Still Life With Crows

“All right, Mr., ah—”

“Special Agent Pendergast.”

“Pendergast. Pendergast. I’m bad with names.” Hazen lit another cigarette, sucked on it hard. “You here on the crows murder?” The words came out with a cloud of smoke.

“Yes.”

“And is this official?”

“No.”

“So it’s just you.”

“So far.”

“What office are you out of?”

“Technically, I’m with the New Orleans office. But I operate under, shall we say, a special arrangement.” He smiled pleasantly.

Hazen grunted. “How long will you be staying?”

“For the duration.”

Tad wondered,For the duration of what?

Pendergast turned his pale eyes on Tad and smiled. “Of my vacation.”

Tad was speechless. Did the guy read his mind?

“Yourvacation? ” Hazen shifted again. “Pendergast, this is irregular. I’m going to need some kind of official authorization from the local field office. We’re not running a Club Med for Quantico here.”

There was a silence. Then the man named Pendergast said, “Surely you don’t want me hereofficially, Sheriff Hazen?”

When this was greeted with silence, Pendergast continued pleasantly. “I will not interfere with your investigation. I will operate independently. I will consult with you regularly and share information with you when appropriate. Any, ah, ‘collars’ will be yours. I neither seek nor will I accept credit. All I ask are the usual law enforcement courtesies.”

Sheriff Hazen frowned, scratched, frowned again. “As for the collar, frankly I don’t give a damn who gets the credit. I just want to catch the son of a bitch.”

Pendergast nodded approvingly.

Hazen took a drag, exhaled, took another. He was thinking. “All right, then, Pendergast, take your busman’s holiday here. Just keep a low profile and don’t talk to the press.”

“Naturally not.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I was hoping to receive the benefit of your advice.”

The sheriff barked a laugh. “There’s only one place in town, and that’s the Kraus place. Kraus’s Kaverns. You passed it on the way in, big old house set out in the corn about a mile west of town. Old Winifred Kraus rents out rooms on the top floor. Not that she has many takers these days. And she’ll talk you into a tour of her cave. You’ll probably be the first visitor she’s had in a year.”

“Thank you,” said Pendergast, rising and picking up his bag.

Hazen’s eyes followed the movement. “Got a car?”

“No.”

The sheriff’s lip curled slightly. “I’ll give you a lift.”

“I enjoy walking.”

“You sure? It’s almost a hundred degrees out there. And I wouldn’t exactly call that suit of yours appropriate dress for these parts.” Hazen was grinning now.

“Is it indeed that hot?” The FBI agent turned and reached for the door, but Hazen had one more question.

“How did you learn about the murder so quick?”

Pendergast paused. “By arrangement, I have someone at the Bureau watching the cable and e-mail traffic of local law enforcement agencies. Whenever a crime within a certain category occurs, I’m notified of it immediately. But as I said, I’m here for personal reasons, having recently concluded a rather strenuous investigation back east. It’s simply that I’m intrigued by the rather, ah, interesting nature of this particular case.”

Something in the way the man said “interesting” raised the hairs on the back of Tad’s neck.

“And just what ‘certain category’ are we talking about here?” The sarcasm was creeping back into the sheriff’s voice.

“Serial homicide.”

“Funny, I’ve only seen one murder so far.”

The figure gradually turned back. His cool gray eyes settled on Sheriff Hazen. In a very low voice he said, “So far.”

Five