Blue Labyrinth (13 page)

L
eaving the prison, Pendergast drove south from Indio. It was late afternoon when he pulled his car off the main road and parked beneath the cruel ridgeline of the Scarrit Hills.

He climbed to the crest and gazed eastward. Between him and the dead shore of the Salton Sea lay the Fontainebleau, its gaudy, ragged lines dwarfed by the bleak expanse. All was still. From horizon to horizon, stretching to infinity, there was not the slightest sign of life. He had only the faint moaning of the wind for company.

Now Pendergast looked northward, toward the gullied track that led to the Golden Spider Mine. The ill-disguised tire tracks he had noted the day before were gone, leaving nothing but an apparently unbroken crust of salt.

He walked down the far side of the foothills and approached the resort, just as he had done the night before. His footprints raised plumes of salt dust as he walked. And yet there was no sign of his tracks from the previous evening—the steps leading up to the veranda, and the veranda itself, appeared to have lain untouched for decades.

He turned away from the Salton Fontainebleau and walked the half mile north to the main entrance of the Golden Spider Mine. Its ancient door was half-buried in a wash of salt. Miniature salt dunes, formed by dust devils, were scattered along the gullied approach.
It was as it had appeared from the ridgeline: the salt crust seemed undisturbed.

Pendergast scrutinized the entrance from a variety of angles, walking first here, then there, pausing now and then to stare with an appraising eye. And then he knelt and very carefully examined the crust beneath his feet, taking a tiny whisk from a pocket of his suit jacket and brushing the surface—gently, gently—gradually exposing the lighter-colored salt underneath. And now he saw, finally, the faintest traces of activity, so skillfully erased that there would be no way to deconstruct or glean any information from them. He stared for a long time, marveling at the obvious effort, before rising again.

The wind cried and moaned, stirring his hair and ruffling the lapels of his jacket. For the briefest of moments, the dry air was touched by a pleasing scent of lilies.

Turning away from the mine, Pendergast continued north, walking the two miles to the outskirts of the ghost town of Salton Palms. It looked just as it had the day before: broken streetlights, ruined houses, gaping windows, rusting birdbaths, empty swimming pools. But the cobbled-together shack with the tar-paper roof that had stood at the south edge of town was gone.

Pendergast walked over to where it had been—where, just the day before, he had knocked on the rude door and spoken to Cayute. Now there was nothing but dirt and patches of desiccated grass.

It was as if everything—the resort, the mine—had sat here, unvisited, untouched, for years. As if the old man and his worthless possessions had never existed.

It was as if it had all been a dream.

For a brief moment Pendergast swayed, a trifle unsteadily, as the wind worried and tugged at his ankles. And then he turned southward and began the trek back through the salt, dust, and sand to his rental car.

Y
es,” said the junior curator. “Sure, I remember him. He was working with Marsala, maybe two months ago. He and Marsala seemed like buddies, which was kind of unusual.”

“That guy on the screen look like him?” asked Bonomo.

“Almost exactly. Except…” The curator stared at the laptop screen. “I think his forehead was a little broader. Around the temples, maybe.”

Bonomo worked his magic with the Identi-CAD program. “Like this?”

“A little broader still,” the curator said, conviction growing in his voice. “And higher.”

More magic. “This?”

“Yes. That’s perfect.”

“Perfect? Really?”

“Really.”

“We aim to please!” Bonomo said with his trademark bray of laughter.

D’Agosta watched this exchange with amusement. They had been making the rounds of the Osteology Department, speaking with everyone who remembered seeing the “scientist” Marsala had assisted. This had allowed Bonomo to tweak the portrait he’d created the day before, making it an even better match. D’Agosta felt optimistic enough to begin a software review of the security video feeds
again, with portrait in hand. He was interested in two dates in particular: the day Marsala died, and the day he signed out the specimen for the visitor.

D’Agosta checked the junior curator’s name off his list, and they continued down the hall. Spotting another Osteology worker who’d seen the fake scientist, D’Agosta introduced her to Bonomo, and looked on as the police technician showed her the composite portrait and asked for her feedback. Bonomo had cut quite a swath through the dusty, quiet Museum, talking loudly, cracking jokes, making wiseass remarks and laughing at the top of his lungs. This had given D’Agosta a measure of secret joy, especially when Frisby had popped his head out of his office more than once, glowering. He hadn’t said anything—what could he say? This was police business.

Out of the corner of his eye, D’Agosta caught sight of Margo Green. She was coming down the corridor from the main entrance to Osteology. Their eyes met, and she gestured toward a nearby storeroom.

“What’s up?” D’Agosta said, following her inside and closing the door behind them. “Ready to examine those additional specimens?”

“Already done. Not a Hottentot to be found. The missing long bone didn’t turn up in any nearby trays, either. But I’ve done further analysis of the female skeleton, as promised. I wanted to give you an update.”

“Shoot.”

To D’Agosta, Margo seemed a little breathless. “I’ve been able to confirm most of my initial conclusions about the bones. Further examination, and in particular the ratio of oxygen and carbon isotopes present in the skeleton, indicate a diet and geographic location consistent with a late-nineteenth-century woman, roughly sixty years of age, living in an urban American environment, probably New York or vicinity.”

