Cold Vengeance (5 page)

C
HAPTER 9

L
IEUTENANT
V
INCENT
D’A
GOSTA STARED DOWN
at his desk, trying not to feel depressed. Ever since he’d come off sick leave, his boss, Captain Singleton, had placed him on modified duty. All he seemed to do was push paper from one side of the desk to the other. He glanced out the door into the squad room. There, people were busily coming and going; phones were ringing; criminals were being processed. Stuff was
happening
. He sighed, glanced back down at the desk. D’Agosta hated paperwork. But the fact was, Singleton had done it for his own good. After all, just half a year ago he’d been lying in a hospital bed in Baton Rouge, fighting for his life, a bullet having nicked his heart. He was lucky to be alive at all, let alone vertical and back at work. Anyway, desk duty wouldn’t last forever. He just had to fully recover his old strength.

Besides, he told himself, he should be looking on the bright side. His relationship with Laura Hayward had never been better. Almost losing him had changed her somehow, softened her, made her more affectionate and demonstrative. In fact, once he was back to one hundred percent he was seriously thinking of proposing. He didn’t think the average relationship counselor would recommend getting shot in the chest, but it had sure worked for him…

He realized somebody was standing in his office doorway and glanced up to see a young woman staring back at him. She was maybe nineteen or twenty, petite, dressed in jeans and an aging Ramones T-shirt. A black leather bag, studded with small metal points, hung from one arm. Her hair was dyed a severe black and he could see a tattoo on her upper arm peeking out from beneath her shirt, which he recognized as an M. C. Escher design.

A Goth.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked. Where was the damn secretary to screen these people?

“Do I look like a ma’am to you?” came the reply.

D’Agosta sighed. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re Vincent D’Agosta, right?”

He nodded.

She stepped into the office. “He mentioned you a few times. I’m usually bad with names, but I remembered that one because it was so Italian.”

“So Italian,” D’Agosta repeated.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just that where I come from, in Kansas, nobody has a name like that.”

“The Italians never made it that far inland,” D’Agosta replied dryly. “Now, who’s this ‘he’ you mentioned?”

“Agent Pendergast.”

“Pendergast?” D’Agosta couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Yup. I was his assistant out in Medicine Creek, Kansas. The ‘Still Life’ serial murders?”

D’Agosta stared. Pendergast’s assistant? The girl was delusional.

“He must have mentioned me. I’m Corrie Swanson.”

D’Agosta frowned. “I’m vaguely familiar with the Still Life killings, but I don’t recall him mentioning your name.”

“He never talks about his cases. I drove him around, helped him scope out the town. With that black suit and all he stuck out like a sore thumb—he needed an insider like me.”

D’Agosta was surprised to hear this but realized she was probably telling the truth—if exaggerated. Assistant? He found his irritation give way to a darker emotion. “Come in,” he said belatedly. “Have a seat.”

She sat down, metal jingling, and swept back her raven hair, revealing a streak of purple and another of yellow. D’Agosta leaned back in his chair, carefully disguising his reaction. “So. What’s up?”

“I’m in New York for the year. Got here in September. I’m a sophomore, and I’ve just transferred to the John Jay College of Criminal Justice.”

“Go on,” D’Agosta said. The John Jay part impressed him. She was no idiot, although she was doing her damnedest to look like one.

“I’m taking a class called Case Studies in Deviance and Social Control.”

“Deviance and Social Control,” D’Agosta repeated. Sounded like a course Laura might have taken—she’d been big on sociology.

“As part of this, we’re supposed to do a case study ourselves and write a paper. I chose the Still Life killings.”

“I’m not sure Pendergast would approve,” D’Agosta said carefully.

“But he
did
approve. That’s the problem. Back when I first arrived, I set up a lunch with him. It was supposed to be for yesterday. He never showed. Then I went to his apartment at the Dakota—nothing, all I got was the runaround from a doorman. He’s got my cell number, but he never called me to cancel or anything. It’s like the guy vanished into thin air.”

“That seems odd. Perhaps you got the appointment wrong?”

She fished in her little bag, pulled out an envelope, and handed it over.

D’Agosta extracted a letter from the envelope and began to read.

