Verses for the Dead Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, corporate or government entities, facilities, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Splendide Mendax, Inc. and Lincoln Child

  Cover design by Blanca Aulet.

  Cover photographs by Getty Images: © arnaudbertrande; © Kyle Glenn/EyeEm; © elidoturco; © Didier Marti; © Emmanuel Martinez/EyeEm; © Liz Mitchell/EyeEm; © Henry Steadman; © Dean Fikar. Photo illustration by Stanislaw Fernandes.

  Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Edition: December 2018

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  “In the Desert” by Stephen Crane is in the public domain.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018953668

  ISBNs: 978-1-5387-4720-9 (hardcover), 978-1-5387-4718-6 (ebook), 978-1-5387-1548-2 (large print), 978-1-5387-4924-1 (B&N exclusive edition), 978-1-5387-5009-4 (BN.com exclusive signed edition), 978-1-5387-3267-0 (int’l edition)

  E3-20181116-DA-NF

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  Discover More Preston and Child!

  About the Authors

  Also by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

  Lincoln Child dedicates this book to

  his daughter, Veronica

  Douglas Preston dedicates this book to

  Gussie and Joe Stanislaw

  1

  ISABELLA GUERRERO—KNOWN to her friends and fellow bridge club members as Iris—made her way demurely through the palms of Bayside Cemetery. Overhead stretched an infinite sky of pale azure. It was seven thirty in the morning, the temperature hovered at seventy-eight degrees, and the dew that still clung to the broad-bladed St. Augustine grass drenched the leather of her sandals. One plump hand clutched a Fendi bag; the other gripped the leash against which Twinkle, her Pekingese, strained ineffectually. Iris walked gingerly through the graves and coleus plantings—only three weeks ago Grace Manizetti, laden with groceries, had lost her balance while coming back from the local Publix and broken her pelvis.

  The cemetery had opened half an hour before, and Iris had the place to herself. She liked it that way—Miami Beach seemed to get more congested with every passing year. Even here in Bal Harbour, at the north end of the island, traffic was worse than she remembered from the congested New York of her childhood, growing up on Queens Boulevard. And that dreadful mall they’d built a few years back north of Ninety-Sixth had only made things worse. Not only that, but an undesirable element had begun to creep up from the south, with their bodegas and casa this and tienda that. Thank goodness Francis had had the foresight to buy the condominium in Grande Palms Atlantic, right on the beach in Surfside and safe from encroachment.

  Francis. She could see his grave ahead now, the headstone a trifle bleached by the Florida sun but the plot clean and neat—she had seen to that. Twinkle, aware their destination was approaching, had ceased tugging on the leash.

  She had so much to be thankful to Francis for. Since he’d been taken from her three years ago, she’d only grown more aware of her gratitude. It had been Francis who’d had the foresight to move his father’s butcher business from New York City to the Florida coast, back when this section of Collins Avenue was still sleepy and inexpensive. It had been Francis who’d carefully built up the establishment over the years, teaching her how to use the weighing scales and cash register and the names and qualities of the various cuts. And it had been Francis who’d sensed just the right time to sell the business—in 2007, before real estate fell apart. The huge profit they’d made had not only allowed them to buy the Grande Palms condo (at a rock-bottom price a year later) but also ensured they could enjoy many years of comfortable retirement. Who would have guessed he’d be dead of pancreatic cancer so soon?

  Iris had reached the grave now, and she paused a moment to look beyond the cemetery and admire the view. Despite the crowding and traffic, it was still a tranquil sight in its own way: the Kane Concourse arching over the Harbor Islands toward the mainland, the white triangles of sailboats tacking up Biscayne Bay. And everything drenched in warm, tropical pastels. The cemetery was an oasis of calm, never more so than early in the morning, when even in March—at the height of the tourist season—Iris knew she could spend some reflective time at the grave of her departed husband.

  The little vase of artificial flowers she’d placed by the headstone was somewhat askew—no doubt thanks to the tropical storm that had blown through the day before yesterday. Knees protesting, she knelt on the grave. She righted the vase, plucked a handkerchief from her handbag, wiped off the flowers, and began to tidy them. She felt Twinkle tugging on the leash again, harder than before.

  “Twinkle!” she scolded. “No!” Francis had hated the name Twinkle—short for Twinkle Toes—and had always called the dog Tyler, after the street where he’d grown up. But Iris preferred Twinkle, and somehow now that he was gone she didn’t think Francis would mind.

  She pressed the vase into the turf to anchor it, patted the grass all around, and leaned back to admire her work. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement—the groundskeeper maybe, or another mourner come to pay their respects to the dead. It was almost eight now, and after all, Bayside Cemetery was the only graveyard on the whole island: she couldn’t expect to have it all to herself. She’d say a prayer, the one she and Francis had always said together before retiring to bed, and then head back to Grande Palms. There was a board meeting at ten, and she had some ve
ry definite things to say about the state of the plantings around the condo’s entrance loop.