From the corridor beyond came another bark of laughter from Bonomo that almost shook the walls.

“A little louder,” Margo said, “and your friend out there could channel Jimmy Durante.”

“He’s a bit obnoxious, but he’s the best at what he does. Besides, it’s fun to watch Frisby get his knickers in a twist.”

At the mention of Frisby’s name, Margo’s face darkened.

“How are you managing?” D’Agosta asked. “I mean, being in here like this. I know it’s not easy for you.”

“I’m doing all right.”

“Is Frisby giving you a hard time?”

“I can handle it.”

“Do you want me to have a word with him?”

“Thanks, but it wouldn’t help. There’s nothing to be gained and everything to lose from a confrontation. The Museum can be a real snake’s den. If I keep a low profile, everything should be fine.” She paused. “Look, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yeah?”

Despite the fact they were alone, Margo lowered her voice. “Do you remember when we had Sandoval check the accession record for that skeleton?”

D’Agosta nodded. He couldn’t imagine where this was leading.

“And when we got to the name of the preparator—Dr. Padgett—Sandoval said:
Oh. Him
.”

“Go on.”

“At the time, it struck me as strange. So today I asked Sandoval about it. Like many Museum workers, he loves to collect old Museum rumors and gossip. Anyway, he told me that this Padgett—an Osteological curator here many years ago—happened to have a wife who disappeared. There was some sort of scandal. Her body was never found.”

“Disappeared?” D’Agosta asked. “How? What kind of scandal?”

“He didn’t know,” Margo said.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably—and it’s creeping the heck out of me.”

L
ieutenant Peter Angler sat at a scuffed desk, heaped with paper, in the rambling offices of the Transportation Security Administration. Outside the room’s lone window, a steady stream of jets screamed by on JFK’s runway 4L-22R. It was almost as noisy inside: the TSA offices were awash in ringing phones, clacking keyboards, slamming doors, and—not infrequently—voices raised in anger or protest. Directly across the hall, a heavyset man from Cartagena was being subjected—visible past a door that was more than ajar—to a body cavity search.

What was that line of Sophocles from
Oedipus Rex
? “How awful a knowledge of the truth can be.” Angler looked quickly back at the paperwork strewn across the desk.

With little else to go on, several of his men were checking into the many ways Alban could have entered the country. He had one hard fact: before showing up dead on a doorstep in New York City, Alban’s last reported location had been Brazil. And so Angler had dispatched teams to the local airports, Penn Station, and the Port Authority bus terminal, searching for any evidence on his movements.

Angler reached for a stack of paper. Passenger manifests: lists of people who had entered the country from Brazil over the last several months, via flights into JFK. It was one of many such manifests, and it was an inch thick. Searching for any evidence? They were wallowing in “evidence”—all of it apparently useless, a distraction. His men were
examining these same manifests, looking for known criminals that Alban might have associated with, checking for anything remotely out of place or suspicious.

He himself was simply checking—paging through the lists, hour after hour, waiting for something, anything, to catch his attention.

Angler knew he didn’t think like the average cop. He was right-brained: always searching for that intuitive leap, that strange connection, that a more orthodox, logical approach would overlook. It had served him well on more than one occasion. And so he kept turning the pages and reading the names, not even knowing what he was looking for. Because the one thing they did know was that Alban did not enter the country under his own name.

As he did so, he had the fleeting sense—not for the first time in this case—that somebody had made this journey before him. It was just little things: the slight disorder among papers that had no reason to be disordered, file drawers that looked like they’d recently been pawed through, and a few people who had vague recollections of someone else asking similar questions six months or a year ago.

But who could it have been? Pendergast?

At the thought of Pendergast, Angler felt a familiar irritation. He’d never before met such a character. If the man had been the slightest bit cooperative, maybe all this pawing through paper wouldn’t be necessary.

Angler shook this line of reflection away and returned to the manifests. He was experiencing a touch of indigestion, and he wasn’t going to let thoughts of Pendergast make it worse.

Suddenly he stopped. One of the names—Tapanes Landberg—stood out.

Why? Other odd names had jumped out at him before… and proven to be nothing. What was it about this one that stirred something in his right brain?

He paused to consider. What had Pendergast said about his son? He’d said so little that all of it had stayed in Angler’s mind.
He was eminently capable of managing even the worst trouble
. There was something else, too; something that had stood out:
He took delight in malicious games; he was an expert at taunting and mortification
.

Games. Taunting and mortification. Interesting. What meaning, exactly, was hiding behind the veil of those words? Had Alban been a trickster? Did he like his little jokes?

Taking a pencil, Angler—slowly, lips pursed—began doodling with the name Tapanes Landberg in the top margin of the manifest.

Abrades Plangent
. On a whim, Angler removed the letters that made up Alban from this name. He found himself left with:

Shifting to the bottom margin, he rearranged these letters.

Angler glanced at the manifest details. The flight had been Air Brazil, Rio de Janeiro to New York.

The person who entered Kennedy Airport from Brazil came in with a name that was an anagram of Alban Pendergast.

For the first time in several days, Peter Angler smiled.