Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(30)

Putting down the ledger and taking out his penlight, Pendergast got on his hands and knees and did a painstaking search of the entire floor of the room. This was followed by the undersides of the desks, the chairs, the walls, the single filing cabinet. He took the occasional sample, but he could see nothing of special interest: no traces of blood, no signs of violence or a struggle. It looked as if Ellerby had last come down here on one of his breaks, done some work, then walked out, closing the door behind him…and gone to meet his death.

Pendergast walked toward the door, opened it, snapped off the light, and stepped into the basement hallway. As he closed the door, his gaze once more turned toward the array of bare bulbs, leading off tantalizingly into the darkness. Then he turned away and began ascending the stairs, pulling out his phone as he did so to arrange for the FBI’s Evidence Response Team to come and take away all traces of Patrick Ellerby’s lucrative hobby.





20



AS THEY WERE FINISHING breakfast the morning after the raid, Pendergast’s cell phone rang. While he answered it, Coldmoon stirred his coffee moodily and took a sip. It was terrible, of course. He noticed that Pendergast was listening for a long time to someone on the other end of the line, without saying a word, and wondered idly who it was. Constance—whose breakfast had consisted only of tea—was reading the latest issue of The Lancet. This seemed like odd breakfast reading material, but nothing Constance did would surprise Coldmoon anymore.

Pendergast finally said, simply, “Yes,” and hung up.

“Who was that?” Coldmoon asked.

“Our old friend, Squire Pickett. The senator has asked him to ask us to participate in a press conference.”

“Press conference? Good God, why?”

Pendergast smiled wanly. “To discuss the Savannah Vampire, of course.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“The senator is a canny fellow,” Pendergast said. “He doesn’t want this blowing up in his face, and so he’s getting in front of the situation by leveraging his relationship with Pickett. Rumors are running rampant about a vampire, and he wants to put some solid information in front of the public to squelch speculation. Commander Delaplane will be running the conference. The mayor will be there, and we’ll be backing them up.”

“But we don’t have solid information to give them,” said Coldmoon. “Except for the raid on the church of crazy naked blood-drinking Satanists, who have all lawyered up by now.”

“True. But we have enough to fashion a small bone from, which we can toss them.”

Coldmoon grunted. “And when is this conference taking place?”

“Two hours.”

Coldmoon nearly choked on his coffee. “Two hours?”

“As I said, the senator wants to get in front of this.”

Constance peeped over the top of her journal as the two men rose. “In which case, a small bone might not be enough,” she said. “You should perhaps consider a tibia. Or even better, a femur.”

Coldmoon shot her a glance, but her face was already hidden once again behind the periodical.



The press conference took place in the parking lot behind the police station, where a temporary stage had been set up and the television news vans with their satellite dishes had room to park. It was obviously a hasty improvisation, but Coldmoon was impressed that Delaplane had been able to put even this together so quickly. A uniformed officer moved some cones aside to let them pass and waved them on to a restricted parking area. Pendergast took out his cell phone once again and dialed.

“Who are you calling now?” Coldmoon asked.

“Pickett,” Pendergast said, putting the call on speakerphone. “He wanted me to alert him when we arrived.”

The phone was picked up by Pickett’s assistant. “He’s on with Senator Drayton at the moment, but he’s been expecting your call. One second, please.”

A brief silence, and then Coldmoon heard a basso profundo voice with an unpleasant rasp come through the phone’s speaker. “I’m not sure you’re hearing me, Walt. I’ve got that outdoor rally in Savannah coming up awfully soon, and I won’t tolerate any diversions. You need to get this mess cleared up quickly, because—”

“I beg your pardon?” Coldmoon heard Pendergast interrupt.

There was a silence. Pickett’s voice came through, slightly breathless. “Agent Pendergast, I can’t take your call now. I’ll call you back.”

“Yes, sir.” He paused a second. “It seems we might have had a phone malfunction, because I thought for a moment that I heard another voice—”

“That will do,” Pickett said, his voice tight. And the phone went dead.

Coldmoon looked at Pendergast, who had a most unusual twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Is that who I think it was? The Georgia senator, reaming out Pickett?”

“Tragic how some people seem unable to master digital technology,” Pendergast said, not sounding perturbed at all.

“I don’t know how, but I think you managed that little screw-up,” said Coldmoon.

“Who, me? Impossible.”

That Senator Drayton certainly sounded like a first-class asshole. Coldmoon couldn’t help but feel a certain grim satisfaction in knowing that Pickett might himself be on the receiving end of the stick.