The Dakota

1 West 72nd Street

New York, NY 10023

5 September

Ms. Corrie Swanson

844 Amsterdam Avenue, Apt. 30B

New York, NY 10025

My dear Corrie,

I’m pleased to hear that your studies are going well. I approve of your choice of courses. I believe you will find the Introduction to Forensic Chemistry to be most interesting. I’ve given some thought to your project and agree to take part, provided I may vet the final product and that you agree not to reveal certain minor details in your paper.

By all means let’s get together for lunch. I will be out of the country later this month, but I should be back by mid-October. October 19 agrees with my calendar. Allow me to suggest Le Bernardin on West 51st Street at 1
PM
. The reservation will be in my name.

I look forward to seeing you then.

Kind regards,

A. Pendergast

D’Agosta read the letter twice. It’s true he hadn’t heard from Pendergast in a month or two, but that in itself wasn’t especially unusual. The agent frequently disappeared for long periods of time. But Pendergast was a stickler about keeping his word; not showing up for lunch, after making plans, was out of character.

He handed the letter back. “Was there a reservation?”

“Yes. It had been made the day after he sent the letter. He never called to cancel.”

D’Agosta nodded, covering up his own growing concern.

“I was hoping you might know something about his whereabouts. I’m worried. This isn’t like him.”

D’Agosta cleared his throat. “I haven’t spoken to Pendergast in a while but I’m sure there’s an explanation. He’s probably deep in a case.” He ventured a reassuring smile. “I’ll check into it, get back to you.”

“Here’s my cell number.” Pulling a pad of paper across the desk toward her, she scribbled a number onto it.

“I’ll let you know, Ms. Swanson.”

“Thank you. And it’s Corrie.”

“Fine. Corrie.” The more D’Agosta thought about it, the more worried he became. He almost didn’t notice her picking up her bag and heading out the door.

C
HAPTER 10

Cairn Barrow

T
HE
H
IGH
S
TREET RAN THROUGH THE CENTER
of the village, crooking slightly east at the square and running down into the green folds of the hills surrounding Loch Lanark. The shops and houses were of identical earth-colored stone, with steeply gabled roofs of weathered slate. Primroses and daffodils peeked out from freshly painted window boxes. The bells in the squat belfry of the Wee Kirk o’ the Loch sleepily tolled ten
AM
.

It was, even to Chief Inspector Balfour’s jaundiced eye, an almost impossibly picturesque scene.

He walked quickly down the street. A dozen cars were parked in front of the town pub, The Old Thistle—practically a traffic jam this late in the season, long after the summer day-trippers and the foreign tourists had departed. He stepped inside, nodding to Phillip, the publican, then pushed through the door beside the telephone box and mounted the creaking wooden stairs to the Common Room. The largest public space for twenty miles around, it was now filled almost to capacity with men and women—witnesses and curious spectators—sitting on long benches, all facing the rear wall, where a large oak table had been placed. Behind the table sat Dr. Ainslie, the local coroner, dressed in somber black, his dry old face with its deeply scored frown lines betraying perpetual dismay at the world and its doings. Beside him, at a much smaller table, sat Judson Esterhazy.

Ainslie nodded curtly to Balfour as the inspector took a seat. Then, glancing around, he cleared his throat.

“This court of inquiry has been summoned to establish the facts surrounding the disappearance and possible demise of Mr. Aloysius X. L. Pendergast. I say ‘possible’ due to the fact that no body has been recovered. The only witness to Mr. Pendergast’s death is the person who may have killed him—Judson Esterhazy, his brother-in-law.” Ainslie’s scowl deepened, his face so desiccated it almost looked as if it might flake off from the effort. “Since Mr. Pendergast has no living relations, one could say that Judson Esterhazy appears here not only as the person responsible for Mr. Pendergast’s accident but as his family representative, as well. As a result, this proceeding is not—and cannot be—a standard inquest, because in this case there is no body and the fact of death remains to be established. We shall, however, follow the form of an inquest. Our purpose then is to establish the facts of the disappearance as well as the proximate circumstances, and to rule, if the facts allow, on whether a death has or has not occurred. We will hear testimony from all concerned, then make a determination.”

Ainslie turned to Esterhazy. “Dr. Esterhazy, do you agree that you are a properly interested person in this matter?”

