Two Graves (35 page)

Laughter, shaking heads all around.

“I don’t get it,” Corrie said.

Miller, still chuckling, said: “The profit built into that financing deal is, what, eight thousand dollars? That’s how we make our money—financing. That’s the first lesson in selling cars.”

“Eight thousand
profit
?” she asked.

“Pure, unadulterated profit.”

“How does that work?”

Miller lit up, inhaled a massive lungful, kept talking while the smoke dribbled back out. “Before he came in here, old Dr. Putz obviously spent a lot of time checking Edmunds, but he failed to check the most important thing: his own credit rating. Jacking up his rate by three-quarters of a percentage point over seventy-two months on seventy thousand is over three grand alone. And that’s on top of a jacked-up rate to begin with. Shit, if he’d gone to his bank before he came in here, he could’ve borrowed that money at five and a half percent, maybe less.”

“So that wasn’t true—that his credit rating wasn’t good?”

Miller swiveled his head around. “You got a problem with that?”

“No, no,” she said hastily. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Charlie rolling his eyes, a look of annoyance on his face. “I think it’s just fine,” she repeated.

“Good. ’Cause your predecessor, old Jack, he just didn’t get it. Even when he sold a car, which was hardly ever, he’d give them the true best rate. Then, when we called him on it, the son of a bitch threatened to go to the attorney general. Report the dealership.”

“That sounds serious. What would’ve happened?”

“It’s not exactly an uncommon practice. Anyway, it didn’t come to that, because the dickhead went off and robbed a bank. Solved our problem for us!” He turned and stared at Charlie. “Right, Charlie?”

“You know I don’t like that way of doing business,” said Charlie quietly. “Sooner or later, it’s going to come back and bite you.”

“Don’t pull a Jack on us,” said Miller, his voice suddenly not so friendly.

Charlie said nothing.

Another couple came into the dealership.

“They’re mine,” said another salesman, smacking his hands together and rubbing them. “Seven and a half percent, here we come!”

Corrie looked around. It was now as clear as day. One of them had framed her father to stop him from going to the AG.

But which one? Or… was it
all
of them?

T
HE ALARM BELLS HAD BEEN GOING OFF EVER SINCE
D’Agosta got the message that Glen Singleton wanted to see him. And now, as he entered the captain’s outer office, the alarms rang even louder. Midge Rawley, Singleton’s secretary—normally so gossipy—barely looked up from her computer terminal as he approached. “Go right in, Lieutenant,” she said without making eye contact.

D’Agosta walked past her into Singleton’s private office. Immediately, his fears were confirmed. Sure enough—there was Singleton, behind his desk, nattily dressed as usual. But it was the expression on the captain’s face that made D’Agosta’s heart sink. Singleton was perhaps the most straightforward, honest man D’Agosta had ever met. He hadn’t the least hint of guile or duplicity—what you saw was what you got. And what D’Agosta saw was a man struggling with a very thorny problem.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?” D’Agosta asked.

“Yes.” Singleton glanced down at a document that lay on his desk. He scanned it, turned a page. “We’re in the midst of a situation, Lieutenant—or at least,
you’re
in the midst of it.”

D’Agosta raised his eyebrows.

“As squad commander for the Hotel Killer murders, you appear to be caught in a turf war. Between two FBI agents.” He glanced down again at the papers on his desk. “I’ve gotten my hands on a formal complaint Agent Gibbs has just made against Agent Pendergast. In it, he cites lack of cooperation, freelancing, failure to coordinate—among other grievances.” He paused. “Your name comes up in the complaint. Comes up more than once, in fact.”

D’Agosta did not reply.

“I called you in here, privately, for two reasons. First—to advise you to stay out of the crossfire. This is an FBI matter, and, believe me, we don’t want to get involved.”

D’Agosta felt himself stiffening, as if at a cadet review.

Singleton glanced back down at the document, turned yet another page. “The second reason I called you in was to learn anything special about this case that you might know. I need you to share with me the relevant information—
all
the relevant information. You see, Lieutenant, if the shit hits the fan and this thing escalates into World War Three, I don’t want to be the one who gets blindsided.”

“It’s all in the report, sir,” D’Agosta said carefully.

“Is it? This is no time to take sides, Lieutenant.”

A silence settled over the office. At last, Singleton sighed. “Vincent, we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye. But I’ve always believed you were a good cop.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“But this is not the first time your association with Pendergast has become a problem. And jeopardized my good opinion.”

“Sir?”

“Let me be frank. Based on his report, Agent Gibbs seems to believe Pendergast is withholding information. That he isn’t sharing everything he knows.” Singleton paused. “The fact is, Gibbs is deeply suspicious about Pendergast’s actions regarding this latest murder. And I don’t blame him. From what I’ve seen in this document, there’s not even a hint of standard law enforcement protocols being followed here. And there seems to be a lot of unexplained, ah,
activity
going on.”

D’Agosta couldn’t meet Singleton’s disappointed gaze. He looked down at his shoes.

“I know that you and Pendergast have a history. That you’re friends. But this is one of the biggest serial murder cases in years. You are the squad commander. This is yours to lose. So think a minute before you answer. Is there
anything
else I should know?”

D’Agosta remained silent.

