Pendergast put the photo aside. "Yes?"
"Well--it's pretty obvious the person who killed Blackletter also killed him. But why? He didn't have anything to do with this avian flu--did he?"
Pendergast shook his head. "No, he didn't. And that is a very good question. I believe it must concern the conversation Helen once had with Blast. Blast told me that, when he confronted her about the Black Frame and her reasons for wanting it, she said: 'I don't want to own it, I just want to examine it.' We now know Blast was telling the truth about this. But of course, whoever arranged for my wife's murder cannot have known what transpired in that conversation. She might have told him more--perhaps much more. About Audubon and the avian flu, for example. And so, for safety's sake, Blast had to die. He wasn't a big loose end--but he was a loose end nonetheless."
Hayward shook her head. "That's cold."
"Cold indeed."
At that moment Maurice came in, a look of distaste on his face. "Mr. Hudson is here to see you, sir."
"Send him in."
Hayward watched as a short, stocky, obsequious-looking fellow came into the room, all trench coat, fedora, pinstripes, and wingtips. He looked every inch the film noir caricature of a private investigator, which is what he evidently thought he was. She was amazed that Pendergast would have any truck with such a person.
"Hope I'm not interrupting," he said, ducking his head and removing his hat.
"Not at all, Mr. Hudson." She noticed Pendergast didn't introduce her. "You have the list of pharmaceutical companies I asked for?"
"Yes, sir. And I visited each one--"
"Thank you." Pendergast took the list. "Please wait in the east parlor, where I will take your report in good time." He nodded to Maurice. "Make sure Mr. Hudson is comfortable with a nonalcoholic beverage." The old servant led the man back out into the hallway.
"What in the world did you do to make him so..." Hayward searched for the right word. "Meek?"
"A variant of the Stockholm syndrome. First you threaten his life, then with great magnanimity you spare him. The poor fellow made the mistake of hiding in my garage with a loaded gun, in a rather ill-considered blackmail attempt."
Hayward shuddered, remembering afresh why she found Pendergast's methods so distasteful.
"Anyway, he's working for us now. And the first assignment I gave him was to compile a list of all the pharmaceutical companies within fifty miles of the Doane house--reasoning fifty miles to be the outside limit of how far an escaped parrot would fly. All that remains is to compare it to your list of the companies Blackletter consulted for." Pendergast held up the two sheets of paper, glancing back and forth between them. His face suddenly hardened. He lowered the sheets and his eyes met hers.
"We have a match," he said. "Longitude Pharmaceuticals."
51
Baton Rouge
THE HOUSE, OF CHEERFUL YELLOW STUCCO with white trim, stood in a gentrified neighborhood at the fringes of Spanish Town in Baton Rouge, with a tiny front garden overflowing with tulips. Laura Hayward followed Pendergast up the brick walk to the front door. She eyed the large sign that read NO SOLICITING. That did not seem like a good omen, and she was miffed that Pendergast had turned down her suggestion they call ahead to set up an appointment.
A small man with wispy hair opened the door, peering at them through round glasses. "May I help you?"
"Is Mary Ann Roblet at home?" Pendergast asked in his most mellifluous southern accent, irritating Hayward further. She reminded herself again that she was doing this not for him, but for Vinnie.
The man hesitated. "Whom may I say is calling?"
"Aloysius Pendergast and Laura Hayward."
Another hesitation. "Are you, ah, religious folk?"
"No, sir," said Pendergast. "Nor are we selling anything." He waited, with a pleasant smile on his face.
The man, after a moment of further hesitation, called over his shoulder. "Mary Ann? Two people to see you." He waited at the door, not inviting them in.
A moment later a vivacious woman bustled to the door, plump, ample-breasted, her silver hair coiffed, makeup tastefully applied. "Yes?"
Pendergast introduced themselves once again while at the same time removing the FBI shield from his suit, opening it in front of her with a smooth motion, and then closing it and restoring it somewhere inside the black material. Hayward noticed with a start that tucked inside the shield was the snapshot she had retrieved in Blackletter's house.
A blush crept up on Mary Ann Roblet's face.
"May we speak with you in private, Mrs. Roblet?"
She was flustered, unable to reply, her blush growing deeper.
The man, evidently her husband, hovered suspiciously in the background. "What is it?" he asked. "Who are these people?"
"They're FBI."
"FBI? FBI?What the heck is this about?" He turned to them. "What do you want?"
Pendergast spoke up. "Mr. Roblet, it's purely routine, nothing to be concerned about. But it is confidential. We need to speak with your wife for a few minutes, that's all. Now, Mrs. Roblet, may we come in?"
She backed away from the door, her face now entirely red.
"Is there a place inside where we can talk in private?" asked Pendergast. "If you don't mind."
Mrs. Roblet recovered her voice. "We can go into the den."
They followed Mrs. Roblet into a small television room, with two overstuffed chairs and a sofa, white wall-to-wall carpeting, and a huge plasma television at one end. Pendergast firmly shut the door as Mr. Roblet hung about in the hall, frowning. Mrs. Roblet seated herself primly on the sofa, adjusting the hem of her dress. Instead of taking one of the chairs, Pendergast sat down beside her on the sofa.
"My apologies for disturbing you," said Pendergast in a low, pleasant voice. "We hope to take up only a few minutes of your time."
After a silence, Mrs. Roblet said, "I assume you're looking into the... death of Morris Blackletter."
"That's correct. How did you know?"
"I read about it in the papers." Her carefully constructed face already looked like it was beginning to fall apart.
"I'm very sorry," said Pendergast, extracting a small packet of tissues from his suit and offering her one. She took one, dabbed her eyes. She was making a heroic effort to hold herself together.
"We're not here to pry into your past life or disturb your marriage," Pendergast went on in a kindly voice. "I imagine it must be difficult to grieve secretly for someone you once cared about a great deal. Nothing we say in here will get back to your husband."
She nodded, dabbing again. "Yes. Morris was... was a wonderful man," she said quietly, then her voice changed, hardened. "Let's just get this over with."
Hayward shifted uncomfortably. Damn Pendergast and his methods, she thought. This kind of an interview should take place in a formal setting: a police station with recording devices.
"Of course. You met Dr. Blackletter in Africa?"
"Yes," she said.
"Under what circumstances?"
"I was a nurse with the Libreville Baptist Mission in Gabon. That's in West Africa."
"And your husband?"
"He was the mission's senior pastor," she said in a low voice.
"How did you meet Dr. Blackletter?"
"Is this really necessary?" she whispered.