“Pendergast.”
The pencil in the sergeant’s hand began writing this down, too. Then it paused. Slowly the sergeant looked up. The Oakleys had come off, and he found himself staring into that face he knew so well, with the blond-white hair, gray eyes, finely chiseled features, skin as pale and translucent as Carrara marble.
“Pendergast?”
“In the very flesh, my dear Vincent.” The New York accent was gone, replaced by the cultured southern drawl he remembered vividly.
“What are you doing here?”
“The same might be asked of you.”
Vincent D’Agosta felt himself coloring. The last time he had seen Pendergast he had been a proud New York City police lieutenant. And now here he was in Shithampton, a lowly sergeant decorating hedges with police tape.
“I was in Amagansett when the news arrived that Jeremy Grove had met an untimely end. How could I resist? I apologize for the outfit, but I was hard-pressed to get here as soon as possible.”
“You’re on the case?”
“Until I’m officially assigned to the case, I can do nothing but feed the ducks. I worked on my last case without full authorization, and it, shall we say, strained some high-level nerves. I must say, Vincent, running into you is a most welcome surprise.”
“For me, too,” said D’Agosta, coloring again. “Sorry, I’m really not at my best here—”
Pendergast laid a hand on his arm. “We shall have plenty of time to talk later. For now, I see a large individual approaching who appears to be suffering from emphraxis.”
A low-pitched, menacing voice intruded from behind. “I hate to break up this little conversation.” D’Agosta turned to see Lieutenant Braskie.
Braskie stopped, stared at Pendergast, then turned back to D’Agosta. “Perhaps I’m a little confused here, Sergeant, but isn’t this individual trespassing at the scene of a crime?”
“Well, uh, Lieutenant, we were—” D’Agosta looked at Pendergast.
“This man isn’t a friend of yours, now, is he?”
“As a matter of fact—”
“The sergeant was just telling me to leave,” interjected Pendergast smoothly.
“Oh, he was, was he? And if I may be so bold as to inquire what you were doing here in the first place, sir?”
“Feeding the ducks.”
“Feeding the ducks.” D’Agosta could see Braskie’s face flushing. He wished Pendergast would hurry up and pull out his shield.
“Well, sir,” Braskie went on, “that’s a beautiful thing to do. Let’s see some ID.”
D’Agosta waited smugly. This was going to be good.
“As I was just explaining to the officer here, I left my wallet back at the house—”
Braskie turned on D’Agosta, saw the notebook in his hand. “You got this man’s information?”
“Yes.” D’Agosta looked at Pendergast almost pleadingly, but the FBI agent’s face had shut down completely.
“Did you ask him how he got through the police cordon?”
“No—”
“Don’t you think maybe you should?”
“I came through the side gate in Little Dune Road,” Pendergast said.
“Not possible. It’s locked. I checked it myself.”
“Perhaps the lock is defective. At least, it seemed to fall open in my hands.”
Braskie turned to D’Agosta. “Now, at last, there’s something useful you can do. Go plug that hole, Sergeant. And report back to me at eleven o’clock sharp. We need to talk. And as for you, sir, I will escort you off the premises.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
D’Agosta looked with dismay at the retreating form of Lieutenant Braskie, with Pendergast strolling along behind him, hands in the pockets of his baggy surfer shorts, head tilted back as if taking the air.
{ 3 }
Lieutenant L. P. Braskie Jr. of the Southampton Police Department stood beneath the trellis of the mansion’s grape arbor, watching the SOC team comb the endless acreage of lawn for clues. His face wore a stolid mask of professionalism as he thought of Chief MacCready playing golf in the Highlands of Scotland. He pictured in his mind the links of St. Andrews in autumn: the narrow doglegs of greensward, the grim castle, the barren moors beyond. He’d wait until tomorrow to give the chief a call, let him know what was going on. MacCready had been chief for twenty years, and this golf trip was one more reason why Southampton needed fresh blood. Braskie was a local boy with roots in the town and friends in City Hall, and he’d also managed to build up some powerful relationships among the summer people. A favor here and a favor there worked wonders. A foot in both worlds. He’d played his cards well.