Crooked River(83)

“Who is this?” a voice demanded.

“I was contemplating the same question.”

“I’m Roger Smithback. Reporter for the Miami Herald. I’m trying to reach Agent Pendergast.”

Roger Smithback—Constance recalled Aloysius mentioning his role in the Brokenhearts investigation more than once. “How did you get this number?”

“Don’t ask me. I just kept calling Pendergast’s private line—the one he gave me. I have information for him.”

Pendergast had several cell numbers. There was one number in particular, used only when they were working together, that would roll over to her phone on the second repeated call.

She almost hung up—she had no time to talk. But this reporter might know something.

“This is Constance Greene,” she said. “What’s your information?”

“Constance Greene,” Smithback repeated. “Oh, sure, you’re the—” Abruptly, he stopped. “Listen. You work closely with Pendergast, right? That’s as much as he ever told me. You’re part of his inner circle.”

“Get to the point, please.”

“I’ve been, like, locked up for days, about to have my ass…about to be killed at any moment. I need to talk to him: you see, the gang, the tattoo—”

“Mr. Smithback, if you have information, give it to me without the circumlocutions.”

“Okay. Right.” Smithback was panting slightly, as if winded. “I was looking for a story on those feet washing ashore. I got my hands on a tattoo from one of them. It looked gang related. So I started asking around. Ended up asking the wrong person—and got kidnapped by the local gang honcho, Bighead. Jesus, what a piece of work—”

“Keep to the point.” She looked at her watch. Where was that bloody driver?

“Okay. So these drug dealers were all pissed off about some big drug shipment that had gone missing. A reward was being offered, heads were going to roll if the shipment wasn’t recovered. It was being brought in by some smugglers hidden with a group of migrants coming over the border. They all got picked up unexpectedly and taken away in trucks. Government trucks, identical, numbers painted over…like military.”

“Go on.” Constance continued listening as she pulled back the curtain and glanced out the window. A pair of headlights was approaching along Captiva Drive.

“Some old rummy told them this story about a convoy seen going into Tate’s Hole, or Tate’s Hall, I didn’t quite catch it…”

Constance watched, listened. The headlights slowed.

“…West, past Johnson’s Fork, he said. Ten-wheelers, payloads covered in canvas. With these weird drumlike things bolted in front of the driver. Sounded like they matched the trucks carrying the migrants. Pendergast needs to know all this, okay? You’ll tell him? And be sure to remind him he owes me. You got that?”

The headlights stopped in front of the Mortlach House.

“I have to go.” She had no idea what the significance of this information was, but nevertheless filed it away in her head.

“Where is he, by the way?” Smithback asked.

Constance hung up and ran out to the waiting car. The muffled complaints from the basement, which had died down somewhat, increased again at the sound of her footsteps.

He’ll survive, Constance thought as she climbed into the idling SUV.

“Lady, if you don’t mind me saying, the destination you put out by Estero Bay is in the middle of nowhere.”

“When we’re on the road in the vicinity, I’ll tell you where to stop.”

She saw the driver frown in the rearview mirror. “You can’t say where, exactly? That’s a long empty road.”

“It’s where the police are going to be.”





48



WELCOME TO TALLAHASSEE International Airport,” sounded the voice of the flight attendant over the intercom. “Once again, we apologize for this weather-related diversion, and we’ll make every effort to—”

The rest of the chief attendant’s announcement was drowned out by the clamor of people pulling out cell phones, jumping up and opening the overhead bins, struggling with their roller bags, and pushing and shoving each other. Coldmoon just sat morosely, letting his change in fortune settle in. He’d signed in his handgun at the LEO checkpoint before boarding, and after five hours in the cramped seat it felt like a lead weight, hanging from his shoulder beneath the jacket. Fucking Tallahassee. By rights, they should be landing in Fort Myers, but now he had hours of driving through a storm to look forward to.

His gloomy reverie was interrupted by a vibration in his jeans—and not the kind he appreciated. His phone, muted but not switched off, was ringing. That would probably be Pendergast.

He pulled out the phone. A 212 area code—a New York number he didn’t recognize. It probably was Pendergast, ready to put Pickett on the line to applaud him. Great—sloppy seconds were his favorite kind of congratulations.

This was probably just a figment of his foul mood. He’d know soon enough. Lifting the phone to his ear, he said: “Special Agent Coldmoon.”

“Agent Coldmoon,” came a feminine voice, “it’s—” The rest was drowned out by what sounded like a wind tunnel.