Fever Dream (23 page)

“In the final years of his life, Torgensson fell into considerable financial embarrassment. He was being hounded by creditors:
banks, local merchants, even the town for back taxes. Ultimately he was evicted from his Port Allen house. He moved into a
shotgun shack by the river.”

“How do you know all this?” D’Agosta demanded.

In response, Blast stood up and walked out of the room. D’Agosta heard a door open, the rustling of drawers. A minute later
he returned with a folder in one hand. He handed it to Pendergast. “Torgensson’s credit records. Take a look at the letter
on top.”

Pendergast pulled a yellowed sheet of ledger paper, roughly torn along one edge, from the folder. It was a letter scrawled
on Pinkerton Agency letterhead. He began to read.
“ ‘He has it. The fellow has it. But we find ourselves unable to locate it. We’ve searched the shanty from basement to eaves.
It’s as empty as the Port Allen house. There’s nothing left of value, and certainly no painting of Audubon’s.’ ”

Pendergast replaced the sheet, glanced through other documents, then closed the folder. “And you, ah,
purloined
this report so as to frustrate your competition, I presume.”

“No point in helping one’s enemies.” Blast retrieved the folder, placed it on the sofa beside him. “But in the end it was
all moot.”

“And why is that?” Pendergast asked.

“Because a few months after he moved into the tenement, it was hit by lightning and burned down to its foundations—with Torgensson
inside. If he hid the Black Frame elsewhere, the location is long forgotten. If he had it in the house somewhere, it burned
up with everything else.” Blast shrugged. “And that’s when I finally gave up the search. No, Mr. Pendergast, I’m afraid the
Black Frame no longer exists. I know: I wasted twenty years of my life proving it.”

*   *   *

“I don’t believe a word of it,” D’Agosta said as they rode the elevator to the lobby. “He’s just trying to make us believe
Helen didn’t want the painting to erase his motive for doing her harm. He’s covering his ass, he doesn’t want us to suspect
him of her murder—it’s as simple as that.”

Pendergast didn’t reply.

“The guy’s obviously smart, you’d think he could come up with something a little less lame,” D’Agosta went on. “They both
wanted the painting and Helen was getting too close. Blast didn’t want anybody else taking his rightful inheritance. Open
and shut. And then there’s the big-game connection, the ivory and fur smuggling. He’s got contacts in Africa, he could have
used them to set up the murder.”

The elevator doors opened, and they walked through the lobby into the sea-moist night. Waves were sighing onto the sand, and
lights twinkled from a million windows, turning the dark beach to the color of reflected fire. Mariachi music echoed faintly
from a nearby restaurant.

“How did you know about that stuff?” D’Agosta asked as they walked toward the road.

Pendergast seemed to rouse himself. “I’m sorry?”

“The stuff in the closet? The furs?”

“By the scent.”

“Scent?”

“As anyone who has owned one will confirm, big-cat furs have a faint scent, not unpleasant, a sort of perfumed musk, quite
unmistakable. I know it well: my brother and I as children used to hide in our mother’s fur closet. I knew the fellow smuggled
ivory and rhino horn; it wasn’t a big leap to think he was also trading in illegal furs.”

“I see.”

“Come on, Vincent—Caramino’s is only two blocks from here. The best stone crab claws on the Gulf Coast, I’m told: excellent
when washed down with icy vodka. And I feel rather in need of a drink.”

New York City

W
HEN CAPTAIN HAYWARD ENTERED THE
shabby waiting area outside the interrogation rooms in the basement of One Police Plaza, the two witnesses she had called
in leapt to their feet.

The homicide sergeant also rose, and Hayward frowned. “Okay, everyone sit down and relax. I’m not the president.” She realized
that all the gold on her shoulders probably was a bit intimidating, especially for someone who worked on a ship, but this
was too much and it made her uncomfortable. “Sorry to call you out like this on a Sunday. Sergeant, I’ll take one at a time,
no particular order.”

She passed into the interrogation room—one of the nicer ones, designed for questioning cooperative witnesses, not grilling
uncooperative suspects. It had a coffee table, a desk, and a couple of chairs. The AV man was already there and he nodded,
giving her a thumbs-up.

“Thanks,” said Hayward. “Much appreciated, especially on such short notice.” Her New Year’s resolution had been to control
her irritable temper with those below her on the totem pole. Those above still got the unvarnished treatment:
Kick up, kiss down
, that was her new motto.

She leaned her head out the door. “Send the first one in, please.”

The sergeant brought in the first witness, who was still in uniform. She indicated a seat.

“I know you’ve already been questioned, but I hope you won’t mind another round. I’ll try to keep it short. Coffee, tea?”

“No thank you, Captain,” the ship’s officer said.

“You’re the vessel’s security director, is that correct?”

“Correct.”

The security director was a harmless elderly gentleman with a shock of white hair and a pleasing British accent who looked
like a retired police inspector from some small town in England.
And that’s probably
, she thought,
exactly what he is
.

“So, what happened?” she asked. She always liked starting with general questions.

“Well, Captain, this first came to my attention shortly after sail-away. I had a report that one of the passengers, Constance
Greene, was acting strangely.”

“How so?”

