Cold Vengeance Read online

  “Thanks,” said his companion.

  “No problem.” Betterton took a bite of his sandwich. He was famished. “What’s the latest with our boys in blue?” he mumbled through the meatballs.

  “Pogie’s chewing everybody out again.”

  “Again? What’s eating the chief this time?”

  “Maybe his midnight ass is acting up.”

  Betterton chuckled, took another bite. Midnight ass was cop lingo for “hemorrhoids,” an all-too-common complaint among officers who sat in cars for hours at a time.

  “So,” Betterton said. “What can you tell me about the Brodie killings?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on. I bought you lunch.”

  “I said, thanks. A free lunch isn’t worth a pink slip.”

  “That’s not going to happen. You know I’d never write anything that could come back to haunt you. I just want to know the real dope.”

  The man named Jack scowled. “Just because we used to be neighbors, you think you can hit me up for all your leads.”

  Betterton tried to look hurt. “Come on, that’s not true. You’re my friend, you want me to turn in a good story.”

  “You’re my friend—you should think more of keeping me out of hot water. Besides, I don’t know any more than you do.”

  Betterton took another bite. “Bull.”

  “It’s basically true. The thing’s too big for us, they’ve brought in the state boys, even a homicide squad all the way from Jackson. We’ve been cut out.”

  The journalist thought a moment. “Look, all I know is that the husband and wife—the couple I interviewed not so long ago—were brutally murdered. You’ve got to have more information than that.”

  The man behind the wheel sighed. “They know it wasn’t a robbery. Nothing was taken. And they know it wasn’t anybody local.”

  “How do they know that?” Betterton mumbled through a huge bite of meatball.

  “Because nobody local would do this.” The man reached into a folder at the side of his seat, pulled out an eight-by-ten color glossy, and handed it over. “And I didn’t show this to you.”

  Betterton took a look at the scene-of-crime photo. The color drained from his face. His chewing slowed, then stopped. And then, quite deliberately, he opened the car door and spat the mouthful into the gutter.

  The driver shook his head. “Nice.”

  Betterton handed the photo back without looking at it again. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Oh, my God,” he said huskily.

  “Get the idea?”

  “Oh, my God,” Betterton repeated. His mighty hunger had vanished.

  “Now you know all I know,” the cop said, finishing his po’boy and licking his fingers. “Oh, except one thing—we don’t have anything even remotely like a lead on this. The crime scene was clean. A professional job the likes of which we just don’t see around here.”

  Betterton didn’t reply.

  The man glanced over, eyed the half-eaten remains of the meatball sandwich. “You going to eat that?”

  CHAPTER 28

  New York City

  CORRIE SWANSON SAT ON A BENCH on Central Park West, with a McDonald’s bag next to her, pretending to read a book. It was a pleasant morning, the glorious color in the park behind her just starting to fade, the sky patched with cumulus, everyone out on the streets enjoying the Indian summer. Everyone except Corrie. Her entire attention was focused across the street on the façade of the Dakota and its entrance, around the corner on Seventy-Second Street.

  Then she saw it: the silver Rolls-Royce coming up Central Park West. It was a familiar car to her—unforgettable even. She grabbed the McDonald’s bag and leapt up from the bench, her book tumbling to the ground, then ran across the street against the light, dodging traffic. She paused at the corner of Central Park West and Seventy-Second, waiting to see if the Rolls turned in.

  It did. The driver—whom she could not see—moved into the left-hand lane and put on his blinker, slowing as he approached the corner. Corrie jogged down Seventy-Second to the Dakota, reaching it a few moments before the Rolls arrived. As it began to turn slowly into the entrance, she stepped out in front of the car. The Rolls stopped and she stared at the driver through the windshield.

  It wasn’t Pendergast. But it damn sure was his car: there couldn’t be another vintage Rolls like it in the whole country.

