“And this was the twenty-eighth?”
“Guess so. It was a week or two back.”
“Can you check?” Betterton hoped that, if he could get Fourier to enter the information into his terminal, he might sneak a glance at the results.
But Fourier didn’t bite. “No, I can’t.”
Oh, well. “And a name?”
Fourier hesitated again. “It was… Falkoner. Conrad Falkoner, I think. No — Klaus Falkoner.”
“And where was he coming from?”
“Miami. Dixie Airlines.”
“How do you know? Did you see the ticket?”
“We ask the customers to give us their arrival flight, so in the case of a delay we can hold the reservation.”
Fourier’s face had closed down and Betterton knew he’d get nothing more. “Okay, thanks, Hugh. I owe you one.”
“Yes, you do.” As another customer came in, Fourier turned away with evident relief.
Sitting in his Nissan in the YouSave parking lot, Betterton fired up his laptop, ensured his wireless connection was good, and then made a quick canvass of the Dixie Airlines website. He noticed they had only two flights into the local airport each day, one from Miami and another from New York. They arrived within an hour of each other.
He was wearing a fancy raincoat, like you see in those spy movies. That’s what Billy B. had said.
Another quick check of the web informed him that October 28 had been a hot and sunny day in Miami. In New York, however, it had been cold with heavy rain.
So the man — Betterton was almost convinced he was the killer — had lied about where he’d come from. Not surprising. Of course, it was possible he’d lied about the airline as well, maybe given a phony name. But that seemed to be carrying paranoia too far.
Thoughtfully, he shut down his laptop. Falkoner had come from New York and Pendergast was living in New York. Were they in league? Pendergast sure as hell wasn’t in Malfourche on official business, not with blowing up a bar and sinking a bunch of boats on his agenda. And this NYPD captain… New York City cops had a reputation for corruption and for being involved in the drug trade. He started to see the big picture: the Mississippi River, the burned-out lab in the swamp, the New York connection, the brutal and execution-style killing of the Brodies, corrupt law enforcement…
Damn if this wasn’t about a major drug operation.
That did it: he was going to New York. He plucked his cell phone from his pocket, dialed.
“Ezerville Bee,” came a shrill voice. “Janine speaking.”
“Janine, it’s Ned.”
“Ned! How’s the vacation going?”
“Educational, thanks.”
“Are you going to be back at work tomorrow? Mr. Kranston needs somebody to cover the rib-eating contest over at the—”
“Sorry, Janine, I’m going to extend my vacation by a couple of days.”
A pause. “Well, when are you coming back?”
“Not sure. Maybe three days, maybe four. I’ll let you know. I still have a week coming to me.”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure Mr. Kranston sees it that way…” Her voice trailed off.
“See you.” Betterton snapped the phone shut before she could say anything more.
CHAPTER 48
New York City
JUDSON ESTERHAZY — IN HIS ROLE AS DR. ERNEST POOLE — walked briskly down the corridor of Mount Mercy Hospital, Felder at his side. They were following a Dr. Ostrom, director of the hospital, who seemed polite, discreet, and extremely professionaclass="underline" excellent qualities for a man in his position.
“I believe you shall find this morning’s consultation to be most interesting,” Esterhazy told Ostrom. “As I’ve explained to Dr. Felder, the chances of her manifesting selective amnesia regarding any knowledge of me are high.”
“I am eager to witness it,” Ostrom said.
“And you’ve told her nothing about me, or prepared her in any way for this visit?”
“She’s been told nothing.”
“Excellent. We should probably keep the actual visit quite short: whatever she does or does not profess to know, the emotional strain will — though most likely unconscious in origin — no doubt be significant.”
“A wise precaution,” Felder agreed.
They turned a corner, waited for an orderly to unlock a metal door. “She will almost certainly appear uncomfortable in my presence,” Esterhazy went on. “This of course involves her own discomfort with her suppressed memories involving my earlier treatment.”
Ostrom nodded.
“One last thing. At the close of the visit, I would appreciate a minute alone with her.”
Ostrom slowed, glanced quizzically over his shoulder.
“I’m curious to learn whether her behavior, once you are out of the room, changes in any way, or if she will maintain the illusion of nonrecognition.”
“I see no problem with that,” Ostrom said. He stopped before a door — marked like the others only with a number — then knocked lightly.
“You may enter,” came the voice from within.
Ostrom unlocked the door, then ushered Felder and Esterhazy into a small windowless room. The only furniture was a bed, table, bookcase, and single plastic chair. A young woman sat at the chair, reading a book. She gazed up as the three entered.
Esterhazy looked at her curiously. He had wondered what Pendergast’s ward would look like — and was now well rewarded for his curiosity. Constance Greene was very — in fact extremely — attractive: thin and petite, with short dark mahogany hair and perfect porcelain skin and violet eyes that were alert and wise but oddly unfathomable. She looked from one man to the next. When she reached Esterhazy, she paused, but her expression did not change.
Esterhazy was not worried she might recognize him as Pendergast’s brother-in-law. Pendergast was not the kind of man to keep family portraits around the house.
“Dr. Ostrom,” she said, putting down her book and standing politely. Esterhazy noticed she had been reading Sartre’s Being and Nothingness. “And Dr. Felder, how delightful to see you again.”
Esterhazy was intrigued. Her movements, her pattern of speech, her very being seemed to echo an earlier, more dignified era. She could almost have been inviting them in for cucumber sandwiches and rose hip tea. She did not look at all like a crazed baby-killer locked in a mental ward.
“Please sit down, Constance,” Dr. Ostrom said. “We’ll only stay for a minute. Dr. Poole here happened to be in town and we thought you might like to see him.”
“Dr. Poole,” Constance repeated as she took her seat. She looked again at Esterhazy, a hint of curiosity kindling in her strange distant eyes.
“That’s correct,” said Felder.
“You have no recollection of me?” Esterhazy said, modulating his tone to one of benevolent concern.
Constance frowned slightly. “I’ve never had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, sir.”
“Never, Constance?” Now Esterhazy added the faintest trace of disappointment and pity to his voice.
She shook her head.
Through the corner of his eye, Esterhazy noticed Ostrom and Felder exchange a brief, significant glance. It was working out just as he’d hoped.
Constance looked at him rather more searchingly. Then she turned toward Ostrom. “What gave you the impression that I would like to see this gentleman?”
Ostrom colored slightly, nodded to Esterhazy.
“You see, Constance,” Esterhazy said, “I treated you once, years ago, at your, ah, guardian’s request.”
“You’re lying,” Constance said sharply, rising again. She turned to Ostrom once more, confusion and alarm now becoming evident in her expression. “Dr. Ostrom, I’ve never seen this man before in my life. And I would very much like you to remove him from the room.”