“I suppose I could give you a long list of potential giveaways: the unobtrusive spot lamps, the hidden door lock plungers in the backseat, the empty shotgun mount, other unmistakable accoutrements of the Ford Police Interceptor Utility — but it was the gold-edged ‘SPD’ parking sticker on your windshield that rendered further examination unnecessary.”
Perelman chuckled, shook his head. He was driving fast, and they were already past Cape Coral and nearing the causeway. They navigated their way past a series of traffic cones and temporary road signs bordering the first roadblock. Minutes later they were on the island, driving along Sanibel Captiva Road toward Blind Pass. The shock of yesterday’s events — and the official reaction, flashing lights and ambulances and an almost endless chorus of sirens — had abated somewhat, and to an unpracticed eye the little downtown would have looked almost normal. As they drove along, Perelman was flagged down three times by residents. All of them asked the same questions, and Perelman gave them all the same amiable non-answers.
“Delightful village,” Pendergast said.
“Thank you.”
“How did you become its police chief?”
“As in, you of all people?” the chief asked.
“You are the first police chief I’ve met to quote Virgil.”
Perelman had to think back to their first meeting before he understood. He shrugged. “I’ve always been a fan of Virgil.”
“But then there’s the fact you’re the first police chief I’ve met who also dropped out of Hebrew Union College in New York — and just months before completing a master’s in rabbinical studies.”
Perelman didn’t know if he should be surprised or flattered this agent had taken the time to dig into his background. “There’s this thing called an ‘existential crisis.’ I went through one late in grad school. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be a cantor, or a Talmudic scholar, or a wandering minstrel or what. The idea of being a Visigoth was also appealing — I would have been good at sacking Rome — but the timing was off. But, yes: I left the East Coast, wandered west until I reached Northern California. And there in Humboldt County, in a redwood forest, I came across a riot about to break out, between loggers and a bunch of environmentalists camped way up in the trees. Don’t ask me why, but it felt like my destination. There were two opposing forces — the law and the advocates of nature — and I wasn’t sure which side I felt like joining.”
“Which did you ultimately choose?”
“Neither. I turned into the go-between, sitting in no-man’s-land talking to both sides. I felt everyone had a point: it wasn’t right to break the law, but there was no reason humans had to go about destroying nature for profit, either. I joined the Forest Service. It seemed the best way to mediate things. And from there, I somehow drifted into straight-up law enforcement.”
“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?”