Cold Vengeance Read online

  “Not age-related dementia?”

  The old nurse stared at him. “Of course not! Emma Grolier was a young girl. Why, she couldn’t have been older than twenty-seven or -eight.” Her look of suspicion deepened. “You say she was a relative?”

  Pendergast paused only momentarily. This was stunning information, the significance of which was not immediately clear. He covered up his reaction with an easy smile and bowed. “Thank you for your time.”

  As he emerged once again into the bitter air, annoyed at having been smoked out by a half-deaf octogenarian, he consoled himself with the thought that the medical files in Augusta would fill in any missing details.

  CHAPTER 58

  Augusta, Maine

  ALOYSIUS PENDERGAST SAT IN THE BASEMENT of the Maine State Archives building, surrounded by the defunct files of the Bay Manor Nursing Home. He was frowning at the whitewashed cinder-block wall, and one manicured fingernail was tapping the top of a deal table with evident irritation.

  A diligent search for the medical records of Emma Grolier had turned up only a single file card. It indicated the complete records had been transferred by medical order to the care of one Dr. Judson Esterhazy, at his clinic in Savannah, Georgia. The date of the transfer was six months after Helen’s alleged death in Africa. The card was signed by Esterhazy, and the signature was genuine.

  What had Esterhazy done with those papers? They hadn’t been in the safe of his Savannah house. It seemed almost certain he had destroyed them—that is, if Pendergast’s theory, still taking shape in his mind, was correct. Chances were the existence of the nursing home bills was an oversight. Emma Grolier. Was it possible…? He stood up slowly, thoughtfully, pushing the chair back with great deliberation.

  As he ascended from the basement and once again emerged into the subzero afternoon cold, his cell phone rang. It was D’Agosta.

  “Constance has escaped,” he said without preamble.

  Pendergast stopped dead. For a moment, he did not speak. Then he quickly opened the door of his rental car and slid in. “Impossible. She has no motive to escape.”

  “Nevertheless, she escaped. And let me tell you, I hope you’ve got a raincoat handy, because the shit is about to hit the fan.”

  “When did it happen? How?”

  “Lunchtime. It’s bizarre. She was on a field trip.”

  “Outside the hospital?”

  “Central Park Zoo. Seems one of the doctors helped her escape.”

  “Dr. Ostrom? Dr. Felder? Impossible.”

  “No. Apparently his name was Poole. Ernest Poole.”

  “Who the devil is Poole?” Pendergast started the engine. “And what in the name of heaven was a self-confessed baby-killer doing outside the walls of Mount Mercy?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question. You can bet the press will have a field day if they find out—which they probably will.”

  “Keep this from the press at all costs.”

  “I’m doing my best. Naturally, homicide is all over it.”

  “Call them off. I can’t have a lot of detectives blundering about.”

  “No dice. An investigation’s obligatory. SOP.”

  For perhaps ten seconds, Pendergast stood motionless, thinking. Then he spoke again. “Have you looked into the background of this Dr. Poole?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If homicide must occupy themselves with something, have them do that. They’ll discover he’s a fraud.”

  “You know who he is?”

  “I’d rather not speculate at the moment.” Pendergast paused again. “I was a fool not to anticipate something like this. I believed Constance to be perfectly safe at Mount Mercy. A dreadful oversight—another dreadful oversight.”

  “Well, she’s probably not in any real danger. Maybe she got infatuated with the doctor, escaped for some sort of dalliance…” D’Agosta’s voice trailed off awkwardly.

  “Vincent, I’ve already told you she didn’t escape. She was kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?”

  “Yes. No doubt by this ersatz Dr. Poole. Keep it from the press and stop homicide from muddying the waters.”

  “I’ll do everything I can.”

  “Thank you.” And Pendergast accelerated onto the icy street, the rented car fishtailing and spraying snow, heading for the airport and New York City.