“She’d brought on board her child, a baby of three months. This in itself was unusual—I can’t recall a single case of a passenger
ever bringing a baby quite that young aboard ship. Especially a single mother. I received a report that just after she boarded,
a friendly passenger wanted to see her baby—and maybe got too close—and that Ms. Greene apparently threatened the passenger.”

“What did you do?”

“I interviewed Ms. Greene in her cabin and concluded that she was nothing more than an overprotective mother—you know how
some can be—and no real threat was intended. The passenger who complained was, I thought, a bit of a prying old busybody.”

“How did she seem? Ms. Greene, I mean.”

“Calm, collected, rather formal.”

“And the baby?”

“There in the room with her, in a crib supplied by housekeeping. Asleep during my brief visit.”

“And then?”

“Ms. Greene shut herself up in her cabin for three or four days. After that, she was seen about the ship for the rest of the
voyage. There were no other incidents that I’m aware of—that is, until she couldn’t produce her baby at passport control.
The baby, you see,
had been added to her passport, as is customary when a citizen gives birth abroad.”

“Did she seem sane to you?”

“Quite sane, at least on my one interaction with her. And unusually poised for a young lady of her age.”

The next witness was a purser who confirmed what the security director had said: that the passenger boarded with her baby,
that she was fiercely protective of him, and that she had disappeared into her cabin for several days. Then, toward the middle
of the crossing, she was seen taking meals in the restaurants and touring the ship without the baby. People assumed she had
a nanny or was using the ship’s babysitting service. She kept to herself, spoke to nobody, rebuffed all friendly gestures.
“I thought,” said the purser, “that she was one of these extremely rich eccentrics, you know, the kind who have so much money
they can act as they please and there’s no one to say otherwise. And…” He hesitated.

“Go on.”

“Toward the end of the voyage, I began to think she was maybe just a little bit… mad.”

Hayward paused at the door to the small holding cell. She had never met Constance Greene but had heard plenty from Vinnie.
He had always spoken of her as if she were older, but when the door swung open Hayward was astonished to see a young woman
of no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, her dark hair cut in a stylish if old-fashioned bob, sitting primly
on the fold-down bunk, still formally dressed from the ship.

“May I come in?”

Constance Greene looked at her. Hayward prided herself on being able to read a person’s eyes, but these were unfathomable.

“Please do.”

Hayward took a seat on the lone chair in the room. Could this woman really have thrown her own child into the Atlantic? “I’m
Captain Hayward.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Captain.”

Under the circumstances, the antique graciousness of the greeting gave Hayward the creeps. “I’m a friend of Lieutenant D’Agosta,
whom you know, and I have also worked on occasion with your, ah, uncle, Special Agent Pendergast.”

“Not uncle. Aloysius is my legal guardian. We’re not related.” She corrected Hayward primly, punctiliously.

“I see. Do you have any family?”

“No,” came the quick, sharp reply. “They are long dead and gone.”

“I’m sorry. First, I wonder if you could help me out with a detail here—we’re having a little trouble locating your legal
records. Do you happen to know your Social Security number?”

“I don’t have a Social Security number.”

“Where were you born?”

“Here in New York City. On Water Street.”

“The name of the hospital?”

“I was born at home.”

“I see.” Hayward decided to give up this particular line; their legal department would eventually straighten it out, and,
if the truth be admitted, she was just avoiding the difficult questions to come.

“Constance, I’m in the homicide division, but this isn’t my case. I’m just here on a fact-finding mission. You’re under no
obligation to answer any of my questions and this is not official. Do you understand?”

“I understand perfectly, thank you.”

Once again Hayward was struck by the old-fashioned cadence of her speech; something about the way she held herself; something
in those eyes, so old and wise, that seemed out of place in such a young body.

She took a deep breath. “Did you really throw your baby into the ocean?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he was evil. Like his father.”

“And the father is…?”

“Dead.”

“What was his name?”

Silence fell in the room. The cool violet eyes never wavered from her own, and Hayward understood, better than from anything
Greene might have said, that she would never, ever answer the question.

“Why did you come back? You were abroad—why come home now?”

“Because Aloysius will need my help.”

“Help? What sort of help?”

Constance remained motionless. “He is unprepared to face the betrayal that awaits him.”

Savannah, Georgia

J
UDSON ESTERHAZY STOOD AMID THE ANTIQUES
and overstuffed furniture of his den, looking out one of the tall windows facing Whitfield Square, now deserted. A chill
rain dripped from the palmettos and central cupola, collecting in puddles on the brick pavements of Habersham Street. To D’Agosta,
standing beside him, Helen’s brother seemed different on this visit. The easygoing, courtly manner had vanished. The handsome
face appeared troubled, tense, its features drawn.

“And she never mentioned her interest in parrots, the Carolina Parakeet in particular?”

Esterhazy shook his head. “Never.”

“And the Black Frame? You never heard her mention it, even in passing?”

Another shake of the head. “This is all new to me. I’m as much at a loss to explain it as you are.”

“I know how painful this must be.”

Esterhazy turned from the window. His jaw worked in what to D’Agosta seemed barely controlled rage. “Not nearly as painful
as learning of this fellow Blast. You say he has a record?”