Crooked River(6)
Pickett took her hand and sat, placing his briefcase down. In the silence that ensued, he glanced past the courtyard and down the colonnade, flanked with its stately palms. He could see the light jade of the ocean in the distance, beyond the line of greenery. It was a beautiful spot: impossibly private, impossibly tranquil—and no doubt impossibly expensive.
Pickett disliked unnecessary opulence. But this place nevertheless appealed to him on a visceral level. It seemed as elegant, and as rarefied, as a rainbow arcing over a waterfall. Yes, he could indeed get used to it.
“Would you care for a drink?” Pendergast raised his glass, containing a cloudy crimson beverage.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Our hosts tell me it’s a native concoction, good for the digestion.”
“Don’t try it,” Constance warned. “I’ve had a sip of the ‘native concoction,’ and it tasted like brined formaldehyde.” She gestured at Pendergast. “He’s been drinking them practically since we arrived. Don’t you notice his head beginning to shrink already?”
In response, Pendergast took a deep sip. “Constance, don’t make me send you to your room without supper.”
“May I ask what you’re drinking?” Pickett asked her.
“Lillet Blanc with a wedge of key lime.”
Pickett wasn’t inclined to take a chance on that, either.
Pendergast called over one of the uniformed men, who asked for Pickett’s order. “Daiquiri,” he said. The man retreated with a faint nod, almost immediately returning with the drink.
“Leave it to you to find this place,” Pickett said. “Something about it makes me think of Atlantis.”
“And like Atlantis,” Pendergast replied in his honeyed drawl, “nature will no doubt ensure it shall soon be submerged. Now seemed the ideal time to enjoy it.”
“I hadn’t expected to be back in Florida so soon,” Pickett said. “But I was summoned to appear before a grand jury yesterday afternoon. In the Brokenhearts case.”
Pendergast nodded. “My presence was requested as well. I gave my testimony earlier in the week.”
Pickett had already known Pendergast had appeared before the grand jury and that he was still in Florida—what he hadn’t known was where. Finding that out had taken him more time and effort than he cared to think about.
“Most kind of you to drop in for a visit like this on our vacation,” Pendergast said. “I assume now you’ll be heading back to New York?”
Goddamn it, would the guy never tire of busting his balls? Pendergast knew damn well Pickett wasn’t paying a social call. This thing had happened at the worst possible time: right when he was hoping to transition to a leadership position in Washington. “Actually, I’m not heading back north quite yet. I’m heading for Captiva Island.”
Pendergast sipped his drink. “Ah.”
Pickett gave a brusque little nod. “There’s a case unfolding as we speak: a very unique case. This morning, a large number of feet—human feet—washed up on shore, each encased in a green shoe.”
Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “How many?”
“They’re still coming in with the tide. Somewhere in the upper forties, at last count.”
Both Pendergast and Constance Greene remained silent. Pickett reached over and unlatched his briefcase. He felt a little uncomfortable sharing confidential information with Pendergast in front of Ms. Greene. But he’d heard she was as much Pendergast’s amanuensis and researcher as she was his ward. Besides, he sensed asking her to leave would not be helpful to his mission—to put it mildly.
“Nobody knows where the feet came from, why there are so many, who they belonged to, or anything else,” he went on, taking a manila folder of photographs out of the briefcase and handing it to Pendergast. “That’s why the FBI is getting involved with the case, along with the Coast Guard and local authorities. We’ll be forming a task force.”
“Have any commonalities been identified?” Pendergast asked as he flipped through the photographs. “Age, sex, race?”
“Too early to say. Law enforcement resources are still arriving and the remains are being transferred to the M.E.’s office in Fort Myers. It’s not an easy crime scene to secure. We’ll know more in twelve to twenty-four hours.”
Constance Greene sat forward in her chair. “You called it a crime scene. How can you be sure of that?”
Pickett started to reply but then stopped himself. The question seemed either very shrewd or very stupid. What could this be, if not some horrific mass murder? “The feet show indications of extreme trauma: torn flesh, broken and chopped bones. I can’t imagine any accident or other circumstance that would cause such injuries.”
“Only feet have been washed ashore, you say? No other body parts?”
“None. The rest of the remains have yet to be discovered.”
“You speak of ‘remains.’ How do you know the people who once possessed these feet are, in fact, dead?”
“I—” Pickett fell silent a moment. “We don’t know. As I said, this case appears to be unique.” As annoyed as he was by these probing questions, he was careful to add special emphasis to the word unique.