  CHAPTER 59

  New York City

  NED BETTERTON STOOD BY THE ENTRANCE to the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin, staring out at the confusion of yachts, sailboats, and assorted pleasure craft, all rocking gently back and forth in the calm waters of the Hudson. He was wearing the only suit jacket he’d brought along—a blue blazer—and he’d purchased a gaudy ascot that he’d tucked into his collar, along with a white cap placed rakishly on his head. It was not quite six PM, and the sun was rapidly sinking behind the ramparts of New Jersey.

  Hands in his pockets, he glanced out at the vessel he’d seen the German motor out to the day before, moored some distance from the docks. It was quite a yacht, gleaming white with three tiers of smoked windows—well over a hundred feet in length. There did not appear to be any activity on board.

  Betterton’s leave was up, and the calls from Kranston at the Bee had turned threatening. The man was furious that he himself had to cover the church meetings and other crap. Good—the hell with him. This was a hot lead, this yacht. It just might be his ticket out.

  You call yourself a reporter? You couldn’t report your way out of a douche bag! Betterton flushed at the dressing-down Corinne Swanson had given him. That was another reason he was back at the Boat Basin. He knew, somehow or other, Pendergast was involved… and not as an investigator.

  It had been the blue blazer, actually, that gave him the idea. He knew it was a common courtesy for yachtsmen anchored in proximity of one another to exchange visits, share drinks, or otherwise pay a courtesy call. He’d pose as a yachtsman, go on board, and see what there was to see. But these were bad guys, drug smugglers—he’d have to play it very, very carefully.

  He soon discovered it wouldn’t be as simple as just strolling into the marina. The place was surrounded by a chain-link fence and sported a staffed guardhouse by a closed gate. A big sign read GUESTS BY INVITATION ONLY. The place reeked of money, sealed off from the hoi polloi.

  He studied the chain-link fence, which ran along the shore, back from the water, and disappeared into some brush. Making sure no one was watching, he followed the fence into the brush, pushing his way into the growth along the riverbank. And there he found what he was looking for: a low gap.

  He squeezed through, rose, brushed himself off, replaced the cap on his head, tugged his jacket smooth, and went walking along the shore, keeping to the brush. After fifty yards he could make out a boathouse ahead, and the beginning of the piers and docks. With another quick adjustment to his attire, he stepped out into the open and quickly scrambled down to the walkway above the pier, then began ambling along it as if he were just another yachtsman taking the air. A marina employee was working on the dock past the boathouse, where several dozen tenders were tied up at numbered spots.

  “Good evening,” Betterton said.

  The man looked up, greeted him, went back to work.

  “I wonder,” Betterton said, “if you’d be willing to take me out to the yacht over there.” He pulled a twenty from his pocket and nodded at the white vessel moored about five hundred yards off.

  The man rose. He peered at the twenty, then at Betterton. “The Vergeltung?”

  “Right. And please wait there to take me back. I won’t be on board more than five minutes, maybe ten, tops.”

  “What’s your business?”

  “A courtesy call. One yachtsman to another. I’ve been admiring the boat and thinking of upgrading to something similar, myself. My yacht is over there.” He waved vaguely at the anchorage.

  “Well…”

  There was a movement within the darkness of the boathouse and another man appeared, maybe thir
ty-five years old, with faded brown hair and a dark tan despite it being November. “I’ll take him over, Brad,” the new arrival said, scrutinizing Betterton.

  “Right, Vic. He’s all yours.”

  “And you’ll wait for me while I’m on board?” Betterton asked.

  The man nodded, then pointed to one of the marina’s tenders. “Hop in.”

  CHAPTER 60

  DR. FELDER PACED BACK AND FORTH BEFORE the leaded-glass windows of Dr. Ostrom’s office at Mount Mercy Hospital. He took a long, deep, shuddering breath, stared at the brown marshes beyond, a chevron of geese flying south.

  What an afternoon it had been—what a terrible afternoon. The NYPD had come and gone, having turned the place upside down, asked questions, disturbed the inmates, and ransacked Constance’s room. One detective still remained on the premises for follow-up: he was now standing just outside the office, conferring with Dr. Ostrom in low tones. Ostrom glanced over, saw Felder was looking at him, frowned with disapproval, and turned back to the detective.