“Look, Lieutenant. You went down in flames once before, almost destroyed your career, thanks to Pendergast. I don’t want to see that happen again. It’s obvious Gibbs is bound and determined to crucify Pendergast. He doesn’t care who gets caught up in the collateral damage.”

Still D’Agosta said nothing. He found himself recalling all the times he’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Pendergast: against that terrible creature in the natural history museum; against the Wrinklers, deep beneath the streets of Manhattan; against Count Fosco and that bastard Bullard in Italy; and, more recently, against Judson Esterhazy and the mysterious
Bund
. And yet, at the same time, he could not deny his own doubts over Pendergast’s recent behavior and motives, even his concern for the man’s sanity. And he couldn’t help but recall Laura Hayward’s words:
It’s your duty to turn over all evidence, all information, even the crazy stuff. This isn’t about friendship. This is about catching a dangerous killer who’s likely to kill again. You
have
to do the right thing.

He took a deep breath, looked up. And then, as if from far away, he heard himself say: “Pendergast believes his son is the murderer.”

Singleton’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“I know it sounds crazy. But Pendergast told me that he thinks his own son is responsible for these killings.”

“And… you believe this?”

“I don’t know what to believe. Pendergast’s wife just died under terrible circumstances. The man’s come as near to cracking up as anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Singleton shook his head. “Lieutenant, when I asked you for information about this case, I wanted
real
information.” He sat back. “I mean, this sounds ridiculous. I didn’t even know Agent Pendergast had a son.”

“Neither did I, sir.”

“There’s nothing else you want to tell me?”

“There
is
nothing else I can tell you. It’s like I said—everything else is in my report.”

Singleton looked at him. “So Pendergast withheld information. And you’ve known about this for how long?”

D’Agosta winced inwardly. “Long enough.”

Singleton sat back in his chair. For a moment, neither man spoke.

“Very well, Lieutenant,” Singleton said at last. “I’ll have to think about how best to address that.”

Miserably, D’Agosta nodded his understanding.

“Before you go, let me give you one last piece of advice. A minute ago, I told you not to get involved in this. Not to take sides. And that’s good advice. But the time may come—and, based on what you’ve just told me, it may come sooner than I expected—that all of us will be forced to take a side. If that happens, you
will
come down on the side of Gibbs and the BSU. Not on the side of Pendergast. Frankly, I don’t like the man, I don’t like his methods—and this business about his son makes me think he’s finally gone off the deep end. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”

“Extremely clear, sir.”

“Good.” Singleton looked down and turned the report over on his desk, signaling that the meeting was at an end.

P
ROCTOR MOVED QUIETLY THROUGH THE LIBRARY, HIS
eyes scanning the books. He was not a bookish person, and almost all the titles were unknown to him. Many were also written in foreign languages. He had no idea how to “educate” anyone, let alone a strange, weak boy the likes of Tristram. But an assignment was an assignment, and Proctor knew his duty. He had to admit the boy was easy to care for. His needs were modest, and he was grateful for every kindness, every meal, no matter how simple. At first—based on his broken speech and strange ways—Proctor assumed he was mentally defective, but that had clearly been a misjudgment; the boy was catching on very fast.

His eye stopped at a title he recognized:
Rogue Male
, by Geoffrey Household. A good book. A very good book.

Proctor placed his finger on the spine, slipped the book out, then paused to listen. The housekeeper had the night off. The mansion was silent.

… Or was it?

With an easy motion, he tucked the book under his arm and turned, his eye taking in the dim library. It was cold—Proctor did not bother with a fire when Pendergast wasn’t around—and most of the lights were off. It was nine o’clock in the evening, and a bitter winter night had settled in, the wind sweeping off the Hudson.

Proctor continued to listen. His ears could now pick up the sounds of the house, the deep, muffled moan of the wind, the faint ticks and creaks of the old mansion; the scent was as usual, beeswax polish, leather, and wood. And yet he thought he’d heard something.
Something quiet, almost below audibility. Something from above.

Still moving casually, Proctor strolled to the far end of the library and slid open a small oak panel, exposing a computer security pad and LCD. It was green down the line, the alarms all set, doors and windows secure, motion sensors quiescent.

With the punch of a button, Proctor temporarily deactivated the motion sensors. Then he strolled out of the library into the reception hall, through a marble archway, and into the so-called cabinet—several rooms that had been arranged by Pendergast into a small museum, its displays taken from the seemingly endless collections of Pendergast’s great-grand-uncle, Enoch Leng. In the center of the first room stood a small but vicious-looking fossilized dinosaur, all teeth and claws, surrounded by case after case of bizarre and otherworldly specimens, from skulls to diamonds, meteorites to stuffed birds.

He moved easily, smoothly, but inside he felt anything but easy. Proctor had an internal radar, honed by years in the special forces, and at the moment that radar was going off. Why, he did not know—there was not one thing he could put his finger on. Everything seemed secure. It was instinct.

Proctor never ignored his instincts.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor. Skirting the moth-eaten, stuffed chimpanzee with no lips, he scanned the doors up and down the hall. All closed. His eyes rested momentarily on the painting of a deer being torn apart by wolves, then moved on.

All was well.

Returning to the first floor, he went back to the library, reactivated the motion sensors, picked up
Rogue Male
, sat down in a chair strategically positioned toward a mirror on a far wall that allowed him a view out of the library and across the entire reception area.