Crooked River(11)

He couldn’t hear what was being said over in the tight knot of brass. He needed to get closer. Scouting around, he realized one section of the barrier was visually screened by a row of parked cruisers on the beach. If he could get inside at that point, he might not be noticed, and then he’d be able to mingle with the technicians, detectives, and others who were not in uniform. Almost all had IDs on lanyards around their necks. He had a lanyard, too—which held his press credentials. He pulled it out of his bag, removed the press card, and shoved in his PADI diving certification card. It looked official from a distance, and even if someone checked they might just think he was some kind of authorized diver.

He rolled his pants back down, put on his shoes and socks, slapped the sand off, smoothed his hair, and hung the lanyard around his neck. His reporter’s case would add to the look of someone engaged in legitimate business.

The sun was hanging lower over the gulf, and the parked cars cast long shadows. He sauntered along the barrier to where the view was obscured by the cruisers; then in one quick movement, he pulled out his pocketknife, cut a flap in the barrier, then ducked through and walked quickly to where the cars were, keeping out of sight behind them. So far, so good. Then, mustering a look of purpose, he strode out from behind the cars and angled toward the command tent, walking decisively.

Nobody challenged him. And here he lucked out: at a table where various evidence-gathering items were spread out, there was a box of gloves. He quickly pulled out two and drew them on, then grabbed a face mask and hairnet and donned those as well.

His heart quickened as he realized he was actually going to succeed. Slipping out his cell phone, he pretended to be checking it, while taking dozens of photos of the action—the boxes of shoes, the comings and goings of the cops and technicians, the hastily assembled command center—he got it all.

He edged over to where the feet were being placed in refrigerated coolers. Again pretending to be checking his phone, he took another slew of photographs. He even got in a short video. God almighty, Kraski was going to love this—he was always moaning about not having enough video for the website.

He heard a yell and spun around. Strong arms seized him and his phone was manhandled away by a Coast Guard officer, blazingly angry, quickly joined by another. They looked like identical twins except one was red-haired, the other black-haired.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Red Hair yelled.

“He’s a journalist. Taking pictures,” said Black Hair, pulling off the mask and hairnet.

“Give me back my phone!” Smithback tried to sound authoritative, but his voice cracked. What had given him away?

Red Hair seized his lanyard. “What’s this bullshit? A diving ID?” He snorted. “I’m gonna delete these photos.”

“Please don’t! The public has a right to know!”

“Look, pal, you better be glad we’re not going to arrest your ass. We’ve got enough shit to deal with.”

Smithback felt himself being propelled forward by the two officers, one on each side. “Let’s go, asshole. You’re out of here.”

Suddenly the two men halted and Smithback heard a honeyed voice: “Bless me, if it isn’t my old acquaintance Roger Smithback.”

Smithback twisted around to find himself face-to-face with none other than Agent Pendergast. He was temporarily speechless.

The Coast Guard men seemed uncertain, loosening their grip.

“Hold him fast, gentlemen,” said Pendergast, flashing his badge. “He’s a slippery one. I’ve had dealings with him before.”

“We caught him photographing everything—even the feet.”

“Shameful,” said Pendergast, holding out his hand for the phone. “I’ll erase those photos, if you please.”

“Sure thing.”

Pendergast took the phone and began flicking through the photographs with an amused look. “Mr. Smithback, I see you’re truly a man of many talents. Such masterly use of depth of field. Pity you can’t keep these.”

Smithback pleaded. “Agent Pendergast, don’t do it. For old time’s sake.”

“I don’t know which ‘old time’ in particular you’re referring to. In any case, I’m afraid you are trespassing on a crime scene and will have to be escorted out. And these photographs destroyed.”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“And we are doing ours.”

Even as he pleaded, he could see Pendergast deleting the pictures. The two Coast Guard officers watched with approval.

“I thought we were friends!” Smithback said, almost at a wail. “Don’t!”

“It is done,” said Pendergast, wagging his phone. “You shall have your phone returned when you’re safely behind the barriers.”

Son of a bitch, thought Smithback. But maybe he could get a statement, if nothing else. “Agent Pendergast, can you at least tell me what’s going on? Do the police have any theories?”

Pendergast turned and gestured to the Coast Guard men. “Please escort him to the perimeter.”

“Wait! Just one question!”

The two men took his arms and led him away, Pendergast following.

Smithback tried again. “Any ideas? Even a guess? One little statement is all I need!”

Pendergast didn’t reply.