  So far they’d managed to keep the story out of the papers, but that wasn’t going to help him much. And it likely wouldn’t last long. Already he’d received a call from the mayor, who had told him in no uncertain terms that—unless Constance Greene was returned to Mount Mercy with minimal fuss and zero collateral damage—Felder could start dusting off his résumé. That it now appeared Dr. Poole had participated in the escape—perhaps engineered it—didn’t really do him any good. The fact was, it was Felder’s name on the outing request.

  What could this Dr. Poole possibly want with Constance? Why would he take such great risks to spirit her away from Mount Mercy? Was he working at the behest of an unknown relation? Could Pendergast have been involved?

  At the thought of Pendergast, Felder shuddered.

  There was a commotion down the hall, near the guard station by the hospital entrance. A white-clad orderly walked toward Ostrom and the detective. Felder stopped pacing and watched while the orderly conferred briefly with Ostrom.

  The director of Mount Mercy turned toward Felder. “There’s a woman here to see you.”

  Felder frowned. “A woman?” Who knew he was here right now, save for Dr. Ostrom and the staff? Nevertheless he followed the orderly down the corridor and back to the guard station.

  A woman was indeed waiting by the entrance: fiftyish, short, thin as a twig, with fiery red hair and bright red lipstick. A faux Burberry bag was draped over one shoulder. She walked with a cane.

  “I’m Dr. Felder,” he said, letting himself past the guard station. “You wanted to see me?”

  “No,” she said in a high, querulous voice.

  “No?” Felder repeated, surprised.

  “I don’t know you from Adam. And tracking you down wasn’t exactly my idea of a pleasant afternoon. I don’t have a car, and do you know how difficult it is to get out here without one? It was hard enough even learning where Mount Mercy is. Little Governor’s Island—bah. I tell you, I nearly gave up twice.” She leaned forward, tapping her cane on the marble floor for emphasis. “But I was promised money.”

  Felder looked at her in confusion. “Money? Who promised you money? What does this have to do with me?”

  “The girl.”

  “Which girl?”

  “The girl that gave me the note. Told me to bring it to Dr. Felder at Mount Mercy. Said I’d be paid.” Another tap of the cane.

  “Girl?” Felder echoed. My Lord, it has to be Constance. “Where did you see this girl?”

  “From my back garden. But that’s not important. What I want to know is this: are you going to pay me or not?”

  “Do you have the note?” Felder asked. He felt himself flushing in his eagerness to see it.

  The woman nodded, but suspiciously, as if she might be subjected to a search for admitting this fact.

  With shaking hands, Felder dug into his suit pocket, pulled out his wallet, peeled off a fifty, and held it out to her.

  “I had to take two taxis,” the woman said, placing it inside her bag.

  Felder plucked out a twenty, handed it over.

  “And I’ll need to take a taxi back. It’s waiting outside.”

  Another twenty was produced—the last bill in Felder’s wallet—and it vanished as quickly as the others. Then the woman reached into her bag and produced a single piece of paper, folded in half. One edge was ragged, as if it had been ripped from a book. She handed it to him. Written on it, in Constance’s precise copper-plate hand, was the following:

  Please take this note immediately to Dr. Felder, care of Mount Mercy Hospital, Little Governor’s Island. Please—IT’S A MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH.

  Felder will give you a monetary reward.

  His hands shaking even more, he unfolded the piece of paper. To his surprise, the message inside was written to somebody else—Pendergast:

  Aloysius—I have been kidnapped by a man who claims he is your brother-in-law, Judson Esterhazy. He was going by the name of Poole. I am being kept in a house somewhere on the Upper East Side but I’m to be moved shortly, I don’t know where. I fear he means to harm me. There is something he’s told me with peculiar emphasis more than once: Vengeance is where it will end. Please forgive my foolishness and gullibility. Whatever happens, remember that I’m entrusting my child’s ultimate well-being to your care. Constance

  Felder looked up, suddenly brimming with questions, but the woman was nowhere to be seen.

  He ducked outside, but she had disappeared. He went back inside and returned to where Dr. Ostrom and the homicide detective were waiting.

