that it’s become my job to smooth over relations between local and federal authorities. You’d be surprised how much red tape this lets us avoid. I’m here to make sure you get what you need, when you need it.”

  “Thank you very much indeed,” said Pendergast.

  “Enough about me.” Grove turned to the document examiner. “Mr. Ianetti, I believe you were about to share with us your findings on the handwriting?”

  Ianetti cleared his throat. “The question always comes up: what can you tell about the perp from the handwriting? I’m afraid that in the past twenty to thirty years, the ‘science’ of handwriting analysis—graphology—has been thoroughly debunked.”

  “Debunked?” Coldmoon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a pseudoscience. Graphology is on the same level as astrology, palmistry, and crystal ball gazing.”

  “I don’t buy it,” Coldmoon said. “You can tell a lot about a person from how they write. Messy handwriting means a messy person, a bold signature indicates a big ego, and so on.”

  “It’s very attractive to think that,” said Ianetti. “But a 1982 meta-study—a study of studies—proved beyond doubt that graphology was hopeless when it came to predicting personality traits. It turns out, for example, that many extremely well-organized people have illegible handwriting and vice versa.” He arched an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t believe in astrology or the power of crystals?”

  Coldmoon didn’t answer. What he’d been taught to believe growing up was nobody’s business. He glanced at the commander, who was nodding. “Local police forensic labs have mostly abandoned graphology,” he said.

  Throughout this Pendergast’s face had remained studiously neutral. Coldmoon looked once again at his partner, who placed a pensive finger to his lips, then lowered it again and spoke. “And yet,” he said quietly, “there’s a great deal about the killer’s psychology we can learn from these notes. We’re dealing with a highly organized individual who quotes Shakespeare and Eliot, uses fine paper and rare vintage pens—in short, a man of literary pretensions. You point out that searching for the paper or ink would prove difficult—especially in this day of online purchasing—but your people might want to look into book clubs, libraries, and other haunts where a self-identified literary gentleman might hang out.”

  “Excellent suggestion,” said Grove. “I’ll put our people on that.”

  “Anyway,” Ianetti said, “that’s about all I can tell you—except that that the perp is almost certainly left-handed.”

  “Indeed?” Pendergast raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s much harder to tell than people think. However, this writer definitely employs what we call the sarcasm stroke: on the handwritten t’s, the finishing cross ends with a sharp cut from right to left, rather than the other way around.”

  This bit of erudition was absorbed in silence.

  “My report will be ready first thing tomorrow morning,” Ianetti said. “I’ll email you a copy.”

  “You’ve been most helpful,” Pendergast replied. “Thank you.”

  They headed out of the lab, Grove accompanying them. As they reached the door, the commander glanced at his watch, then turned to them. “My goodness—seven thirty already. I have to run, but I’m glad I caught up with you. I just wanted to make your acquaintance and ensure you’re getting everything you need.” Cards came out and he pressed one into each of their hands. “Call me if you have any problems.”

  “Much obliged,” said Pendergast drily, tucking the card into his black suit pocket.

  As Grove headed down the corridor, Coldmoon looked at the card. It read: Gordon Grove, Commander, Liaison for External Affairs, Miami Police Department.

  “Liaison,” murmured Coldmoon. “In other words, Ass Covering 101. Nice way to ease into your pension. If we fuck up, it’s our fault. If they fuck up, it’s our fault.”

  “There are many essential police skills they don’t teach you at the Academy,” said Pendergast. “Ass covering, as it is so charmingly termed, being the most important.”

  21

  HE STOOD MOTIONLESS in the humid darkness, all senses alert. He was aware of the faint breeze, now at last turning cool, as twilight became night, drying the perspiration on the nape of his neck. He was aware of various smells, some sharp and close, others farther away: crushed grass, roasting pork, diesel, salt water, cigar smoke. His mind tuned in the fragments of sound that enveloped him: the blatt of a boat horn, distant laughter, thumping bachata from a discotheque, angry acceleration of a motorcycle, screech of brakes. Most of all, he was aware of the light: at night, it seemed rare, precious—more real. You didn’t notice light during the day; you were immersed in it; you put on your sunglasses and ignored it. But at night it was different. Darkness was like the setting of a gemstone, and the qualities of light were as numerous as its colors: soft, low, intense, gauzy, tremulous. The sodium streetlamps; the high-rise stacks of light that were the hotels; the yachts whose mooring lights gleamed out of the velvety darkness of the creek. He was most comfortable in the dark, because he could become safe, invisible, and unnoticed. This anonymity was a cloak that deserted him in the day, and he had to guard against the resulting exposure. He had learned this long ago, through painful experience and through the Lessons. It was the dark, and the nonexistence it conferred, that made it possible to do his sacred duty—to complete the Action that was as necessary to him as breathing. Action…this moment of being a nobody wrapped in the night was the best time, when he could forget the shame and regret and be in the moment, his senses heightened without fear. While preparation was meticulous, the Action itself could never truly be predicted. Always there were variations, surprises. It was like poetry in that way; you never knew where a great poem would lead. It was like a battle in which the outcome was obscured in fog and smoke—the “poem as a field of action,” as William Carlos Williams wrote.