  Twinkle was still tugging insistently at the leash, and now he was yapping, too. She scolded him again. This wasn’t like him—normally the Pekingese was relatively well behaved. Except when that awful Russian blue in 7B set him off. As she rose to her feet, mentally preparing the prayer in her mind, Twinkle seized the moment to bolt, the leash slipping off Iris’s wrist. He went flying away across the damp grass, dragging the leash and barking.

  “Twinkle!” she said sharply. “Come back here this instant!”

  The dog came to a frantic halt at a headstone in the next row. Even at this distance she could tell the stone was older than Francis’s, but not by much. There was a scattering of fresh flowers at the base and what appeared to be a handwritten note. But this was not what caught Iris’s attention; flowers and notes, as well as a variety of cherished mementos, could be found on half the graves in Bayside. No: it was Twinkle himself. He’d apparently found something lying at the base of the headstone—and was making a fuss over it. She couldn’t see what it was, as the object was blocked by his body, but he was hunched over it, busily sniffing and licking.

  “Twinkle!” This was unseemly. The last thing Iris wanted was to make a scene in this place of repose. Had he found an old dog toy? A piece of candy, perhaps, dropped by some passing child?

  The prayer would have to wait until she’d grabbed the dog’s leash.

  Stuffing the handkerchief back into her handbag, she strode toward Twinkle. But as she approached, scolding and tut-tutting, the dog grabbed his newfound prize and scampered off. With a mixture of dismay and embarrassment she saw him disappear into a grove of cabbage palms.

  She sighed with vexation. Francis would not have approved; he’d always maintained that dogs should be well disciplined. “Fluffy little cur,” he would have said. Well, Twinkle would get some discipline tonight: no Fig Newton with his Purina.

  Muttering to herself, Iris followed in the direction the dog had run, stopping when she reached the stand of palms. She looked around. Twinkle was nowhere to be seen. She opened her mouth to call his name, then thought better of it—she was in a cemetery, after all. Chasing after a dog that had gotten loose was bad enough. Besides, the movement she’d noticed earlier had now resolved itself into a group of three people, two girls and a middle-aged man, standing in a semicircle around a grave to her left. It wouldn’t do to make a scene.

  Just then, a flurry of movement caught her eye: it was Twinkle. He was some twenty yards ahead, down near where the graveyard met the water, and he was digging frantically in an amaryllis bed. Dirt was flying everywhere.

  This was terrible. Iris hustled forward as quickly as she could, clutching her bag. The dog was so engrossed in his digging that he did not notice as she came up behind, grasped the leash, and gave him a tug. Surprised, Twinkle did a half somersault, but despite being dragged away by the collar he refused to let go of his prize.

  “Bad dog!” Iris scolded as loudly as she dared. “Bad dog!” She tried to grab whatever it was that Twinkle had found, intending to yank it away, but he evaded her swipe. It was the size of a miniature toy football, but it was so covered by dirt and dog slobber that she could not tell what it was.

  “Drop that, do you hear me?” Twinkle growled as Iris reached for it again, and this time she managed to grab one end. She knew he wouldn’t bite her—it was just a question of pulling the thing out of his jaws. But the dog’s prize was disgustingly slippery, and he was holding on to it with tenacity. The two struggled, Iris dragging the dog toward her, Twinkle resisting, digging his paws in the grass. She glanced over her shoulder apprehensively, but the group at the other grave site had not noticed.

  The nasty tug-of-war lasted nearly thirty seconds, but in the end the thing was just too big for the dog’s small jaws to maintain a firm grip, and with one determined tug Iris managed to yank it away. As she straightened up, checking that both her handbag and leash were secure on her wrists, she registered that the thing was a piece of meat. A gluey, reddish ooze had seeped out of it during the struggle, staining her hand and dirtying Twinkle’s muzzle. At the same time, she realized how unusual a piece of meat it was—tough and leathery. Her first instinct was to let go in disgust, but Twinkle would only have seized it again.

  With Twinkle yapping and leaping, trying to reclaim his find, Iris reached into her handbag, pulled out the handkerchief, and began wiping the thing off. What on earth was it doing lying on a grave?

  She cleaned one side, and a short, thick crimson tube—like the end of a radiator hose—sprang into view. Suddenly she stopped, frozen in horror. She had been a butcher’s wife long enough to know now exactly what was in her hand. It had to be a dream, a nightmare; it could not possibly be real.

  The sense of unreality lasted only a split second. With a shriek of revulsion she dropped the thing as if it had burned her. Instantly, the dog grabbed it in his gore-drenched jaws and once again slipped free, running off in triumph, leash flapping. But Iris did not notice. There was a strange roaring in her ears, and she suddenly felt a wave of heat come over her. Black spots danced around the edges of her vision. The roaring grew louder, then louder still, and the last thing she saw before crumpling to the ground in a dead faint was the group around the other grave running in her direction.

