“Nobody. In fact, it’s scheduled to be torn down.”
“What a shame.” He picked up a plastic tag and dropped it into one of the now-bulging trash bags. Then he straightened up. “Shall we return? I think I have enough trash.”
“Fine with me.”
They turned around and headed back, Ramirez and Dixon lugging the two full bags.
“Chief Perelman, I must admit that I’m curious. What are your thoughts on the commander’s theory?”
“He’s an experienced seaman — logged ten thousand hours on the water as a captain, just like he said — and his abilities are without question.” That wasn’t quite an answer, and Perelman knew it. He hesitated a second, then decided Pendergast deserved his trust. Exactly why, he wasn’t sure. “He’s old-school, used to absolute command — obviously, that makes him a little proud and not always willing to listen. But I’ve worked with him before. I respect his experience: a lifetime on the sea. His idea that the feet originated in Cuba does, at least to me, seem quite possible. Cuba’s changing but, sad to say, there are still many dissidents in prison.”
Pendergast, walking beside the chief, nodded.
“On the other hand... well, we’re not dealing with the set, drift, and windage of a four-hundred-ton Coast Guard cutter here. We’re dealing with shoes floating in the water. I’m not sure that falls within anyone’s experience — even the commander’s.”
As he was speaking, Perelman noticed movement in his peripheral vision. A black town car had turned off Captiva Drive and then continued along the road that dead-ended in the beach parking lot, where it pulled over before the tape. He frowned. What fresh hell was this — yet another bureaucrat out for a photo op? He thought he’d already met with or spoken to every city manager, councilperson, and reservist brass in Lee County who could claim even a modicum of authority.
But then the rear door opened and he realized he was wrong. A woman stepped out into the shade of the palms. She wore a large, stylish sun hat and a pale dress of what looked like organdy, tailored to accentuate her slender figure. As she approached, moving out of the shade and into the sunshine, Perelman realized that she was not only very young — hardly twenty-three or twenty-four — but remarkably attractive. Perelman was a cinephile, and this woman’s thin, curved eyebrows and bobbed mahogany hair reminded him of Claudette Colbert. No — even stronger in the chief’s imagination was a resemblance to the legendarily beautiful Olive Thomas, the silent film starlet who died in 1920.
But then this vision from the past slipped gracefully beneath the crime scene tape, and Perelman’s spell was broken.
“Just a minute, there!” he cried. In the distance, he could see a couple of his officers trotting in the direction of the black car.
A faint pressure on his arm. “It’s all right,” Pendergast said. “She’s with me.”
But the young woman had stopped of her own accord, unwilling to bury her heels in the sand, and was apparently waiting for them. Perelman called off his men and then the small procession — FBI agent, police chief, and two workers lugging heavy bags of trash — made its way through the sand toward her.
“Constance,” Pendergast said as they drew near, “this is Chief Perelman of the Sanibel Police Department. Chief, allow me to introduce my ward and assistant, Constance Greene.”
The young woman removed her sunglasses and regarded him with violet eyes. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The deep contralto, with its mid-Atlantic accent, once again caused Perelman to feel a strange tug from the distant past.
“I’m surprised to see you here, though pleased,” Pendergast told her. “What prompted you to leave Eden?”
“I believe it was encountering the tree of knowledge.”
“Even the charms of paradise can pale with time.”
“I finished À rebours. And it occurred to me — after the security chief finished explaining the finer points of handling his M60 — that it was selfish of me to stay behind, wallowing in luxury, while you were presumably toiling away on this investigation. Whether or not I can lend assistance with that, at least I can lend you my company.”
“Most kind.”
“They told me you were staying at the Flamingo View Motel—” she pronounced the name as if it were some species of slug — “but when I arrived there, I assumed it was a misunderstanding and didn’t venture inside to inquire.”
“Not a misunderstanding, alas. I’m sure ADC Pickett had intended to book me into a more suitable place. I’ll sort things out shortly.”
“Don’t make any changes on my account. I understand that sleeping in hovels builds character.”
Pendergast turned back to Perelman, who had been following this exchange with curiosity. “Thank you for humoring me and my interest in trash. I enjoyed having a chance to talk. No doubt we’ll see you again soon.”
“Stop by in the evening, if you’re free. If I’m not tinkering with my boat, you’ll usually find me on my veranda, playing guitar, drinking tequila, and pretending to read poetry. Ms. Greene, it was a pleasure to meet you.” And with a nod to his workers, Perelman turned back toward the command tent.
“One moment, please!” he heard Pendergast call. The agent gestured at the two bags of garbage. “Allow me to take those off your hands.”
Perelman frowned. “What?”
“You were kind enough to drive me to the beach. These men were kind enough to carry the bags while I filled them with trash. The least I can do is spare you the trouble of disposing of them.”
“But why—?” Perelman stopped, realizing he wasn’t going to get a straight answer. He nodded to the two sanitation workers, who followed Pendergast and his ward back to the town car, where Pendergast directed the men to put the bags in the trunk. Then the workers returned to the chief and watched as the gleaming black car made a three-point turn and then took off south, over the bridge and toward the Flamingo View Motel.
9
Roger Smithback ascended the outside steps leading to the dingy attic apartment, trying to be as quiet as possible and not wake the occupant of the first floor. The climb was more difficult than before: that fifth Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks had really done a number on his cerebellum.
He gained the landing and steadied himself a moment, breathing deeply and taking in the nocturnal landscape. Similar little Cape Cod — style houses spread out around him, lining the banks of a man-made canal. He could hear cars, singing, the faint crash of surf, and the endless drone of insects.
Opening the door, he turned on the light, then tacked across the room to an easy chair, which he flounced down into. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and quickly hunted for the photos he’d surreptitiously taken that evening. Thank God, there they were — and decently exposed. Smithback knew how to deploy the more unsavory arts of reportage, but the darkness of the bar had made him worry.
He let his phone hand sink to the floor, then closed his eyes. Immediately, the room began to spin. He opened his eyes again and glanced at his watch. Just after nine. Kraski would still be in his office; he never left the place if he could help it.
After being unceremoniously escorted from the crime scene, Smithback had returned to the mainland, where he’d picked up his Subaru, then driven back to Sanibel — an ordeal in itself — intending to book a motel room. But with the influx of press, they’d become scarce as hen’s teeth. Even the crappiest motels were showing NO VACANCY signs. In the end, he’d been forced to rent a “second-floor suite” from a private homeowner — a post office retiree — at an outrageous rate. The “suite” consisted of one room and a bath, as well as a landlord who would talk his ear off every time they ran into each other. Worse, it was in a frumpy section of Sanibel known as Gumbo Limbo — near the causeway and far from Turner Beach. The silver lining was that the “suite” came with a coveted A-class beach permit, marking him as a resident and, as such, free to wander... as long as he steered clear of that red-haired dickwad from the Coast Guard. Of course, residents couldn’t approach any closer to the crime scene than nonresidents, but at least his movements weren’t restricted and he could get through the checkpoints.