“And I really wish I had not had a partner forced upon me. But there it is. Constance, I promise you shall be both my sounding board and my oracle, à la distance.”
Mrs. Trask chuckled as she poured out two cups of tea. “Can you imagine, our Mr. Pendergast with a partner underfoot? It’ll never do. When it comes to working with others, he’s a lost cause — if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
“I’ll pardon your saying so,” Pendergast replied, “if you’ll be good enough to bundle a few of these madeleines in with the rest of my packing. I understand that certain airplane food can be hazardous — if not worse.”
“Is he indeed a lost cause?” Constance said, turning to Mrs. Trask. “One can always hope.”
Mrs. Trask had already turned to leave, and so she missed the look that — so fleetingly — passed between Pendergast and the woman seated opposite him.
4
At precisely twenty minutes to seven that same evening, Special Agent Pendergast — having checked into the Fontainebleau Hotel and ensured that the La Mer Presidential Suite he’d booked was to his liking — strolled through the echoing lobby in the direction of the Atlantic. The sprawling, marbled space — with its “Stairway to Nowhere,” flocks of chattering guests, and labyrinthine entrances and exits — felt more like a first-class departure lounge than a hotel. Glass doors whispered open as he approached, and he exited into the expansive grounds. Navigating among several sparkling pools, he passed bars, spas, and lush plantings on his way to the South Tropez Lawn. Sunbathers, glancing up at him through their Oakleys or Tom Fords, were not surprised by the black suit he wore; they assumed he was some sort of hotel lackey headed to one of the private poolside cabanas. Other butlers in black could be seen making their way among the cabanas, bringing their guests everything from fruit smoothies to fifteen-hundred-dollar bottles of Dom Pérignon.
Crossing the lawn, Pendergast strolled along a path that wound through manicured grounds until it reached a set of steps, which rose to intersect a walkway of wooden planks, lined with royal palms. This was the Miami Beach Boardwalk, a pedestrian boulevard that hugged the oceanfront from Indian Beach Park down almost to the port of Miami.
Pendergast turned southward, then paused. To his left ran a narrow strip of shrubbery and sea oats, beyond which lay the beach; to his right stretched an unbroken procession of hotels, condominiums, and pleasure domes of various types, brilliant white against the cobalt sky. There was the faintest of breezes; the temperature was eighty degrees and the air pleasantly humid. A septuagenarian woman walked past wearing huge round sunglasses and a pink thong bathing suit, balancing carefully on Italian sandals with stiletto heels.
Pendergast gazed thoughtfully about for a few moments more. Then he straightened the knot of his necktie, shot his cuffs, and joined the scantily clad throng of pedestrians walking along the promenade. A leisurely half an hour’s stroll took him as far south as Twenty-Third Street, by which time the boardwalk had descended to a paved surface. Another few blocks, and the crowd of pedestrians thickened and milled about. The reason was obvious: a hundred yards ahead, the boardwalk was roped off by yellow crime scene tape.
Now the strip of shrubbery to his left had widened into a series of hedges and clipped topiary shrubs — each section maintained by a swanky hotel on the opposite side of the boardwalk. Beyond the elegant plantings ran a long berm. Turning down a narrow lane, Pendergast climbed the concrete steps to the top of the berm, his silvery eyes taking in everything. Here was another path, this one slender and sandy. Ahead and below stretched the beach itself, lined with rows of umbrellas and chaise longues, punctuated by the occasional lifeguard stand. Beyond lay the Atlantic, its brilliant cerulean turning a pale aquamarine as it neared the coastline.
He gazed seaward for a long moment, then he turned west, taking in the stunning display of wealth that made up this part of the island. Beyond he could make out Biscayne Bay and, still farther west, the spires of downtown Miami. It was now seven thirty, and the sun was preparing to dip below the horizon: something it had already done ninety minutes earlier, back in New York. Pink opalescent clouds gathered in the distance.
For a time Pendergast stood motionless, the light breeze riffling his hair. At last, he looked back down toward the section of shrubbery and boardwalk set off by yellow tape. A number of rubberneckers in the hotels opposite were doing the same. The murder had already hit the news feeds, but the police had managed to keep the stolen heart out of it.
Now, at the same leisurely pace, he descended the stairs again and approached the tape. Most of the cordoned area was made up of what appeared to be a chest-high hedge maze, meticulously pruned, set between the boardwalk and the sea berm. Pendergast stepped forward until the lower button of his suit jacket was just touching the tape. Clearly, the main event was over: the only people he could see within the cordon were a Crime Scene Unit worker — still wearing his mask and booties — and a police officer sitting on a nearby bench, evidently keeping the scene secure.
Pendergast had approached so quietly that the policeman remained unaware of his presence. It was only when he began to duck beneath the tape that the man looked over. The vacant expression on his face changed to one of annoyance, and he rose from the bench and began walking over, hiking up his pants and straightening the duty belt around his waist. He was in his late forties, with thinning chestnut hair, widely set eyes, and a florid face. Despite his relatively thin limbs, a noticeable paunch pushed against his shirt.
“Hey!” he said roughly. “You! Stop!”
Pendergast obliged — but not until he had slipped under the tape and straightened up once again.
The cop came up, frowning. Tiny blood vessels were sprinkled liberally over his cheeks. Below his shoulders were stitched the blue-and-gold patches of the Miami Beach PD. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is a restricted area. Get back behind the tape!”
“Excuse me, Officer,” Pendergast said in his most engaging voice, “but I believe my presence here is authorized.”
The cop looked him up and down. “What are you — an undertaker? They took the body away hours ago.”
“I am not, I fear, an undertaker, although you can be forgiven the misconception. I’m a special agent with the FBI.”
“FBI?” The cop’s wide-set eyes narrowed. “Let’s see your creds.”
“Certainly.” Pendergast reached into his suit pocket, removed a slim leather wallet, and raised it, letting it slip open. The top part contained his ID, with rank and photo; below was his shield.
The local cop scrutinized it carefully. Then he gazed back at Pendergast with less suspicion but increased animosity. “FBI,” he repeated. “I did hear something about you boys coming down. Something about liaising with us on this case.”
“That’s right,” Pendergast said. “How good of you to recall, Officer—” he glanced at the nameplate — “Officer Kleinwessel. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll just take a look for myself.”
But as he stepped forward, the cop put a hand on his chest to stop him. “You’re not going anywhere, pal.”
Pendergast did not like being touched. “I beg your pardon?”
“Like I said — I heard about you boys coming down. What I heard from my sergeant was the FBI would be here tomorrow. Not today. The paperwork hasn’t cleared our end. Unless you can produce a letter of authorization, I can’t let you onto this crime scene.”