Esterhazy nodded. “I do.”

“And you have declined, of your own free will, to retain a solicitor?”

“That is correct.”

“Very well. Before we begin, let me remind all present of Coroner’s Rule 36: an inquest is not a gathering in which any civil or criminal liability can be assigned—although we can determine if the circumstances meet certain legal definitions of culpability. The determination of culpability is a matter to be taken up separately by the courts, if warranted. Are there any questions?”

When the room remained silent, Ainslie nodded. “Then let us proceed to the evidence. We shall begin with a statement from Ian Cromarty.”

Inspector Balfour listened as the lodgekeeper spoke at some length of Pendergast and Esterhazy—of his initial impressions of them, of how they had shared dinner together the night before, of how Esterhazy had burst in the following morning crying that he had shot his brother-in-law. Next, Ainslie questioned a few of the Kilchurn Lodge guests who had witnessed Esterhazy’s frantic, disheveled return. Then he turned to Grant, the gamekeeper. As the proceedings continued, Ainslie’s face remained an astringent mask of disapproval and suspicion.

“You’re Robert Grant, correct?”

“Aye, sir,” the wizened old man replied.

“How long have you been gamekeeper at Kilchurn?”

“Going on thirty-five years, sir.”

At Ainslie’s request, Grant described in detail the trek to the site of the accident and the death of the search dog.

“How common is it for hunters from your lodge to venture into the Foulmire?”

“Common? It isnae common. It’s agin the rules.”

“So Pendergast and Dr. Esterhazy here violated those rules.”

“That they did.”

Balfour could see Esterhazy stirring uncomfortably at this.

“Such behavior signals a lack of judgment. Why did you let them go out on their own?”

“Because I recalled them from before.”

“Go on.”

“The pair of them were here once, some ten, twelve years back. I took them out meself, I did. Bloody good shots, knew exactly what they were doing, especially Dr. Esterhazy here.” Grant nodded in the doctor’s direction. “If I couldna vouch for that myself I’d never have let them out without a guide.”

Balfour sat up in his seat. He’d known that Pendergast and Esterhazy had hunted at Kilchurn before, of course—Esterhazy had mentioned as much in one of the interrogation sessions—but the fact that Grant had taken them out and could vouch for Esterhazy’s being an excellent shot was news to him. Esterhazy had always played down his skill. Balfour cursed himself for not having discovered this nugget on his own.

Next, it was his own turn to speak. Balfour described his arrival at the lodge; Esterhazy’s emotional state; the search for the body and the dragging of the pool; and the subsequent fruitless search of the moors and surrounding hamlets for any sign of a body. He spoke slowly and carefully. Ainslie listened intently, interrupting only infrequently with questions.

When he was done, Ainslie peered about. “And in the ten days since the shooting was reported,” he said, “the police have continued their searches?”

“That is correct,” Balfour replied. “We dragged the pool not once, but twice, and then a third and fourth time. We also dragged the surrounding pools. We used bloodhounds to try to pick up a trail from the accident scene. They found no trace, although to be sure there had been very heavy rains.”

“So,” said Ainslie, “you have found no independent evidence Pendergast is dead, nor any evidence he is still alive. Is that correct?”

“Correct. We did not recover his body or any personal effects, including his rifle.”

“Inspector,” Ainslie said, “have you found Dr. Esterhazy to be cooperative in this matter?”

“For the most part, yes. Although he describes his shooting skills rather differently than Mr. Grant.”

“And how does Dr. Esterhazy describe his shooting abilities?”

“He calls himself inexperienced.”

“Have his actions and statements corresponded to those of a person responsible for such an egregious accident?”

“So far as I have seen, yes.” Balfour, despite all, had not been able to put his finger on a single thing in Esterhazy’s actions that was inconsistent with shame, grief, and self-blame.

“Would you say he can be considered a reliable and competent witness to these events?”

Balfour hesitated. “I would say that nothing we’ve found to date has in any way disagreed with his statements.”

The coroner seemed to consider this a moment. “Thank you, Inspector.”

