Dusk was gathering by the time he reached the far side of the hedge, where the lone CSU worker was packing up and preparing to leave. Pendergast showed him his FBI shield, and the man proved far more helpful than the officer had been. He pointed to an area beneath the hedge wall where numerous marker flags had been placed. The mulch was almost black here, and very damp — soaked with a great deal of blood. Pendergast knelt once again and pressed the ground lightly with his fingertips, noting its sponginess.
He removed a small penlight and shone it around. “What can you tell me about the killing?”
“It seems the initial attack was a knife wound across the neck,” the technician said, pulling down his mask. “She was dragged from the path into this isolated spot, her throat cut from behind with a very sharp knife, her chest chopped open with the edge of some large instrument — probably a hatchet — and her heart removed. The M.E. believes she was already unconscious at the time of excision — it was loss of blood that killed her. The body was rolled beneath the hedge — here — and mulch kicked loosely over it.”
“Blood spatter?”
“What you’d expect. Primarily projection spatter onto the underside of the hedge and in the surrounding mulch.”
“When was the proximate time of death?”
“Around four o’clock this morning, give or take.”
“And she was found by—?”
“A couple of newlyweds from Seattle. They chose that spot to fool around.” The man nodded toward a nearby bench.
“This was around ten thirty, I believe?”
“Ten fifteen, yes.”
From his kneeling position, Pendergast looked around. The hedge was thick, and at four in the morning on a moonless night the spot would be very dark indeed. The boardwalk and beach would be deserted, or nearly so. He glanced upward; the view of the nearby hotels was obscured by palm trees and ornamental bushes. Given the populous nature of the barrier island, it was a well-chosen location for a murder.
“May I have a moment?” he asked. “I’m not gowned up.”
“No worries, we’re all done here,” the CSU worker replied.
Pendergast searched the area carefully for fifteen minutes, occasionally employing his loupe, tweezers, flashlight, and cell phone camera. But it was as Kleinwessel had said — there was very little to see.
At last he stood. “Thank you for your patience.”
“Of course.” The man picked up his case and began walking toward the exit to the hedge maze.
Pendergast fell in beside him. “Is there anything else of note about the murder?”
“Nothing, except that we found a couple of bloody footprints leading away from the scene.”
“Footprints?” Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “That would seem worthy of note.”
“They were made by a pair of cheap men’s sandals, size large. Available in any store, easily disposed of. Can’t get more generic than that. Good luck tracing those — everyone wears them, day and night.”
“Everyone?”
“All the tourists, and probably half the residents.” They were approaching the crime scene tape. “This is the Florida coast, right? You plan to go sunbathing in those?” And he nodded toward Pendergast’s bespoke John Lobb shoes, the leather shining dully even in the dying light.
“I see your point.” Pendergast paused. “Day and night, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Ah.” And Pendergast stopped a moment to gaze off into the distance. “What quaint customs you have here, my friend.”
5
The following morning, a white Nissan Altima pulled up in front of a house on Tigertail Avenue in the northeast section of Coconut Grove. It sat there idling at the curb for a minute while the driver fiddled with various knobs, buttons, and display screens. At last the engine died, the driver’s door opened, and Special Agent Pendergast emerged. He dusted himself off, gave the vehicle a baleful glance, then crossed onto the pavement and approached the house.
It was a well-maintained Mission-style dwelling of white stucco, perhaps fifty years old, and surrounded by the heavy “hammock” of trees the town was known for. Although it was located in a bustling residential neighborhood — Pendergast could hear the drone of lawn mowers and the chatter of children on their way to school — this particular house seemed to be asleep. He mounted the front steps, paused for a moment, then pressed the doorbell.
There was a sound of chimes within, and ten seconds later came the soft sound of approaching steps. The door opened and an elderly man appeared. He was almost as tall as Pendergast, dressed in a crisp polo shirt and Bermuda shorts. A thin covering of white hair was roughly combed across his sunburnt pate. He gazed at Pendergast in mute inquiry.
“Good morning,” Pendergast said. “Harold Baxter, I believe?”
“What can I do for you?”
“My name is Special Agent Pendergast, FBI.” He removed his shield and showed it to the man. “I’m very sorry to intrude on your privacy, but I wonder if I might have just a few minutes of your time.”
The man blinked. “The police were here yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes, I’m sure they were. I promise I won’t be here as long as they were.”
“Very well. Come in.” Baxter stood aside while Pendergast opened the screen door and slipped into the house.
The man led him through a living room and dining area — both spotless and smelling faintly of mothballs — out onto a tiled lanai at the rear of the house. Cushioned deck chairs were placed around a glass table, and Baxter motioned the agent toward one. As Pendergast was sitting down, a woman of similarly advanced age appeared at the sliding doors. She held a dish towel in one hand.
“Harold?” she asked, although her gaze was on Pendergast. “Is this another—?”
But Pendergast had already risen again and come forward. “Mrs. Baxter? My name is Pendergast, and I’m with the FBI. Would you mind if I spoke with you and your husband for just a moment?”
“Well... no, I guess not.” The woman walked toward one of the chairs, remembered the dish towel in her hand, then folded it neatly over the back of the chair and sat down.
Pendergast looked at the old man and woman in turn. “First, let me thank you. I know this is difficult, and I’m the last one who’d want to reopen old wounds. So perhaps the easiest thing would be for you to tell me how much you know about the business the detectives were here on yesterday.”
Baxter glanced at his wife. “They didn’t say much. Asked questions, mostly. It had to do with some... thing that was found on Elise’s grave.”
Pendergast nodded for him to continue.
“And they wanted to know if we had any knowledge of that woman who was murdered yesterday, Miss... Miss... ” He glanced again at his wife.
“Montera,” the woman said. “Felice Montera.”
“I see,” Pendergast said in his most sympathetic tone. “And may I ask what you told them in response?”
“We said that, as far as we know, Elise had never met or even heard of that poor girl. We certainly had not. I mean, Elise met a lot of people, but she always told us about them. Every night, over dinner, she’d tell us about her day... ” The old woman’s mouth twitched, and she reached unconsciously for the dish towel.
“So your daughter lived with you.”
The man nodded. “It was convenient for her. She worked close by, in Coral Gables. Elise was saving up for a place of her own, but she was very particular — not surprising, I suppose, in her line of work.”