  2

  A​SSISTANT DIRECTOR IN CHARGE Walter Pickett, clad only in a damp towel wrapped around his waist, relaxed in the cedar-walled sauna. It was large, with two racks of benches, and it was empty save for one other man—young and tall, with a swimmer’s build—sitting at the far end near the door. Pickett himself had taken a position beside the dipper of water that helped control the sauna’s heat and humidity. Pickett preferred to be in control of any situation in which he found himself.

  A single sheet of paper, protected in a sheath of clear plastic, sat on the bench beside him.

  He glanced over at the thermometer set into the wall, beads of moisture partly obscuring its face: a pleasant 165 degrees.

  The sauna adjoined the men’s dressing room and shower complex deep inside the Federal Auxiliary Support building, on Worth Street. “Auxiliary Support” contained not only a variety of satellite offices, but also a shooting range and such amenities as squash courts, a pool, and of course this sauna—and it was just around the corner from his office in 26 Federal Plaza. It was a far cry from the spartan Denver FBI office where he’d been special agent in charge until three months ago.

  Since graduating from the Academy, Pickett had moved up quickly through the ranks, making a name for himself in the counterespionage and criminal enterprise divisions, as well as the Office of Professional Responsibility. All along he’d had his eye on this job: head of New York City operations. It was one of the truly top positions in the Bureau and the logical stepping-stone to Washington. Everything depended now on running a tight ship and scoring big on high-profile cases…and Pickett had no doubt of his ability to do both.

  He settled back against the wall, pressing his bare shoulders to the hot wood. He could feel his pores opening in the moist heat. It was a pleasant sensation. He let his eyes half close as he ruminated. Pickett was supremely confident in his abilities, and he assiduously avoided what he had seen derail many other talented agents—he was not a blowhard, an obvious careerist, or a martinet. One of his most valuable posts had been in High-Value Detainee Interrogation, where he’d spent several formative years after the Academy. That, along with his stint in OPR, had given him a degree of psychological insight rare in an FBI supervisor. Ever since, he had put to good use what he’d learned about human behavior and the nature of persuasion.

  When he’d taken over the New York Field Office, he’d found it in a state of disarray. Morale was low and case clearance rates were below average. The office felt top-heavy with desk jockeys. He had solved the latter problem via a series of transfers and early retirements. He wasn’t a micromanager by nature, but he’d t
aken the time to look at each division, find the most promising individuals, and entrust them with positions of greater responsibility—even if it meant elevating them above their longer-serving peers. Turning the office into a true meritocracy had solved the morale issue. Despite his tenure in OPR—like all law enforcement, FBI agents distrusted people who’d worked in internal affairs—he’d earned the respect and loyalty of his subordinates. And now the New York office had become a humming, well-oiled machine. Even the case clearance rate was starting to take care of itself. He’d managed to turn things around, and do it in a single season. It was a job well done, but he was careful to conceal any trace of self-congratulation.

  Despite all this, there was one issue left to deal with. It was a thorny personnel matter inherited from his predecessor. He had left this particular issue for last.

  Over the years, Pickett had dealt with his share of troublesome agents. In his experience, such people were either antisocial loners or chip-on-the-shoulder types who’d come into the Bureau with a lot of personal baggage. If they were deadweights, he did not hesitate to transfer them the hell out—after all, Nebraska needed its share of field agents, too. If they showed promise, or boasted impressive records, then it came down to reconditioning. He would thrust them out of their comfort zone; dump them into an unexpected environment; give them a wholly unfamiliar task. Make sure they knew a bright light was shining on them. The technique had been effective in interrogations and internal misconduct investigations—and it was just as effective in bringing rogue agents back into the FBI family.

  If this agent’s file was anything to go on, the man was about as rogue as they came. But Pickett had parsed his personnel jacket—at least, its unclassified sections—and outlined a course of action designed to address the problem.

  He looked up at the clock: 1:00 PM exactly. As if on cue, the sauna door opened and a man stepped in. Pickett glanced over with practiced casualness and had to restrain himself from doing a double take. The man was tall and thin, and so blond that his carefully trimmed hair was almost white. His eyes were a glacial hue and as cold and unreadable as the ice they resembled. But instead of being stripped and wearing a towel around his waist, the man wore a black suit, impeccably tailored and buttoned, along with a starched white shirt sporting a perfectly dimpled knot at the collar. His shoes were polished to a brilliant shine and were of the expensive, handmade sort. Of all the thoughts that could have wandered into Pickett’s temporarily stunned mind, the foremost was: Did he actually walk through the locker room, showers, and pool dressed like that? He could only imagine the fuss it must have caused as the agent broke all the rules on his way to the sauna.