D'Agosta stole another private glance at Pendergast. That would make two, he thought. He could not imagine anyone more private, more reluctant to share his thoughts, than Pendergast.
"I wish I could help you more. If I recall the last name of that old boyfriend, I'll let you know."
Pendergast stood up. "Thank you, Judson. It's most kind of you to see us like this. And I'm sorry you had to learn the truth this way. I'm afraid there--well, there simply wasn't time for me to break it in a gentler fashion."
"I understand."
The doctor saw them through the hallway and into the front passage. "Wait," he began, then hesitated, front door half open. For a moment the mask of stoic anger dropped, and D'Agosta saw the handsome face disfigured by a mixture of emotions--what? Raw fury? Anguish? Devastation? "You heard what I said earlier. I want to--I haveto..."
"Judson," Pendergast said quickly, taking his hand. "You need to let me handle this. I understand the grief and rage you feel, but you need to let me handle this."
Judson frowned, gave his head a brief, savage shake.
"I know you," Pendergast went on, his voice gentle but firm. "I must warn you--don't take the law into your own hands. Please."
Esterhazy took a deep breath, then another, not replying. At last Pendergast gave a slight nod and stepped out into the evening.
After closing the door, Esterhazy stood in the darkened front hall, still breathing hard, for perhaps five minutes. When at last he had mastered his fearful anger and shock, he turned and walked quickly back into the den. Moving straight to the gun case, he unlocked it, dropping the key twice in his agitation. He moved his hands over the beautifully polished rifles, then selected one: a Holland & Holland Royal Deluxe .470 NE with a Leupold VX-III custom scope. He pulled it from the case, turned it with hands that trembled slightly, then put it back and carefully relocked the case.
Pendergast could preach all he wanted to about the rule of law, but the fact was it was time to take matters into his own hands. Because Judson Esterhazy had learned that the only way to do something right was to do it yourself.
13
New Orleans
PENDERGAST TURNED THE ROLLS-ROYCE INTO the private parking lot on Dauphine Street, harshly lit with sodium lamps. The attendant, a man with thick ears and heavy pouches below his eyes, lowered the gate behind them and handed Pendergast a ticket, which the agent tucked in the visor.
"In the back on the left, slot thirty-nine!" the man bawled in a heavy Delta accent. He examined the Rolls with bug eyes. "On second thought, take slot thirty-two--it's bigger. And we ain't responsible for damage. You might want to think of parking in LaSalle's on Toulouse, where they got a covered garage."
"Thank you, I prefer this one."
"Suit yourself."
Pendergast maneuvered the massive car through the tight lot and eased it into the designated space. They both got out. The lot was large, yet it felt claustrophobic, surrounded on all sides by a motley collection of old buildings. It was a mild winter night, and despite the extreme lateness of the hour, groups of young men and women, some carrying foaming beers in plastic glasses, could be seen stumbling along the sidewalks, calling out to one another, laughing and making noise. A muffled din wafted into the parking lot from the streets beyond, a mixture of shouts and cries, honking cars, and Dixieland jazz.
"A typical night in the French Quarter," said Pendergast, leaning against the car. "Bourbon is the next street over--nexus of the nation's public display of moral turpitude." He inhaled the night air, and a strange half smile seemed to spread over his pale features.
D'Agosta waited, but Pendergast didn't move. "Are we going?" he finally asked.
"In a moment, Vincent." Pendergast closed his eyes and slowly inhaled again, as if absorbing the spirit of the place. D'Agosta waited, reminding himself that Pendergast's odd mood shifts and strange ways were going to require patience--a lot of it. But the drive from Savannah had been long and exhausting--it seemed Pendergast kept another Rolls down here identical to the one in New York--and D'Agosta was famished. On top of that, he had been looking forward to a beer for some time, and seeing revelers going past with frosty brews was not improving his mood.
A minute passed, and D'Agosta cleared his throat. The eyes opened.
"Aren't we going to see your old digs?" D'Agosta asked. "Or at least what's left of them?"
"Indeed we are." Pendergast turned. "This is one of the oldest parts of Dauphine Street, right here, the very heart of the French Quarter--the realFrench Quarter."
D'Agosta grunted. He noticed the attendant, across the lot, watching them with a certain amount of suspicion.
Pendergast pointed. "That lovely Greek Revival town house, for example, was built by one of the most famous of the early New Orleans architects, James Gallier Senior."
"Seems they turned it into a Holiday Inn," said D'Agosta, eyeing the sign in front.
"And that magnificent house, there, is the Gardette-Le Pretre House. Built for a dentist who came here from Philadelphia when this was a Spanish city. A planter named Le Pretre bought it in 1839 for over twenty thousand dollars--an immense fortune at the time. The Le Pretres owned it until the '70s, but the family sadly declined... It is now, I believe, luxury apartments."
"Right," said D'Agosta. The attendant was now walking over, a frown on his face.
"And right across the street," said Pendergast, "is the old Creole cottage where John James Audubon stayed with his wife, Lucy Bakewell, for a time. It's now a curious little museum."
"Excuse me," the attendant said, his eyes narrowed to frog-like slits. "No loitering allowed."
"My apologies!" Pendergast reached into his suit and flipped out a fifty-dollar bill. "How careless of me not to offer you a gratuity. I commend you on your vigilance."
The man broke into a smile. "Well, I wasn't... but that's much appreciated, sir." He took the bill. "You take your time, no rush." Nodding and smiling, he headed back to his booth.
Pendergast still seemed in no hurry to move on. He loitered about, hands clasped behind his dark suit, gazing this way and that as if he were in a museum gallery, his expression a curious mixture of wistfulness, loss, and something harder to identify. D'Agosta tried to suppress his growing irritation. "Are we going to find your old house now?" he finally asked.
Pendergast turned to him and murmured, "But we have, my dear Vincent."
"Where?"
"Right here. Thiswas Rochenoire."
D'Agosta swallowed and looked about the asphalt parking lot with a fresh eye. A stray breeze kicked up a piece of greasy trash, whirling it around and around. Somewhere, a cat howled.
"After the house was burned," said Pendergast, "the underground crypts were moved, the basement filled in, and the remains bulldozed. It was a vacant lot for years, until I leased it to the company that runs this parking lot."
"You still own this land?"
"The Pendergasts never sell real estate."
"Oh."
Pendergast turned. "Rochenoire was set well back from the street, formal gardens in front, originally a monastic retreat, a big stone structure with oriel windows, battlements, and a widow's walk. Gothic Revival, rather unusual for the street. My room was in the corner, on the second floor, up there." He pointed into space. "It looked over the Audubon cottage to the river, and the other window looked toward the Le Pretre house. Ah, the Le Pretres... I used to watch them for hours, the people going back and forth in the lit windows, listening to the histrionics."