Crooked River(16)
In his job, Perelman had grown used to eccentricities of all kinds. Besides, he felt rather curious—he wasn’t sure why—to see what Pendergast would do next. His beach patrol officers were already “maintaining the security and integrity of the immediate crime scene,” as Baugh had directed, leaving him temporarily free to examine the case from a broader perspective. Towne and Morris could bum one of half a dozen other rides back onto the islands. So he merely shrugged. “Sure. Would you like to ride with me?”
“If you don’t mind.”
So Pendergast presently had no transportation, either. Perelman shrugged this off as well and they got into the police SUV. He started the engine, made his way to McGregor Boulevard, then turned south toward the Sanibel causeway.
“Do you mind the open windows?” Perelman asked. The temperature was hovering around ninety, with 100 percent humidity, but Perelman disliked air conditioning.
“I prefer it, thank you.”
They drove in silence for five or ten minutes. Pendergast, who was gazing out at the palm-lined street, seemed in no hurry to talk. Finally, Perelman asked: “How did you know this was my car?”
“I suppose I could give you a long list of potential giveaways: the unobtrusive spot lamps, the hidden door lock plungers in the backseat, the empty shotgun mount, other unmistakable accoutrements of the Ford Police Interceptor Utility—but it was the gold-edged ‘SPD’ parking sticker on your windshield that rendered further examination unnecessary.”
Perelman chuckled, shook his head. He was driving fast, and they were already past Cape Coral and nearing the causeway. They navigated their way past a series of traffic cones and temporary road signs bordering the first roadblock. Minutes later they were on the island, driving along Sanibel Captiva Road toward Blind Pass. The shock of yesterday’s events—and the official reaction, flashing lights and ambulances and an almost endless chorus of sirens—had abated somewhat, and to an unpracticed eye the little downtown would have looked almost normal. As they drove along, Perelman was flagged down three times by residents. All of them asked the same questions, and Perelman gave them all the same amiable non-answers.
“Delightful village,” Pendergast said.
“Thank you.”
“How did you become its police chief?”
“As in, you of all people?” the chief asked.
“You are the first police chief I’ve met to quote Virgil.”
Perelman had to think back to their first meeting before he understood. He shrugged. “I’ve always been a fan of Virgil.”
“But then there’s the fact you’re the first police chief I’ve met who also dropped out of Hebrew Union College in New York—and just months before completing a master’s in rabbinical studies.”
Perelman didn’t know if he should be surprised or flattered this agent had taken the time to dig into his background. “There’s this thing called an ‘existential crisis.’ I went through one late in grad school. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be a cantor, or a Talmudic scholar, or a wandering minstrel or what. The idea of being a Visigoth was also appealing—I would have been good at sacking Rome—but the timing was off. But, yes: I left the East Coast, wandered west until I reached Northern California. And there in Humboldt County, in a redwood forest, I came across a riot about to break out, between loggers and a bunch of environmentalists camped way up in the trees. Don’t ask me why, but it felt like my destination. There were two opposing forces—the law and the advocates of nature—and I wasn’t sure which side I felt like joining.”
“Which did you ultimately choose?”
“Neither. I turned into the go-between, sitting in no-man’s-land talking to both sides. I felt everyone had a point: it wasn’t right to break the law, but there was no reason humans had to go about destroying nature for profit, either. I joined the Forest Service. It seemed the best way to mediate things. And from there, I somehow drifted into straight-up law enforcement.”
“I imagine that required mediation, as well.”
Perelman grinned. “Some laws are stupid. Some people are stupid. My job was to show people why peaceful coexistence was better than getting jammed up or thrown in jail.”
“A Zen master with a badge.”
“Sometimes I have to raise my voice, though.”
“And Sanibel ended up a good fit?”
“I hadn’t planned on coming down here. But one thing led to another. And to be honest—I was born to live in a place like this.”
They passed through the checkpoint and over the bridge, then pulled in at the command center set up in the Turner Beach parking lot. The beach was still off-limits, of course, but most of the heavy work had been done. Some leftover crime scene investigators were fussing here and there in the sand. Coast Guard boats were still patrolling out past the breakwater, keeping a small flotilla of pleasure craft away.
They got out of the car and Pendergast paused a moment, taking in the scene with his peculiar silver-blue eyes.
In the command tent were several Department of Sanitation workers and a few of Perelman’s officers, including a sergeant by the name of Cranfield. They were sitting around a folding table, drinking coffee. As Pendergast and Perelman entered, the group began to rise.
Perelman motioned for them to remain seated. “This is Agent Pendergast of the FBI. Some of you may have met him yesterday.” He turned to Cranfield. “Anything else horrible wash up?”