Crooked River(8)
Beyond the police cordon, throngs of people were clustered along the main road of the island, standing on tiptoe, phones held high to get a view of what they couldn’t see themselves. Others were staring out of second-and third-story windows of houses and condos. Some even had telescopes. There was a mass of press kept behind the bridge checkpoint. Police were now beginning to unspool and prop up a heavy curtain of white plastic sheeting along the line of crime scene tape in an attempt to shield a portion of the lower beach from view.
Pickett reached the group and introduced himself, passing out a few cards. He turned to introduce Pendergast, but Pendergast had continued walking on past, threading his way through the confusion to a higher spot on the dunes where he could get a view of the entire scene. He noticed that someone had reached the place before him: a tall, tanned man in shorts and a polo shirt. He was perhaps fifty, with sun-bleached hair and eyes and two vertical creases down his weathered cheeks. The only signs of authority were the thumb-break holster and police radio attached to his belt. He stood in a shaded spot beneath a stand of palms, arms crossed, watching the activity with an almost melancholy expression.
He nodded as Pendergast approached, giving the agent a faint smile and, with a glance up and down, taking note of his suit.
“Good afternoon,” Pendergast said, bowing and touching his Panama hat with one finger.
“Do you really think so?” the man replied.
“No,” Pendergast said. “But one must maintain the pleasantry of manners, even in the face of the grotesque.”
“I can’t argue with that.” The man extended his hand. “Chief Perelman, Sanibel PD.”
“Special Agent Pendergast, FBI.”
“I knew it.” Perelman nodded toward the knot of people Pickett was commandeering. “I saw you arrive with that fellow.”
“Ah.” Pendergast nodded. “You knew he was coming?”
“He made sure everyone knew he was coming. You might want to pull your badge out and put it on a lanyard, you know, just to keep from getting challenged.”
“I find it much more interesting—and revealing—to go incognito. But I notice you, too, are in mufti.”
Perelman looked down at his polo shirt. “Actually, this is my usual uniform. And everybody already knows who I am. Sanibel isn’t your typical Florida resort, Agent Pendergast. In fact, it isn’t your typical town anywhere. We count eight best-selling authors as residents, along with three world-famous painters, a Nobel laureate, a Pulitzer poet, and two ex-directors of intelligence services. There’s plenty of money here, but it’s not usually on display. If you want to see conspicuous consumption on a world-class scale, Naples is just over the causeway and south a few miles. We like our streets quiet, our beaches clean, and our tourists civilized.”
This last, apparently a town motto, was delivered with the slightest touch of irony.
There was a cry from the line of surf, then another; several uniformed cops and Coast Guard officers darted toward the sounds. Both men looked in the direction of the commotion. More feet, it seemed, were rolling in.
“Looks like two more,” the man said. “That would make fifty-seven.”
“Has there been any regularity or pattern to their arrival?” Pendergast asked.
The chief shook his head. “As best as we can tell, there were two initial waves. The bulk of them came in then. But, as you can see, it’s a gift that keeps on giving. Until now, the last one was almost an hour ago. Maybe a third wave is about to land.”
“And they’ve remained confined to this stretch of barrier island?”
Perelman nodded. “So far.”
“Isn’t that rather unusual?”
“Actually, it isn’t. When the tides are right—as they are now, just on the ebb—any floating debris tends to stick together and not disperse before reaching land. These islands are uniquely located in terms of ocean currents, which focus flotsam into a narrow lane and cause immense quantities of shells to wash up.”
The man’s radio squawked. Perelman plucked it from his belt, listened for a moment, then muttered a brief string of orders and returned it to its clasp. Down at the surf line, the officers had retrieved the newly discovered feet and were placing them carefully on the sand, marking them with flags.
Pendergast looked around for a moment. “If I may ask an even more intrusive question: why are you back here observing, rather than over there involving yourself in the thick of command and control?”
“Do you see that knot of people around ADC Pickett? In particular, that man with all the gold braid on his uniform? He’s the deputy sector commander of the Coast Guard. The slender woman next to him is the mayor of Sanibel and Captiva. And that other fellow, the mustachioed bald man with the crutches, is chief of the Fort Myers police. With an incident of this magnitude in Lee County, Fort Myers automatically takes command—along with their detectives, homicide investigators, and forensic teams. So my duty is to direct my officers, keep the residents and visitors calm, and make sure we get through this as best we can. Non omnia possumus omnes.”
Pendergast glanced at him with faint amusement. “Are you a Latin scholar as well as a police chief?”
Perelman shrugged. “Some things were best said by Virgil.”
“Quite so. And now, would you excuse me?” And, bowing again, he made his way slowly down the beach in the direction of the water, pausing here and there to glance around. His pale eyes took in everything, large and small: the knots of people working the scene; the boats maintaining their vigil off the coast; the flight of the gulls; the little flags fluttering along the shore. He stepped up to one of the flags. Beside it was a shoe of a uniform light-green color, an amputated foot nestled coyly inside.