  “Well?” Dr. Ostrom asked. “What did she want?”

  Wordlessly, Felder handed him the document. He watched Ostrom start visibly as he read first the outside, then the interior message.

  “Where is the woman?” Ostrom asked sharply.

  “She disappeared.”

  “Good Lord.” Ostrom walked over to a wall telephone, picked it up. “This is Dr. Ostrom,” he said. “Get me the gatehouse.”

  It took only a brief exchange to discover that the woman’s taxi had already left the grounds. Ostrom made a photocopy of the document, then gave the original to the detective. “We’ve got to stop that woman. Call your people. Catch up to her. Understand?”

  The detective hustled off, unhitching his radio and speaking into it.

  Felder turned to Ostrom as the director hung up the phone. “She’s claiming her child is alive. What could this mean?”

  Ostrom merely shook his head.

  CHAPTER 61

  ESTERHAZY WATCHED THE SUDDEN FLURRY of activity on the deck of the Vergeltung as the motorized dinghy approached unexpectedly from the marina complex. Using a pair of binoculars, he peered intently at it through the smoked windows of the main salon. At first—unlikely as such a direct approach would be—he wondered if it could possibly be Pendergast. But no: it was somebody he’d never seen before, perched somewhat precariously in the bow of the little vessel.

  Falkoner came up. “Is that him?”

  Esterhazy shook his head. “No. I don’t know who this person is.”

  “We shall find out.” Falkoner stepped out onto the rear deck.

  “Ahoy, the yacht!” said the man perched in the bow. He was dressed, overdressed even, in nautical fashion: navy blazer, cap, ascot.

  “Hello,” Falkoner called out in a friendly voice.

  “I’m a neighbor,” the man said. “I was admiring your yacht. Am I disturbing you?”

  “Not at all. Care to come aboard?”

  “Delighted.” The man turned back to the Boat Basin employee manning the outboard. “Be sure to wait.”

  The man nodded.

  The yachtsman stepped onto the boarding platform at the rear of the yacht while Falkoner opened the stern transom to let him come aboard. Gaining the deck, the man smoothed down his blazer and extended his hand. “Name’s Betterton,” he said. “Ned Betterton.”

  “I’m Falkoner.”

  Este
rhazy shook Betterton’s hand in turn, smiling but not offering his name. As he smiled, the scratches on his face stung. There wouldn’t be a repeat of that: Constance was locked in the hold, handcuffed, her mouth gagged and taped. And yet a chill ran through him as he recalled the expression on her face in the Upper East Side safe house. He’d noticed two things in that expression, as clear as he was alive: hatred—and mental clarity. This woman wasn’t the basket case he’d assumed. And her hatred of him was unsettling in its intensity and murderousness. He found himself not a little unnerved.

  “I’m moored over there—” Betterton jerked a thumb vaguely over his shoulder—“and I thought I’d just stop over to wish you a pleasant evening. And—to be honest—I’m captivated by your yacht.”

  “Very glad that you did,” replied Falkoner, with a brief glance at Esterhazy. “Would you care for a tour?”

  Betterton nodded eagerly. “Thank you, yes.”

  Esterhazy noticed his eyes were darting everywhere, taking everything in. He was surprised Falkoner had offered the man a tour—there was something vaguely phony about him. He didn’t look like a yachtsman, the blue blazer was of a cheap cut, and the man was wearing ersatz deck shoes of the landlubber kind.

  They stepped into the beautifully appointed saloon, Falkoner launching into a description of the Vergeltung’s characteristics and notable features. Betterton listened with an almost child-like eagerness, still looking around as if committing everything to memory.

  “How many people on board?” Betterton asked.

  “We have a crew of eight. Then there’s me and my friend, here, who’s just visiting for a few days.” Falkoner smiled. “How about on your vessel?”

  Betterton waved a hand. “A staff of three. Have you taken her out on any trips recently?”

  “No. We’ve been moored here for several weeks.”

  “And you’ve been on board the whole time? Seems a shame, even on such a beautiful vessel, with all of New York spread out before you!”