  The running lights of a passing boat swept through the tree branches, and he pressed himself against the trunk, melting farther into the whispering darkness. The approaching Action made him think of Archy and Mehitabel, who lived in the deep, reinforced pockets of his cargo pants. As a child, before the Death and the Journey, he had read and loved the little books about Archy and Mehitabel, their humorous verses and stories—Archy, a free-verse poet who’d been reincarnated as a cockroach, and Mehitabel, a scruffy alley cat. He identified with them both. They were nobodies, too; vermin, despised by the world. But they had nobility, and it was right that he named his tools after them. They were his only friends. They never let him down. And in return he kept them clean and sharp, just as he had been taught in the Lessons, honing them until they could cut a hair. They would have gleamed brightly in the moonlight if he did not take care to blacken them after sharpening. Action would dull them soon enough, the warm gush of liquid rinsing away the black. Mehitabel
usually came out first, her lone claw cutting so fast and smooth and deep there was no pain, only swift and merciful sleep. And then Archy would make his appearance. His wooden handle felt as much a part of him as his own arm. Archy, lowly though he was, carried the power of expiation. He could forget almost anything with Archy in his hand, even the Journey. As he grew older, his truth had become clearer and more bitter—and that was good, because bitterness and truth were the only reality. Because it is bitter. Just as his own heart had grown bitter with remorse.

  But this was not a time to dwell on the past, but rather to stay in the present, to be as keen as Mehitabel; to be conscious of the sweat drying on his neck and the cigar smoke drifting in the breeze and the strange mechanical conversations of distant traffic: because now he realized the waiting was almost over and the Action was approaching; he could hear it and see it and he would soon even smell it and feel it. It would happen so quickly. There would be the Action first, and then next would come the thing, the sole thing that, one day, could—he hoped—make the pain and guilt and shame go away forever:

  Atonement.

  22

  AGENT COLDMOON WAS lounging on the queen bed of his room at the Holiday Inn Miami Beach, watching a rerun of The Dick Van Dyke Show and eating four packets of chocolate chip cookies he’d picked up from the vending machine in the lobby, when the telephone rang.

  Coldmoon was not particularly a fan of the show—he had about as much in common with Rob Petrie and his ’60s suburban family as he did with a colony of Martians—but he always enjoyed predicting whether or not Van Dyke would trip over the ottoman during the opening credits. He waited a few seconds—ottoman successfully navigated this episode, just as he’d predicted—before picking up the phone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Special Agent Coldmoon?” It was Assistant Director Pickett.

  Coldmoon reached over and muted the TV. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve been expecting a call from you.”

  Pickett liked having people phone him, rather than the other way around. Making Pickett reach out now and then was one of Coldmoon’s little private mutinies. “The flight was late getting in,” he said. “Then we had a meeting with the document examiner.”

  “What happened in Ithaca?”

  “We stopped by the local PD, picked up the case files, spoke to the woman at Cornell who’d interviewed Agatha Flayley, then got a tour of the scene from the first responder.”

  “What about the motel she stayed in the night before she killed herself?”

  “Torn down half a dozen years ago. Staff scattered to the winds. No records.”

  “So basically it was the waste of time I predicted.”

  “We haven’t finished going through the files.”

  “You didn’t need to leave Miami to do that.” An exasperated sigh. “So you didn’t get any takeaway from the trip? Nothing at all?”

  “No, sir, I—” Coldmoon hesitated, recalling Pendergast’s odd behavior on the bridge. That sudden catching of breath, as if he’d seen something, or put two pieces of a puzzle together.

  Pickett jumped on the hesitation instantly. “What? What is it?”

  “I think Pendergast is holding something back from me.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. Some theory. A plan of action, maybe. Something crystallized for him today, up in Ithaca. At least, that’s how it looked to me. I can’t tell you any more than that.”

  “Have you asked him about it?”

  This was a stupid question, and Coldmoon didn’t particularly try to hide it. “You know Pendergast better than that. If he senses me doing any probing, he’s just going to withdraw further.”

  “All right. Any sense of how this theory, or whatever, is going to manifest itself?”

  “I just…sense that a storm is coming.”

  “A storm? Good. In fact, it’s perfect.” There was a pause. “You’re right—I know Pendergast. Sooner or later he’s going to do something crazy. Something out of left field, or of questionable ethics, or even specifically against orders. So I want you to watch him, Agent Coldmoon. And when you think this storm is about to break, I want you to report back to me.”

  Coldmoon moved restlessly on the bed. “Can I ask why, sir?”

  “I thought we discussed this at the time you agreed to be his partner. I’m going to shut it down before it happens.”

  “Even if whatever it is might help the case?”

