“Mr. Coldmoon needs his—” the nurse began again, but at this Fauchet linked arms with the woman and gently but firmly led her out of the room, peppering her with questions about Coldmoon’s medications. The three men watched as Fauchet closed the door.
“In any case,” Pickett said, turning back and stiffening his spine as if to make a formal announcement, “now is as good a time as any to let you know there’s an opening in Washington for an executive assistant director of the National Security Branch, and I’ve been offered the position. Closing this case obviously played a part in that offer.” He cleared his throat. “I may be a demanding supervisor, but I also give credit where credit is due. And so, Agent Coldmoon, you should know that — in addition to the FBI Star — I’m initiating the paperwork to promote you to senior special agent.”
Coldmoon didn’t know how to answer. “Thank you, sir.”
But Pickett was already turning to Pendergast. “Agent Pendergast. As I’ve mentioned, you deserve a large share of the credit here. I suppose I could promote you to supervisory special agent, but I doubt you’d want to be burdened by the managerial duties.”
Pendergast bowed slightly. “Quite true.”
Pickett glanced at his watch. “So before I go, is there anything else I could do for you? Professionally, I mean?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. You recall the recent agreement we made at that rooftop bar, regarding the details of my, ah, operational parameters?”
A cloud passed across Pickett’s face before he could stop it. “Of course. And I’ll make sure my successor at the New York Field Office continues to honor your unorthodox methods — assuming, of course, you maintain your impressive closure rate.”
“I shall make every effort.” Pendergast indicated his thanks with a nod. “That leaves just one other matter — the nature of my work environment. Specifically, with regard to a partner.” His face, pale at the best of times, was now like marble. “As you no doubt remember, I initially opposed the idea of working with Agent Coldmoon. However, I... ” He seemed to be uncharacteristically stumbling. “It should be noted—”
“Um, one other thing,” Coldmoon interrupted. “As part of my promotion, I mean.”
The other two turned to look at him.
“I’d rather you find me another partner, sir. Going forward, I mean.”
Pickett raised his eyebrows.
“No offense to Agent Pendergast. But I’m not sure our investigative methods are entirely, entirely... in sync.” Christ, he was tired. “I mean... ” He waved an enervated hand over his prostrate body.
“No offense taken,” Pendergast said quickly, gliding in before Pickett could speak. “After all, it would hardly be fair — given what’s happened to other agents I’ve worked with in the past. Agent Coldmoon’s current condition speaks for itself. I believe there is a story going around the Bureau to the effect that to partner with me would be a fatal enterprise. That I am a sort of Jonah on the FBI’s vessel, as it were. An unfortunate rumor, but one I find hard to dispel.”
Pickett looked from Pendergast to Coldmoon and back again, unable to completely keep his features free of suspicion. “Very well,” he said. “If that’s your formal request, Agent Coldmoon.”
At that moment the nurse barged back in. The expression on her face showed she meant business this time. “Out. All of you.”
“Yes, of course,” said Pickett hastily. “Agent Coldmoon, you’ll be hearing from me. Get back on your feet soon.”
Pendergast turned to follow him out. At the last moment, he glanced back. “Thank you,” he said. “Armstrong.”
“You owe me,” Coldmoon whispered as weariness overwhelmed him. “Big time.”
50
Roger Smithback sat at his desk, fingers motionless on the keyboard. His office had been cleared of the heavy crates full of letters — all pointless now, with the real Brokenhearts caught just a week ago, and Miami getting back to normal... or as normal as it ever got.
The thing was, Smithback ruminated, the murders didn’t feel solved to him. Oh, he’d heard the explanations — the police had doled them out to the press like a party line, which it probably was — but there were still questions that remained unanswered. In fact, there were whole pieces missing: exactly what triggered it all, why the hearts had been left on those particular graves... even who, precisely, was guilty of what. He’d asked these questions, of course, but had been stonewalled by the fact that Mister Brokenhearts, aka Ronald Vance, was a very sick individual who was under lockdown, being questioned by psychiatrists and psychologists, and that his motives could not now be revealed by the police — if he had any intelligible motives at all. The same went for this Commander Grove who’d died in an Everglades shootout: although his role in triggering the killings had been alluded to, the police tended to close ranks around their own, even the rotten apples, and nobody would answer his questions.
Which was bad news for him. He’d gotten some serious visibility on this story early on. In return, the whole damn city expected he would ultimately deliver the goods — and he couldn’t. He didn’t have any more information than the rest of the crime beat reporters. Interest in the crazy letters he’d been receiving had waned. The news cycle was moving on and the Brokenhearts case was on its way from the front burner to the back; the wounded FBI agent at the heart of the case would soon be released from the hospital; and Kraski, his editor at the Herald, wanted to shift him back to the vice beat. In fact, Kraski had only allowed him this final story on the murders — a kind of editorializing summing-up — after some serious pestering on Smithback’s part.
He stared at what he’d written thirty minutes ago, and hadn’t been able to add to since.
Until such time as the psychological specialists from the Miami PD and FBI are able to complete their evaluation of Brokenhearts, now revealed as Ronald Vance, we may never understand the motivations that led to his murderous rampage. We may never know what Vance was “atoning” for and why he felt such a burning need to do so.
What we do know is that Ronald’s father, John, led his son on a homicidal journey that spanned the East Coast 11 years ago. But that revelation leads only to more questions. What was the trigger that set them on this path of murder? What precisely was the relationship of this father-and-son killing team? Why did the murders staged as “suicides” stop when they did — and why did the son, Ronald, wait so long to start killing again? Why the hearts on the graves? In sum: What exactly is the link between the fake suicides 11 years ago and the Brokenhearts killings today? And exactly how did the death of Miami PD Commander Gordon Grove fit into this picture of violence?
Henry Miller wrote that “until we accept the fact that life itself is founded in mystery, we shall learn nothing.” Perhaps all we can do, then, is accept the fact that this tragedy happened, and hope that — with such acceptance — understanding will eventually follow.
“Really, must you quote Henry Miller?” came a dulcet, languorous voice from over his shoulder. “You’re setting a bad literary example for the Herald — and these days, newspapers need all the help they can get.”
Smithback wheeled around to see Agent Pendergast standing over him. He’d come up behind the journalist so silently, Smithback had no idea how long he’d been standing there. “Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack.”
“I frequently have that effect on people.” Pendergast looked around at the half-empty newsroom, then took a seat, folded one black-clad knee over the other, and regarded the journalist impassively. “Your brother would have finished that piece by now.”