Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(9)

Constance kept her attention on the chief. “I’m not threatening you,” she said. “I’m merely predicting a sad and humiliating future for you.”

“And who’s going to do this, exactly—you?”

“Constance?” Pendergast said, a little louder.

She made a great effort to stifle her reply, to stem the furious flow of blood that suddenly thrummed in her ears.

“Bitch.” The cop turned and continued to ease Pendergast toward the squad car, the FBI agent going willingly. The chief opened the back door and put his hand on Pendergast’s head to push him into the seat.

“Bring the checkbook to the station,” Pendergast told Constance, reaching into his pocket with some difficulty and tossing her the car keys, “so you can make bail.”

Constance stared as the squad car pulled away from the curb and went speeding down Main Street with a screech of rubber, slowing her breathing, waiting for the red mist to recede from her vision. It wasn’t until the car was out of sight that she remembered there was no one to drive their roadster.





5



The Exmouth police station was located in a quaint brick building at the opposite end of town.

“Please take care to park within the lines,” said Constance to the young man she had recruited to drive the car the length of town. He’d been gawking at the car while she stood there, wondering what to do, and she had offered to let him drive it. He had leapt at the chance. Only once he was in the car had she noticed he smelled like fish.

He pulled the car into the space and yanked the parking break.

“Wow,” he said. “I can’t believe it. What a ride.” He looked at her. “Where’d you get this car?”

“It isn’t mine. Thank you very much for being a gentleman. You may go now.”

He hesitated and she had the sense he was noticing her for the first time, his eyes roving over her figure. He was a brawny, honest yeoman type, with a wedding ring on his left hand. “Say, if you’re free later—”

“I’m not, and neither are you,” she said, plucking the keys from his hand. She exited the car and began walking toward the police station, leaving the man in the parking lot staring after her.

She entered a surprisingly spotless waiting room, presided over by portraits of the governor and the lieutenant governor, with a large gold-fringed American flag in the corner and a wood-paneled wall covered with plaques and commendations. A tiny woman sat behind a desk, answering phones and trying to look busy. Beyond her, through the open door, Constance could hear a television, tuned to a game show of some kind.

“May I help you?” the woman asked.

“I’m here to—what is the term?—make bail for Mr. Pendergast.”

The lady looked at her curiously. “He’s being processed. Please have a seat. May I have your name?”

“Constance Greene.” She seated herself, smoothing her long dress.

A young policeman emerged from the back rooms, then paused, staring at her. Constance returned the look. Was there something strange about this town, or was it she who was strange? He was dark and Italian-looking, with a brooding expression. He seemed to flush at her stare, turned away, gave the receptionist a piece of paper, spoke to her briefly, then turned back to Constance. “Are you here for Pendergast?”

“Yes.”

A hesitation. “It may be several hours.”

Why on earth hasn’t he pulled rank by now? “I’ll wait.”

He left. She found the lady behind the desk looking at her curiously as well. She seemed eager to talk, and Constance, who normally would have shut her out as one shuts a door, recalled that she was supposed to be investigating, and that this was an opportunity. She gave the lady what she hoped was a welcoming smile.

“Where are you from?” the woman asked.

“New York.”

“I didn’t know there were Amish in New York.”

Constance stared at her. “We’re not Amish.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I just assumed, with the man in the black suit, and you with that dress…” Her voice trailed off. “I hope I didn’t offend.”

“Not in the least.” Constance looked at the woman more closely. She was about fifty. The avid look on her face spoke of dull routine and a thirst for gossip. Here was someone who would know everything going on in the town. “We’re just old-fashioned,” she said, with another forced smile.

“Are you here on vacation?”

“No. We’ve investigating the burglary of Percival Lake’s wine cellar.”

A silence. “The man in the black suit is a private investigator?”

“In a manner of speaking. I’m his assistant.”

The woman became nervous. “Well, well,” she said, cracking some papers on the desk and shuffling them about, suddenly busy.

Perhaps she should not have been so quick to disclose their purpose in town. She would try a new tack. “How long have you worked here?” Constance asked.

“Twenty-six years.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s a nice town. Friendly.”

“Do you have much crime here?”

“Oh, no. Hardly any. The last murder we had here was in 1978.”