  She waited. The driver’s-side window went down and a head poked out, a man with a chiseled face and bull neck.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said, his voice calm and pleasant. “Would you mind…?” His voice trailed off and the question mark dangled in the air.

  “I do mind,” she said.

  The head continued to look at her. “You’re blocking the driveway.”

  “How inconvenient for you.” She took a step forward. “Who are you and why are you driving Pendergast’s car?”

  The head stared at her for a moment and disappeared, and then the door opened and a man got out, the pleasant smile almost, but not quite, gone. He was powerfully built, with the shoulders of a swimmer and the torso of a weight lifter. “And you are?”

  “None of your business,” said Corrie. “I want to know who you are and why you’re driving his car.”

  “My name is Proctor and I work for Mr. Pendergast,” he said.

  “How nice for you. I notice you just used the present tense.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said, ‘I work for Mr. Pendergast.’ How can that be, if he’s dead? You know something I don’t?”

  “Listen, miss, I don’t know who you are, but I’m sure we could discuss this more comfortably somewhere else.”

  “We’re going to discuss it right here, as un comfortably as possible, blocking the driveway. I’m sick of getting the runaround.”

  The Dakota attendant emerged from his brass pillbox. “Is there a problem?” he asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “Yeah,” said Corrie. “A big problem. I’m not moving until this man tells me what he knows about the owner of this car, and if that’s a problem maybe you’d better call the cops and report a disturbance of the peace. Because that’s what’s going to happen if I don’t get some answers.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Charles,” the man named Proctor said calmly. “We’re just going to settle this quickly and be out of your way.”

  The attendant frowned doubtfully.

  “You may go back to your post,” Proctor said. “I’ve got this under control.” His voice remained quiet, but it managed to project an unmistakable air of command. The attendant obeyed.

  He turned back to her. “Are you an acquaintance of Mr. Pendergast?”

  “You bet I am. I worked with him out in Kansas. The Still Life killings.”

  “Then you must be Corrie Swanson.”

  She was taken aback, but recovered quickly. “So you know me, anyway. Good. What’s this about Pendergast being dead?”

  “I regret to say he—”

  “Don’t give me any more bullshit!” Corrie cried. “I’ve been thinking about it, and that hunting accident story stinks worse than Brad Hazen’s jockstraps. You tell me the truth or I can just feel that disturbance of the peace coming on.”

  “There’s no need to get excited, Miss Swanson. Just what is your purpose in wanting to contact—”

  “Enough!” Corrie removed the ball-peen hammer she had been carrying in the McDonald’s bag and raised it above the windshield.

  “Miss Swanson,” said Proctor, “don’t do anything rash.” He began to take a step toward her.

  “Halt!” She raised her arm.

  “This is no way to go about getting information—”

  She brought the hammer down smartly on the windshield. A star pattern of cracks burst into the sunlight.

  “My God,” Proctor said in disbelief, “do you have any idea how—?”

  “Is he alive or dead?” She raised her arm again. As Proctor tensed to approach her, she ye
lled, “Touch me and I’ll scream rape.”

  Charles stood in his pillbox, bug-eyed.

  Proctor froze in position. “Just a minute. I’ll have an answer for you—but you’ll have to be patient. Any more violence and you’ll get nothing.”

  There was a brief moment of stasis. Then, slowly, Corrie lowered the hammer.

  Proctor took out a cell phone, held it up so she could see. Then he began to dial.

  “You’d better be quick. Maybe Charles is calling the cops.”

  “I doubt it.” Proctor spoke into the phone, in a low voice, for about a minute. Then he held it out to her.

  “Who is it?”

  Instead of replying, Proctor simply continued to hold out the phone, looking at her through narrowed eyes.

  She took it. “Yeah?”

  “My dear Corrie,” came the silky voice she knew so well, “I’m terribly sorry to have missed our lunch at Le Bernardin.”

  “They’re saying you’re dead!” Corrie gasped, chagrined at feeling tears spring into her eyes. “They—”

  “The reports of my death,” came the droll voice, “are greatly exaggerated. I’ve just emerged from deep cover. This ruckus you’re causing is rather inconvenient.”

