Fever Dream

The weapon swiveled upward. There was a tremendous boom-boom as both barrels fired almost simultaneously. Blackletter was flung backward, impacting the far wall with a shattering crash, then slumping to the ground. Framed pictures and knickknacks rained down around him from little wooden shelves.

The front door was already closing.

The robot, its audio sensors alerted, swiveled toward the motionless form of its builder. 'Robo want a cracker,' it said, the tinny voice muffled by the blood now coating its miniature speaker. 'Robo want a cracker.'

35

Port Allen, Louisiana

THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS AS DARK AND RAINY as the previous day had been pleasant. That was just fine with D'Agosta--there would be fewer customers to deal with at the doughnut shop. He had deep misgivings about this whole scheme of Pendergast's.

Pendergast, behind the wheel of the Rolls, took the Port Allen exit from I-10, the wheels hissing on the wet asphalt. D'Agosta sat beside him, turning the pages of the New Orleans Star-Picayune. 'I don't see why we couldn't do this at night,' he said.

'The establishment has a burglar alarm. And the noise would be more apparent.'

'You better do the talking. I have a feeling my Queens accent wouldn't go down well in these parts.'

'An excellent point, Vincent.'

D'Agosta noticed Pendergast glancing once again in the rearview mirror. 'We got company?' he asked.

Pendergast merely smiled in return. Rather than his habitual black suit, he was wearing a plaid work shirt and denims. Instead of resembling an undertaker, he now looked like a gravedigger.

D'Agosta turned another page, paused at an article headlined Retired Scientist Murdered in Home. 'Hey, Pendergast,' he said after scanning the opening paragraphs. 'Look at this: that guy you wanted to talk to, Morris Blackletter, Helen's old boss, was just found murdered in his house.'

'Murdered? How?'

'Shotgunned.'

'Do the police suspect a robbery gone wrong?'

'The article doesn't say.'

'He must have just returned from his vacation. A great pity we didn't get to him earlier--he could have been rather useful.'

'Somebody else got to him first. And I can guess who that somebody was.' D'Agosta shook his head. 'Maybe we should go back to Florida and sweat Blast.'

Pendergast turned onto Court Street, heading for downtown and the river. 'Perhaps. But I find Blast's motive to be obscure.'

'Not at all. Helen might have told Blackletter about Blast threatening her.' D'Agosta folded the paper, shoved it between the seat and the center pedestal. 'We talk to Blast, and the following night Blackletter is killed. You're the one who doesn't buy coincidences.'

Pendergast looked thoughtful. But instead of replying, he turned off Court Street and nosed the Rolls into a parking lot a block short of their destination. They stepped out into the drizzle, and Pendergast opened the trunk. He passed D'Agosta a yellow construction helmet and a large canvas workbag. He took out another helmet, which he fitted onto his head. Lastly, he pulled out a heavy tool belt--from which dangled an assortment of flashlights, measuring tapes, wire cutters, and other equipment--and buckled it around his waist.

'Shall we?' he said.

Pappy's Donette Hole was quiet: two plump girls stood behind the counter while a lone customer ordered a dozen double-chocolate FatOnes. Pendergast waited until the customer paid and left, then stepped forward, construction belt jangling.

'Manager around?' he said in a demanding voice, his southern accent sinking about five notches in refinement.

One of the girls wordlessly turned and went into the back. A minute later, she returned with a middle-aged man. His thick forearms were coated in blond hair, and he was sweating despite the cool of the day.

'Yeah?' he said, wiping flour onto an apron already heavy with grease and doughnut batter.

'You're the manager?'

'Yeah.'

Pendergast reached into the back pocket of his denims, brought out an ID billfold. 'We're from the Buildings Department, Code Enforcement Division. My name's Addison and my partner here is Steele.'

The man scrutinized the ID Pendergast had doctored up the night before, then grunted. 'So what do you want?'

Pendergast put away the billfold and pulled out a few stapled sheets of official-looking paper. 'Our office has been conducting an audit of the construction and permits records of buildings in the general vicinity, and we've found several of them--including yours--that have problems. Big problems.'

The man looked at the outstretched sheets, frowning. 'What kind of problems?'

'Irregularities in the permitting process. Structural issues.'

'That can't be,' he said. 'We get our inspections regular, just like the food and sanitation--'

'We're not food inspectors,' Pendergast interrupted sarcastically. 'The records show this structure was built without the proper permits.'