Next to speak was Esterhazy himself. In the ten days since the shooting, he had regained a good measure of composure, although a faintly haggard look of anxiety seemed to have deepened about him. His voice was steady, earnest, and low. He spoke of his friendship with Pendergast, which started when his sister married the FBI agent. He briefly mentioned her shocking death in the jaws of a man-eating lion, which elicited audible gasps from the audience. And then—at the gentle prodding of the coroner—he talked about the events leading up to Pendergast’s death: the hunt on the moors; the discussion of which stag to try for; the stalking on the Foulmire; the rising fog; his own disorientation; the sudden, bounding entrance of the stag and his instinctive shooting; the frantic attempt to rescue his former brother-in-law; and the man’s sinking into the quickmire. As Esterhazy spoke of these last events, and of his desperate trek back to Kilchurn Lodge, his veneer of calm broke and he became visibly upset, his voice cracking. The onlookers shook their heads, clearly moved and sympathetic. Ainslie’s face, Balfour noted with approval, remained as mournfully skeptical as always. He had a few questions about minor particulars—the timing of certain events, Esterhazy’s medical opinion of Pendergast’s wound—but beyond that, nothing. Esterhazy’s testimony was over in fifteen minutes. All in all, a remarkable performance.

Performance. Now, why had he chosen that word?

Because, despite everything, Balfour continued to find himself deeply suspicious of Esterhazy. It was nothing he could put his finger on. All the evidence added up. But if Balfour had wanted to kill someone, and make it look like an accident, he would have gone about it precisely as Esterhazy had.

His mind was occupied with these thoughts while a string of minor witnesses cycled through. He glanced at Esterhazy. The man had taken great pains to come across as ingenuous, frank, simple to a fault—the typical bumbling American. But he wasn’t bumbling, and he clearly wasn’t stupid. He had both a medical degree and a doctorate—Balfour had checked.

Ainslie’s dry voice went on. “As I mentioned earlier, the purpose of this inquest is to establish if there was a death. The evidence is as follows. It is the testimony of Dr. Esterhazy that he accidentally shot Aloysius Pendergast; that in his medical opinion the wound was mortal; and that he witnessed, with his own eyes, Pendergast’s submergence in the mire. It is the testimony of Inspector Balfour and others that the scene of the accident was fully investigated, and that the scant evidence found on the site was consistent with Dr. Esterhazy’s testimony. The inspector also testified that no body or effects were recovered either from the mire or from the surrounding moorlands. It is Inspector Balfour’s further testimony that, despite an exhaustive search of the neighboring villages, no trace of Mr. Pendergast has been found, and no witnesses to either his living or dead person have come to light.”

He glanced around the common room. “Under the circumstances, there are two possible verdicts that could be delivered consistent with the facts presented: involuntary culpable homicide, or an open verdict. Involuntary culpable homicide is adjudged to be homicide, save for the fact that the
mens rea
for murder is not present. An open verdict is a verdict in which the cause and circumstances of death, or in this case even the fact of death, cannot be established at the present time.”

He paused and scoured the courtroom again with a pair of cynical eyes. “Based on the testimony and evidence presented here today, I declare an open verdict in this case.”

“Excuse me, sir!” Balfour found that he was suddenly on his feet. “I must protest that verdict.”

Ainslie looked toward him, frowning. “Inspector?”

“While—” Balfour hesitated, tried to collect himself. “While the act in question may not have been murder, it was nevertheless caused by improper conduct. That argues strongly for a verdict of involuntary culpable homicide. We have Dr. Esterhazy’s own testimony to support that verdict. Negligence was clearly the overwhelming factor in this death. There isn’t a scrap of evidence the victim survived the shooting and overwhelming evidence he did not.”

“We do have that testimony,” Ainslie said. “But let me remind you, Inspector: we have no body. We have no corroborative evidence. All we have is the statement of a single eyewitness. And thus we have no independent evidence that anyone was actually killed. Therefore, this inquest has no choice but to render an open verdict.”

Balfour remained standing. “If there’s an open verdict, I have no legal recourse for keeping Dr. Esterhazy in Scotland.”

“If there is an objection,” the coroner went on, “you can always request a judicial review in divisional court.”

A low muttering began to rise from the assembly. Balfour shot another glance at Esterhazy. There was nothing he could do.

“If that is all,” Ainslie said, looking around sternly, “I declare this inquest to be concluded.”