There was a silence.
“But we’re still left with the question of motive,” Pendergast said. “What precipitated the original killing spree? I believe the answer lies right here in Miami — that is, if we can identify victim zero; the one that started them all.” He turned to Grove. “I am hoping you, Commander, will deploy your teams to find that first murder for us. In that homicide lie the answers we seek — what started this murderous journey and who were the two killers? That will lead us to Brokenhearts.”
“I’m on it,” Grove said. “We’ll put the entire division on this one. I promise you an answer in twenty-four hours or less. Dr. Fauchet? If we get any potential hits, I may need your help with the forensics.”
“Call anytime. As I said, I’m taking some vacation days but I’m always on call.”
Even as she spoke, Grove was rising from his chair and walking halfway to the door. For a gracefully aging man, he could move with remarkable speed. And with one quick glance at Pendergast, Fauchet disappeared out the door after Grove.
Once the echo of their footsteps died away, relative silence settled over the loft. Then Coldmoon looked at Pendergast. “You figured all this out... and didn’t tell me?”
“I wasn’t sure. In fact, I’m still not. It is a lovely theory, I admit, but it’s still just that: a theory. We need to find that first killing in Miami.”
“I’ll bet you’ve been suspecting something like this for a while. How long — as far back as Ithaca?”
“Agent Coldmoon, these realizations don’t switch on like a lightbulb. That’s for mystery novels. Rather, they develop slowly, beneath the surface — like a subcutaneous abscess.”
“Nice metaphor.” Coldmoon heaved a sigh and shook his head in bemusement. Then he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his thermos. “Atanikili,” he said.
The agent bowed slightly. “Philámayaye.”
Coldmoon raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’ve been boning up.”
“It seemed a good idea, under the circumstances.”
“Never hurts to learn new things.”
“True.”
“Or try new things.”
There was a pause while Pendergast peered at the thermos. “Perhaps.”
Coldmoon pried off the top, unscrewed the inner lid, and poured a generous measure of tarry black liquid into the red cup. A smell like burnt rubber — one he loved more than almost anything else — filled the room. He held the cup out to Pendergast. “Coffee, partner?”
Another, longer pause. Then Pendergast accepted the cup; took a small, tentative sip. “The floral bouquet of poison sumac blooms first on the palate,” he announced. “Followed by notes of diesel oil and a long finish of battery acid.” And he handed the cup back.
“Exactly the way I like it,” said Coldmoon, closing his eyes contentedly and downing the lukewarm beverage in a single gulp.
38
The next morning at six thirty, Coldmoon woke from a sound sleep to the chirping of his phone. Grumbling to himself, he answered.
“Agent Coldmoon? It’s Grove. I haven’t been able to reach Pendergast.”
“What a shock,” said Coldmoon.
“I’ve had teams working on the search since yesterday’s meeting,” Grove said. “They’ve been at it all night. We’re focusing on Miami-Dade, but just to be safe we’re not discounting any county in South Florida.”
“Sounds good,” Coldmoon said, trying to keep the sleep out of his voice. “Got anything?”
“They’re about two-thirds of the way through, and so far we’ve gotten three possible hits. Possible is the operative word, so I didn’t want to disturb Dr. Fauchet’s vacation at this hour. Still, I didn’t think I should wait any longer, so I’m having a uniform bring them over to your partner’s, ah, makeshift office for you to look at. They should be there within the half hour. He’ll wait there until you arrive.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
“Sure thing,” Grove said with a laugh. “Feels kind of good to boss people around again. We should be finished by late afternoon, and I’ll bring over any more files myself — if we find any. Meanwhile, I’ll be out chasing down leads. Nothing like throwing around the title commander to cut through bureaucratic red tape in some backwater police department.”
Although Coldmoon had been initially dismissive of the seemingly desk-bound Grove, he had to admit the man was capable of efficient work — and he wasn’t afraid to roll up his sleeves, either.
After he hung up with Grove, Coldmoon called Pendergast — who answered his call immediately — and told him the news. He then went into his kitchenette to make a desperately needed cup of coffee before he could function. He poured more grounds into a coffeepot that had spent two days on the warmer, then showered and dressed. Gulping one cup, he filled his thermos with the rest, got into the Mustang, and headed for the “office.” He arrived at the same time as the uniformed cop, grabbed the bulky envelope handed to him, and carried it inside. He found Pendergast already there in the shadowy interior, examining the wall of maps, face pale.
He pivoted as he heard Coldmoon enter. “Ah,” he said, seeing the envelope with its Miami PD stamp in Coldmoon’s hand. “Let us see what the good commander’s teams have dug up.”
Coldmoon tore open the envelope. Inside were three case files, battered, dog-eared, and smelling of dust and yellowing paper. He laid them out on the table.
“Should we have Fauchet join us?” he asked.
“Undoubtedly. But let’s go through these first and contact her when we actually require her expertise. She’s technically on vacation, after all. Grove promised you any more files by the end of the day — perhaps she can examine them all at once.”
Coldmoon took a seat at the table, and Pendergast did the same. He took one of the files for himself, slid another toward Coldmoon, and put the third to one side.
“Good hunting,” Pendergast told him. “Or, as a friend of mine in the NYPD might say: knock yourself out.”
Coldmoon poured some coffee from the thermos, noticing as he did so that Pendergast edged away from him. He flipped open his file and began paging through the contents. They detailed the short, sad history of one Carmen Rosario, who’d been found hanging from a closet rod in her El Portal apartment. The CSU photos showed a scene he was now all too familiar with: a strangled victim, her once-attractive face mottled and bulging, eyes staring, tongue protruding like a fat cigar. She was thirty-two, divorced, no children, and had worked as a waitress until a few weeks before her death. She had a history of drug abuse and alcoholism. Her mother had died of cancer two months before.
He next turned to the M.E.’s report and leafed through it. He glanced up to see Pendergast looking across the table at him. “Anything of note?”
“Looks like a genuine suicide to me. Drugs, alcohol, dysfunction.”
“Is there a toxicology report?” Pendergast asked.
“Traces of alcohol and opioids in her system, but not enough to kill her.”
“No — just enough for her to overcome her inhibitions and do something rash.”
“The pattern of bruises is consistent with hanging by a knotted bedsheet. The M.E. noted the hyoid bone was fractured in the center. Conclusion: suicide by ligature strangulation. No evidence of a choke hold.”
“And the X-rays?”
Coldmoon detached them from the rest of the report and held them up to the light. “I only notice the one central fracture. But you know, these could just as well be X-rays of beaded saddle blankets for all I can see in them.”
He slid them over and Pendergast picked them up and stared, then laid them down. “It seems unlikely she’s a candidate.”