  “Jesus, you could have told me. I’ve been worried sick.” Her flood of relief began to turn to anger.

  “Perhaps I should have. I’d forgotten how resourceful you are. Poor Proctor, he had no idea what he was up against. You’ll have a very difficult time getting back into his good graces, I fear. Did you have to break the windscreen on my Rolls to get his attention?”

  “Sorry. It was the only way.” She felt her face flush. “You let me think you were dead! How could you?”

  “Corrie, I’m under no obligation to account to you for my whereabouts.”

  “So what’s this case?”

  “I can’t speak of it. It’s strictly private, unofficial, and—if you’ll pardon the jargon—freelance. I’m alive, I’ve just returned to the United States, but I’m operating on my own and I need no help. None whatsoever. You can rest assured I will make good on our lunch, but it may not be for some time. Until then, please continue with your studies. This is an exceedingly dangerous case and you must not become involved in any way. Do you understand?”

  “But—”

  “Thank you. By the way, I was touched by what you wrote on your website. A rather nice eulogy, I thought. Like Alfred Nobel, I have had the curious experience of reading my own obituary. Now: do I have a solemn promise from you to do absolutely nothing?”

  Corrie hesitated. “Yes. But are you supposed to be dead? What should I say?”

  “The need for that fiction has recently passed. I’m back in circulation—although I’m maintaining a low profile. Once again, my apologies for any discomfort you’ve experienced.”

  The phone went dead even as she was saying good-bye. She stared at it for a moment and then handed it back to Proctor, who pocketed it, eyeing her coolly.

  “I hope,” he said, his voice edging below freezing, “that we won’t be seeing you around here again.”

  “No problem,” said Corrie, putting the hammer back into the bag. “But if I were you, I’d ease off on the bench-pressing. You’ve got a rack that would do Dolly Parton proud.” She turned on her heel and walked back toward the park. The obituary was rather nice, she thought. Maybe she’d leave it up on the website for a while longer, just for fun.

  CHAPTER 29

  Plankwood, Louisiana

  MARCELLUS JENNINGS, DIRECTOR OF THE OFFICE of Public Health for the parish of St. Charles, sat in tranquil contemplation behind his commodious desk. Everything was in order, as he liked it. Not a single memorandum was out of place in the old-fashioned inbox; not a speck of dust or stray paper clip was to be seen. Four pencils, freshly sharpened, lay in a neat line beside the leather-cornered blotter. A computer sat on the right side of the desk, powered down. Three official commendations hung on the wall, lined up with a straightedge and carpenter’s level: all for perfect attendance at Louisiana state conferences. A small bookshelf behind him held a collection of regulatory manuals and guidebooks, carefully dusted and only rarely opened.

  There was a light rap on the office door.

  “Come in,” Jennings said.

  The door opened and Midge, his secretary, poked her head in. “A Mr. Pendergast to see you, sir.”

  Even though it was his only official appointment of the morning, Jennings opened a drawer of his desk, pulled out his calendar, and consulted it. Punctual, very punctual. Jennings admired punctuality. “You may show him in,” he said, putting the calendar away.

  A moment later, the visitor entered. Jennings rose to greet him, then froze in surprise. The man looked as if he were at death’s door. Gaunt, unsmiling, pale as a waxwork dummy. Dressed in a suit of unrelieved black, he reminded Jennings of nothing so much as the grim reaper. All that was missing was the scythe. He had begun to put out his hand for a shake but quickly diverted it into a wave toward the row of chairs before his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  Jennings watched as the man stepped forward and slowly, painfully sat down. Pendergast, Pendergast… The name rang a bell—he wasn’t sure why. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk and crossing his capacious forearms. “Pleasant day,” he observed.

  The man named Pendergast did not directly acknowledge this pleasantry.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “Now, just what can I do for you, Mr. Pendergast?”

