Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(30)

“This must be what our historian was looking into,” he said, closing the document and laying it back on the desk.

“Yes,” said Greene. She had been standing close to him, reading the entry over his shoulder. There was something oddly thrilling in her proximity.

She stepped back. “Do you find it strange that no money seems to have been paid for the loss of the passengers?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“And this ‘loss of cargo’—I wonder what that was, why it was so valuable, and why it took over two years to get reimbursed for it?”

Gavin shrugged.

“Why would an English noblewoman charter a ship to begin with? And why wasn’t she on the ship?”

Gavin looked into her face. She was really very young, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three. But there was an unusual depth in those violet eyes. He felt a most unprofessional stirring. “Well,” he said, “those are interesting questions, but I doubt they’re relevant.”

“Why not?”

He swallowed, stung by her sharp tone. “Because I’m pretty sure some crankhead from Dill Town killed our guy for money and kicks.”

“Crankhead? What’s that?”

She seemed almost to be from another world—at least, a world far from Exmouth. That, too, was appealing. “Meth addict. You know, methamphetamine? Breaking Bad?”

A silence. “Are there many addicts in Dill Town?”

“A few years ago we busted a lab over there, and we think there might be another one operating, maybe out in the marshes.”

“Why is there an addiction problem?”

“‘Addiction problem’ may be too strong. It’s just…you know, poverty, lack of education, no opportunities… Fishing’s been in decline for decades. And fishermen, well, they’re a rough bunch.” He paused. “Just saying.”

“I see. Thank you for that observation, Sergeant. What was found with the body?”

This segue was so unexpected it took Gavin a moment to parse it. “Um, nothing. Well, a wristwatch. The rest of the body had been stripped.” She’d been there; why was she asking him this question?

“If the motive of the ‘crankhead’ was money, why didn’t he take the watch?”

Gavin shrugged. “It was a crappy brand.” He hesitated. “So what does Pendergast think?”

“About what?”

“Those markings. A red herring—or something else?”

“He hasn’t said.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know.”

There was a silence as they looked at each other. Gavin finally spoke. “I’ve been doing police work for a long time, and I’ve made one bedrock observation about crime.”

“Which is?”

“That most crimes are banal. Moronic. The obvious explanation is almost always the right one. And in this case, robbery is the simplest explanation, with those crazy markings the work of drug addicts.”

“If most crimes are banal and moronic, it’s because most people are.”

Gavin was surprised by her answer. “That’s your view of human nature? That people are basically stupid?”

“Yes. There’s the exception to the rule. Some people defy simple explanations. And so do some crimes. This is one of those crimes.”

“Some people defy simple explanations,” Gavin repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that a few exceptional people stand above the common lot. For them, the rules are different. Their crimes are also different. There was nothing banal or stupid about this murder—or the criminal who committed it.”

Gavin had never met a woman quite like this. He looked at her curiously, and then—most uncharacteristically—decided to take a step into the unknown. “I’m quite sure that you, Miss Greene, are one of those exceptional people.”

He awaited her denial, a flare-up of anger, but it didn’t come. Encouraged, he ventured further, his voice dropping just a little. “And for that reason, I would like to get to know you better.”

She continued looking at him, her face unreadable. Then she said, “Are we done here?”

“We’re done here.”

He watched her elegant lips curve upward in a faint smile at what appeared to be some private amusement. “After you, Sergeant.”





17



Soft late-afternoon light was filtering through the lace curtains of the would-be interview room. Motes drifted in the air. Constance watched as the FBI agent paced softly back and forth, his black-clad figure moving in and out of the light. He moved so lightly, he seemed more wraithlike than human. He’d been this way since she’d descended from McCool’s room with her report. He was inscrutable, sphinxlike. His very lack of predictability was what made him so…intriguing.

“It makes no sense,” he murmured.

She waited, knowing he was not speaking to her. He continued pacing.

“The ship,” he went on, “was seen beating through heavy seas near Half Way Rock in Casco Bay at sunset, which on February second, 1884, was approximately four fifty PM. It was moving at ten knots, according to the log of the F/V Monckton. It must have rounded Cape Elizabeth around five thirty PM. High tide was at eleven twenty-five PM, and because of the nor’easter there would have been a storm surge. If the ship had sunk prior to eleven twenty-five PM, the wreckage and bodies would have been carried to shore on the surge and found. But they were not. Therefore, the ship sank after the tide reversed, bearing the wreckage and victims out to sea. Assuming a steady rate of speed of ten knots—likely, given this was a steamship and would have been traveling at that speed for stability—the Pembroke Castle would have rounded Cape Ann at eleven forty-five PM and reached the safety of Gloucester Harbor shortly thereafter.”