  “What will help the case is accomplishing things. We both know that if Pendergast can be relied on to do anything, it’s to veer off on some wild goose chase that wastes time and makes everyone look bad. That’s you and me, Agent Coldmoon. Look what happened with the Maine trip.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pickett’s voice had uncharacteristically risen in volume. “I’ve been frank with you. The truth is, Pendergast’s like a serpent in the garden. My garden. I’ve seen how he’s dealt with superiors before.” He stopped abruptly, as if catching himself, and there was a short silence before he began again, his voice lower. “Here at the FBI, we do things by the book because that’s how we collar our perps and defend our actions in court. We protect ourselves, our cases, and our chain of evidence—and we maintain our reputation for integrity. That’s why I need you to keep a close eye on your partner, and report to me if he starts going off the rails.”

  Coldmoon frowned. “I’m no snitch. Sir.”

  “Oh for chrissakes, nobody’s asking you to be.” His voice was rising again. “This is about best practices. We talked about this—remember? Neither you nor I want this case to blow up in our faces due to insubordinate or unethical action by your partner. This case is important to both our careers. Pendergast is a bomb waiting to go off, and it’s up to you to defuse it. This has nothing to do with snitching.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Pickett’s voice softened. “Listen. You’re a promising agent. You’ve already come far, against some damned long odds. I admire your ambition. And I shouldn’t need to spell it out, but you have more to lose here than anyone. You do understand, Agent Coldmoon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I needn’t take up any more of your evening. I’ll expect to hear from you soon.”

  The phone went dead with a soft click, and picking up the remote, Coldmoon turned his attention back to the TV. Shit, he’d seen this episode—it was the one where Rob Petrie spends the night in a haunted cabin.

  With a sigh and a muttered curse, he started channel flipping.

  23

  YOU CAN LET me off here,” Misty Carpenter said, leaning forward slightly and touching the headrest of the front seat. As the Uber pulled over, she noticed—in the rearview mirror—the driver’s nostrils flare slightly as he caught her perfume.

  She got out and stepped onto the sidewalk, slipping her phone back into the Miu Miu clutch that hung from her shoulder. The black car slid away from the curb and merged with the southbound traffic on Collins Avenue. She paused a moment, breathing in the pleasant night air. To her left, across the wide avenue, ran a procession of luxury hotels and high-rise condos, bathed in gentle pastel lights. To her right, beyond a dark ribbon of grass, lay Indian Creek, with its display of yachts and superyachts, motionless on the still water. Just another perfect evening in Miami Beach.

  Misty began walking along the pavement, aware of the sleek tightness of her black cocktail dress, the faint click of her Louboutin sandals on the concrete. Harry, she knew, liked this dress best of all.

  “Harry” was J. Harold Lawrence III, chairman emeritus of the largest privately held bank in Palm Beach County and owner of the 120-foot cruising yacht Liquidity. Even today, when he no longer ran the executive suite, everyone called him “sir” or “Mr. Lawrence.” Everyone, that is, except Misty. Misty always called her clients by their first names.

  Not that she would ever call them “clients” to their faces. That would imply there was more than one. Misty wanted each of her sp
ecial friends to think they were her only special friend. It was almost true: she confined her attention to a select group of less than a dozen refined and wealthy people, most but not all elderly. The thing they all had in common was an appreciation for Misty’s rare combination of beauty, elegance, empathy, and youthful erudition.

  She slowed for a moment, looking toward Indian Creek, her perfectly plucked eyebrows knitting in a frown. She’d gotten out of the Uber too early. This was the low-rent district: the yachts here were all berthed together, stern in, tucked into their slips like so many floating brownstones. The larger vessels like Liquidity lay just beyond, moored parallel to the waterfront.

  She glanced at her watch: quarter past nine. Harry would be waiting for her by now, sitting in the salon, the bottle of his favorite vintage champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. They would probably dine on board—he preferred that this time of year—and he might be a trifle melancholy. Almost a decade ago to the day, his wife had succumbed to cancer. It was Misty’s job to help him forget this, of course; to make him smile with her sparkling wit, to engage him in conversation on the topics he enjoyed most. For three or four hours, she would ensure he forgot his cares and his loneliness. And then she would leave—and five thousand dollars would be wired into her bank account by morning.

  Misty—actually, Louisa May Abernathy from Point of Rocks, Montana, both parents deceased—had what she believed to be a unique vocation. It did not involve sex—at least not anymore, now that her select list of special friends had been established. It was safe: since she did not take on new clients, there was no need for verification, references, or screening agencies like P411. She provided a laudable and worthy service. It paid extremely well. It was probably even legal.

  She moved on, heels clicking in the dark pools between the streetlights. Knots of traffic would come and go as the signals changed: busy one minute, quiet the next. The lights of the hotels threw dim, multicolored shadows over the palm trees, Indian Creek itself, and—on the far side—Pinetree Park. She had passed the regular boat slips now; she would see the sleek lines of Liquidity not far ahead.