He replaced his phone on the desk in disgust. “We should have found that shrink ourselves, not learned it from a damned newspaper. Just like we should have leaned harder on a possible link between the old suicides and the new murders. That’s on us.”
“At least that reporter doesn’t know the ‘old suicides’ weren’t suicides,” Coldmoon said.
Sandoval nodded. Then he pushed a small remote control on the desk, and the large black rectangle at the far end of the room came to life. Coldmoon realized that it was not a blackboard after all, but an ultra-high-resolution monitor. The screen split into three windows displaying head shots: Baxter, Flayley, and Adler.
“I find it curious,” Pendergast said, “that while all of these supposed suicides lived in Greater Miami, they were killed hundreds of miles apart. And yet the recent Brokenhearts murders all took place in Miami Beach.”
“You think that’s relevant?” Sandoval asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Sandoval turned to Grove. “Anything yet on the Adler autopsy files, Commander?”
“We finally broke the logjam,” Grove said. “Our team located her files and morgue photographs. I’ll be getting them within the hour. She was apparently a follower of a country music group, the Fat Palmettos, and she traveled up to North Carolina from Hialeah for a concert that never took place — the lead guitarist sprained a thumb.”
“The Fat Palmettos,” Coldmoon said.
“They disbanded several years ago.”
“We’ll check on them anyway,” said Sandoval. “Meanwhile, our teams here in Miami Beach are interviewing her remaining family, former co-workers, the rest. Nothing of note so far.”
“Any developments on Misty Carpenter and her unusual business?” Coldmoon asked.
“We’ve decrypted her client list,” said Sandoval, “and started interviews. Once again, it looks like she was simply a target of opportunity.”
“Mmmm,” Pendergast murmured. He looked away a moment, his eyes narrowing. Then he glanced again at Sandoval. “Thank you very much, Lieutenant. This has been extremely helpful.”
“Sure,” Sandoval said, gathering his stuff together.
No questions, no second-guessing, no nothing — just pure cooperation. Coldmoon had to admit: Pickett’s word seemed good.
“Commander Grove,” Pendergast said, “now that we have a clearer sense of what we’re looking for, I was hoping the research and external relations departments of the Miami PD — which I understand are your jurisdiction — could cast a net for us. Specifically, a search for deaths, declared as suicides, that match the MO of Baxter, Flayley, and Adler. It’s true we haven’t yet gotten confirmation on Adler, but I think it’s worth searching for additional suicides possibly tricked out to look like murder — don’t you?”
“I do — very good idea.” Grove began jotting notes in a small, leather-bound notebook.
“It will be a rather wide net, and I’m afraid your people will have a lot of work on their hands. You’ll need to search for suicides matching the following characteristics: female, aged twenty to forty, who resided in Greater Miami but died out of state, hung with a knotted bedsheet, and leaving no suicide note. If any autopsies resulted in a conclusion of murder, or even suspicion of it, include those as well. For the time being, to make the search more manageable, you might limit things to states east of the Mississippi.”
“Got it,” Grove said, still writing. “And the time interval?”
“January 2006 to January 2008.”
Coldmoon glanced at Pendergast. With such broad parameters, he figured they’d probably get a list as long as the phone book. Thank God they had Grove and his ability to marshal the data-gathering resources of the Miami PD.
Grove stood up. “If there’s nothing else, gentlemen, I’ll get right on it.”
“We’re greatly indebted to you for this assistance, Commander,” Pendergast said.
“Think nothing of it. Maybe you can give me a tour of Twenty-Six Federal Plaza next time I’m in New York.”
“It would be my pleasure.” And Pendergast turned away as Grove followed Lieutenant Sandoval out of the war room and down the corridor.
32
Smithback had just gotten into the newsroom and was settling into his cubicle for the morning when the pool secretary, Maurice, came up to him with a crate of mail.
“A bunch of letters for you,” he said.
“Can’t someone open them up and see what they are? I’ve got research to do.”
“We did open them up. Six are supposedly from Mister Brokenhearts himself. Mr. Kraski has those in his office and wants to see you tout de suite.”
Smithback groaned as he stood up and threaded his way through the cubicles to the editor’s office. Kraski was a big guy in a sweaty shirt and tie — no jacket — with a flat-top crew cut that had gone out of style in 1955. He looked like he’d studied the textbook on being a tough, foulmouthed newspaper editor. The only thing he lacked was the cigarette hanging off the lip. Underneath, of course, he was the sweetest guy in the world — a cliché right out of The Front Page.
“Where the hell have you been?” Kraski said by way of greeting.
“Hey, boss, it’s nine thirty. And that was quite a scoop I got yesterday, with the shrink story. I mean, two of the dead women had been seeing him! And the bastard tried to attack me when I asked him about it. I ran a background check and found the guy assaulted his wife during a divorce five years ago — he had to take anger management classes. That’s why they eased him out of his practice. I tell you, the man looks like a serial killer.”
“Maybe.” Kraski waved his hand. “Then how do you explain what’s right here on my desk: six letters to you from Mister Brokenhearts?”
“They’re bullshit, of course.”
“You think so? Take a look.” He pushed them over. Five of them were on cheap paper, with strange handwriting, one in crayon. The sixth letter was in an expensive, creamy envelope.
He pulled a letter out at random.
Hey Smithback, I’m Mister Brokenharts and I’m going to rip your fucken balls off and...
It went on in that vein, replete with misspellings and grammatical abominations. He pulled out another.
Dear Roger Smitback, I am Mister Brokenhearts I got two women hostate they are at 333 Ocean Way Drive Allmeda you better come now or I gong kill them...
He pushed that one aside as well and took up the creamy envelope. He slid out the letter and unfolded it. It was written in an elegant cursive hand, each letter carefully formed. Smithback began to read, a chill forming along his spine.
Dear Roger,
You, perhaps, understand. Their deaths cry out for justice. Hers most of all. Until she is at rest, I cannot rest. She was my reason for life, and why I must survive. Do you understand? I must atone. If you cannot help me do so, I will have to continue on my own — and this will not end well.
Yours truly,
“Jesus.” He looked up at Kraski. “This letter... it might be the real deal.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“We’ve got to bring this to the police — right?”
“Sure, sure. Thing is, we don’t really know it’s Brokenhearts. I mean, there’s five other letters here — and that’s just today’s mail. On top of this psycho shrink of yours.” He stabbed at the envelope with his finger. “This is your story. Get to work. As soon as your piece goes live — say, two hours from now? — we’ll turn all six over to the police.”