  In reply, Pendergast plucked a small leather wallet from his suit jacket, opened it, and placed it on the desk.

  Jennings peered at it. “FBI. Is this, ah, official business of some sort?”

  “No.” The voice was faint, yet melodious, with mellow accents of New Orleans gentry. “It is a personal matter.” And yet the FBI shield lay there on the desk, like some charm or totem.

  “I see.” Jennings waited.

  “I’m here about an exhumation.”

  “I see,” Jennings repeated. “Is this in reference to an exhumation that has already been completed or a request in process?”

  “A new exhumation order.”

  Jennings removed his elbows from the desk, sat back, took off his glasses, and began to polish them with the fat end of his polyester tie. “Just who is it you would like exhumed?”

  “My wife. Helen Esterhazy Pendergast.”

  The polishing stopped for a moment. Then it resumed at a slower pace. “And you say this is not a question of a court order? A police request to determine cause of death?”

  Pendergast shook his head. “As I said, it’s personal.”

  Jennings raised a hand to his mouth and coughed politely. “You must understand, Mr. Pendergast, that these things have to be done through proper channels. There are rules in place, and they have been enacted with good reason. Exhumation of interred remains is not an act to be taken lightly.”

  When Pendergast said nothing, Jennings, encouraged by the sound of his own voice, went on. “If we’re not dealing with a court order or some other officially sanctioned request—such as a forensic autopsy due to suspicions about cause of death—there is really only one circumstance under which an application for exhumation can be approved—”

  “If the family of the deceased wishes to move the remains to another burial spot,” Pendergast finished.

  “Well, ah, yes, that is it precisely,” Jennings said. The interjection had caught him off guard, and he struggled for a moment to find his rhythm again. “Is that the case?”

  “It is.”

  “Well then, I think we can get the application process started.” He turned to a filing cabinet that stood beside the bookcase, opened a drawer, pulled out a form, and placed it on his desk blotter. He examined it for a moment. “You realize there are certain, ah, prerequisites. For example, we would need a copy of the death certificate of… of your late wife.”

  Reaching into his jacket again, Pendergast produced a folded piece of pape
r, unfolded it, and placed it on the desk beside his shield.

  Leaning forward, Jennings examined it. “Ah. Very good. But what is this? I see the originating cemetery is Saint-Savin. That’s clear on the other side of the parish. I’m afraid you’ll have to take this request over to the west parish office.”

  He found the silvery eyes staring into his. “You also have jurisdiction—technically speaking.”

  “Yes, but as a matter of protocol, Saint-Savin is handled only through the west parish branch.”

  “I picked you, Mr. Jennings, for a very particular reason. Only you can do this for me—no one else.”

  “I’m flattered, I’m sure.” Jennings felt a flush of pleasure at the declaration of confidence. “I suppose we could make an exception. Moving on, then, to the matter of the application fee…”

  Once again, the pale, slender hand disappeared into the suit jacket. Once again, it reappeared, this time with a check, dated and signed, made out in the correct amount.

  “Well, well,” Jennings said, looking at it. “And then there is the form of consent, naturally, from the management of the cemetery where the remains are currently interred.”

  Another form was produced and laid on the desk.

  “And the form of consent from the cemetery to which the body is being transferred.”

  Still another form was placed, slowly and deliberately, on the polished wood.

  Jennings stared at the row of paper in front of him. “Well, aren’t we organized today!” He attempted a smile but was discouraged by the grim look on the man’s face. “I, ah, believe that is everything we need. Oh—except the form from the transport company in charge of moving the remains from the old burial site to the new.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Jennings.”

  Jennings blinked in surprise at the apparition on the far side of his desk. “I don’t quite understand.”

  “If you take a closer look at the two forms of consent, I think all will become clear.”

  Jennings put his glasses back on his nose and peered at the two documents for a moment. Then he looked up quickly. “But these cemeteries are one and the same!”