“How expert was the knife or hatchet work?”
“The hatchet showed determination rather than any particular anatomical or surgical expertise. It struck slightly off center in the manubrium bone. On the other hand, the throat cut was either proficient or lucky — the right carotid was neatly severed, causing the victim to bleed out quickly.”
Coldmoon nodded slowly. “Any theories?”
“No.”
A silence gathered. Then Coldmoon began to speak again in his monotonic voice. “What about a link between the victim and the suicide whose grave it was?”
“None that I can find. No common acquaintances, interests, careers, or personal intersections. It’s possible the victim was chosen at random. And then there is the odd literary reference in the note.”
Pendergast paused, but Coldmoon did not ask the expected question.
Instead, he said, “The note also stated others were awaiting gifts.”
His eyes were not brown, but rather a golden green. Pendergast noticed they wandered about the room, like a bored schoolboy’s.
“Which suggests there’s a link somewhere.” Pendergast paused. “And it means we have a ticking clock — and a great deal of work to do. As a result, I’d suggest we pursue separate lines of inquiry.”
“Separate?”
“You, for example, could continue to look into the circumstances of Montera’s death — there is still much to go over, after all — while I investigate the Baxter suicide.”
“In other words, I should go over ground you’ve already covered.”
“Not at all. I only paid the briefest of visits to the crime scene. There is still a great deal to be learned about Ms. Montera’s life, her background, her acquaintances, an interview with the ex-boyfriend. With any luck, the Miami Beach PD will have already done some of the heavy lifting for you by now. Besides, I’d benefit from a second perspective.”
Coldmoon’s eyes stopped their transit of the room and came back into focus on Pendergast. “I’d prefer to stay with you.”
A look of professional surprise came over Pendergast’s features. “That would be a duplication of manpower.”
“We’re partners, and our orders are to work together. Speaking of orders, ADC Pickett asked me to give you this memorandum.” He pulled one hand from his pockets and held out a sealed envelope, folded and slightly travel-worn.
Wordlessly, Pendergast took the envelope, tore it open, and removed the single sheet within.
SA Pendergast:
Pursuant to my orders of yesterday afternoon, you will work closely and directly with Agent A. B. Coldmoon, including him personally in all lines of investigation, wherever they lead, and keeping him privy to all your conclusions or suppositions resulting from said investigation. Any deviation from this mode of operation will be considered insubordination.
ADC Pickett
New York Field Office
Pendergast carefully refolded the note, replaced it in the envelope, and slipped it into a pocket of his black suit, his face expressionless.
6
As they left the house together, Coldmoon asked, “How did you get here? Did you rent a car?”
Pendergast indicated a white Nissan parked in front of the house. “Alas, yes. Isn’t it my good fortune you came along when you did — the streets around here are absolutely overflowing with traffic, and so labyrinthine as to be Kafkaesque. There’s somewhere we need to be in forty-five minutes, and, really, I’m such a poor driver — I’m sure you’ll do a better job of navigating than I could. Would you mind? Besides, your car looks more to my liking.” He nodded at the dinged-up Mustang Shelby GT50 °Coldmoon had parked by the curb.
“I tried to requisition a pool car from the local FBI, who sent me to the DEA, and after a lot of paperwork they gave me this confiscated vehicle. Said it was the best they could do on short notice. Not sure if it was a favor, or a joke.”
“Perhaps they thought it would blend into the surroundings.”
Coldmoon glanced at the rented Nissan. It appeared that Pendergast was abandoning it. He shrugged and walked around to the Mustang’s driver’s seat. Pendergast started to reach for a rear door — in, apparently, a habitual motion — saw the vehicle had none, then opened the passenger door instead.
“Where to?” Coldmoon asked.
“Bayside Cemetery, please. Bal Harbour.”
While Coldmoon was plugging this into his cell phone, Pendergast made himself as comfortable as possible in the bucket seat. Then he glanced at Coldmoon, with a loud sniff. “Do you mind if we open the windows? Air-conditioning irritates my nasal passages.”
“Don’t mind.”
“Thank you.” He lowered the passenger window. “Since we’re to be partners,” he went on, “I assume you’d prefer to proceed on a first-name basis. My first name is—”
“Coldmoon will be fine,” the agent said as he pulled away from the curb.
“Excellent. Of course,” replied Pendergast.
The Mustang drove like a low-rider; its engine howled rather than purred, and every bump or crack they passed over seemed to be magnified a hundredfold. As they drove, Pendergast briefed him on what the Miami Beach PD had done. He had liaised with one Lieutenant Sandoval, a chief homicide detective in charge of the case, and the man had already provided a sheaf of evidence on the Montera murder, with more lab reports on the way. The killing seemed to be both random and hasty, but the MO was abnormaclass="underline" the “blitz” style of attack was indicative of a disorganized killer, but the high level of control and lack of evidence left at the crime scene suggested the opposite.
Coldmoon found that Pendergast’s description of the traffic was also accurate. He was able to avoid the worst of downtown by sticking to Route 1, using the traffic-avoidance features of his smartphone app, but once he crossed the Intracoastal Waterway onto the island it became an unavoidable nightmare of valet cars triple-parked outside waterfront hotels, clueless tourists, and elderly drivers who had no business behind the wheel. It took the entire forty-five minutes Pendergast had allotted to cover the twenty miles to Bayside Cemetery.
At last, Coldmoon turned off Collins Avenue and headed west. Bayside Cemetery was small and relatively quiet: about a dozen acres of palm, magnolia, and gumbo-limbo trees, with ranks of headstones pleasantly arrayed in the fretted shade beneath. Coldmoon pulled through the gates and parked in a small dirt lot surrounded by white birds-of-paradise. There were a number of vehicles in the lot, a few of them official.
Pendergast got out of the car and nodded to a police officer sitting in one of the vehicles, who looked curiously at the Shelby. But then, instead of walking directly to the grave where Montera’s heart had been placed — which Coldmoon could see in the distance as a large square of yellow — Pendergast began to take a seemingly random stroll through the grounds, pausing here and there to gaze at the surrounding landscape or scrutinize something in the grass. Coldmoon followed, saying nothing. Pendergast meandered through the gravestones in his black suit, nodding like a resident undertaker to the occasional visitor, eventually making his way to a small groundskeeper’s shed. He skirted its rear, still looking casually around, then continued his stroll. At last he headed toward the grave of Elise Baxter. Now that they were closer, Coldmoon could make out a small knot of people huddled together near the crime scene tape. There were five in all, looking confused and upset. Their attire and demeanor seemed locaclass="underline" Coldmoon was already learning to differentiate tourists from residents. On the far side of the tape, two duty policemen were standing together, talking in low tones and occasionally casting an eye toward the group.