“But if I had organized such a gathering,” Coldmoon said, “I’d have done it for two reasons. First, it would throw them off balance, having to make a statement in front of witnesses — and beside the grave of their old friend, too. Kind of works on a person’s superstitions, lying about a friend at their grave site. Second, if I’d decided that those people had little to add to the investigation, I wouldn’t want to waste more time interviewing them than necessary.”
“Very good,” Pendergast said, and remained silent for about a mile before speaking again. “How did you know the groundskeeper was — as you put it — sleeping one off?”
“The same way you knew: those dozen empties stashed behind his hut. After the murder, in all the excitement, he obviously didn’t have time to get rid of them — just stuff them back there and hope nobody noticed. And he decided to make up something vague to tell the cops. Imply he was awake.”
Silence from the passenger seat.
“That is how you knew — right?” Coldmoon asked.
“Ah, here we are!” Pendergast cried abruptly as the expansive sweep of the Fontainebleau’s arrivals drive came into view. Coldmoon pulled in and Pendergast exited the vehicle.
“Shall we say three PM in the pool area?” he asked.
“Fine.”
Pendergast closed the door. Then he walked around to the driver’s window and put his elbows on it. “About those empty beer cans,” he said, leaning in slightly. “It would appear that roving eye of yours indicates attention to detail, rather than lack of interest. How lucky for me.”
“What—?” Coldmoon began to ask. But Pendergast had already turned away, and without another word he disappeared into the crowds milling around the hotel entrance.
7
At a quarter past three, Agent Aloysius Pendergast sat in a private cabana just beyond the vast, comma-shaped shadow of the Fontainebleau’s Chateau Tower. The cabana’s privacy walls — thin canvas — were rolled down on either side, limiting his view to those palm trees and sunbathers facing the Atlantic. Pendergast was not interested in the view; although his padded chair was angled toward the light, his eyes were closed and half hidden by a Montecristi Panama hat of exceptionally fine weave.
There was a rustle just outside, then a waiter appeared. “Sir?” he said over the fugue of nearby conversation.
Pendergast opened his eyes.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you. Would you care for another julep?”
“Thank you. Please ask the bartender to use Woodford Reserve this time, and to muddle in less sugar and more mint.”
“Sir.” And the waiter vanished. Pendergast raised one hand to lower the brim of his hat a little farther, then settled back into motionlessness. He had replaced his usual dead black suit with one of crisp white linen; one leg was crossed casually over the other, and the horsebits of his alligator slip-ons gleamed gold in the sun.
He remained unmoving while the waiter refreshed his drink, taking the old glass away. He did not stir at the cries and shouts that occasionally erupted from the swimming pools around him. When a particular shadow crossed the canvas wall of his cabana, however, he opened his eyes.
“Agent Coldmoon,” he said. “How nice to see you again.”
Coldmoon, appearing at the entrance, nodded.
“Please, have a seat. Would you care for one of these morsels?” And with a languid wave, Pendergast indicated a small tray of dates, stuffed with chèvre and wrapped in crisp strips of bacon.
Coldmoon stepped in and perched awkwardly on one of the cabana’s deck chairs. “No thanks.”
Pendergast flagged down a passing waiter. “Something to drink, then?”
“Not right now.” Coldmoon, too, had changed and was now wearing faded jeans, worn square-toed roper boots, a leather belt with a Navajo sand-cast buckle, and a long-sleeved denim work shirt. A sheaf of papers was tucked under one arm.
“Ah,” Pendergast said, indicating the papers. “Homework.”
Coldmoon said nothing.
Pendergast picked up one of the dates and popped it into his mouth with a dainty motion. “I’m curious. Do you — as you asked me this morning — have any theories?”
Coldmoon put the folder on the chair. “The autopsy added nothing new. Forensic toxicology results won’t be in for some time, but I doubt we’ll find anything there. Background checks and initial interviews don’t raise any red flags — so far, no persons of interest, nobody who had a particular reason to want her dead.”
Pendergast nodded.
“And it’s like you said. Superficially, the Montera killing shows indications of both organized and disorganized behavior.”
“Curious, isn’t it?”
Coldmoon pursed his lips. “On the one hand, it would appear to be the random, impulsive action of a sociopath. On the other, the crime scene was carefully controlled and reveals no useful evidence beyond what the perp wanted us to find.”
A scream sounded nearby, followed by a splash, then laughter and a quick burst of Italian. Coldmoon, Pendergast noted with interest, was possessed of unusual inscrutability. He sat stiffly on the edge of the reclining chair, as if determined to resist the comfort it promised. As usual, the man’s green eyes were never still.
“Why ‘superficially’?” Pendergast asked.
“Because sociopaths don’t feel remorse. Their defining characteristic is lack of empathy for other people. There’s a contradiction there.”
“Which is?”
“The note on the grave.”
“Acta est fabula, plaudite!” Pendergast said. “Precisely what troubles me. Why would a sociopath kill somebody at random, with a spectacular degree of violence, in order to leave a present on a grave with a note full of sorrow and contrition? And how did he make his choice, Agent Coldmoon? Killing Ms. Montera where he did meant getting her heart to a cemetery more than a dozen miles away, with precious little time to spare. Why not choose a victim closer at hand?”
“He could be playing with us. The note, even the grave, could be a diversion.”
“Yes. And that is precisely why we have to go to Maine.”
Coldmoon raised an eyebrow. On his impassive face, the small gesture spoke volumes.
“Ah. Do I sense an objection?”
Coldmoon’s answer, when it came, seemed carefully chosen. “Going to investigate Elise Baxter’s suicide — I’m assuming that’s your idea — would seem a low priority right now.”
“Consider: the evidence we’ve seen in Ms. Montera’s murder has led nowhere.”
“But that evidence is still coming in. The crime’s only thirty-six hours old.”
“All the more reason for haste. It can wait another thirty-six while the Miami Beach PD finish their lab work. More killings might be in the offing.”
“With respect, Agent Pendergast, that’s not how the Bureau prosecutes this kind of case. The crime was committed here. This is where we’re supposed to look for the killer, especially if he might strike again.”
Pendergast was silent for a moment. Then he took a contemplative sip from his mint julep. “I was afraid you’d say that. But there’s a great difference between looking for a killer and finding him. Who knows where he will strike again? The next here, if there is one, may be Alaska. No — the best place to pick up his trail is at the beginning, with the suicide of Elise Baxter. We must be like David Livingstone, searching for the source of our own Nile.”
“Nice metaphor. But even if I agreed with you, there’s a problem.”
Agent Pendergast uncrossed his feet. “I assume you mean our friend Pickett.”
Coldmoon nodded.