partners and suppliers. He was very careful who he dealt with. The wildlife market's crawling with undercover cops and sting operators. He mostly dealt with some guy named Victor.'
'Victor who?'
'I never heard the last name.'
Pendergast looked at his watch. 'It is dinnertime, Mr. Hudson, and I'm sorry you can't stay.'
Hudson felt sorry, too.
Pendergast reached into his suit and pulled out a small sheaf of bills. 'I can't speak for what Blast owes you,' he said, 'but this is for your first two days' employment. Five hundred a day plus expenses. From now on you work without a firearm and you work only for me. Understood?'
'Yes, sir.'
'There's a small town called Sunflower, just west of the Black Brake swamp. I want you to get out a map, draw a circle with a fifty-mile radius around that town, and identify all the pharmaceutical companies and drug research facilities within that circle, going back fifteen years. I want you to drive to each one, in the guise of a lost motorist. Get as close as you can without trespassing. Don't take notes or pictures, keep it all in your head. Observe and report back to me in twenty-four hours. That will be the extent of your first assignment. Do you understand?'
Hudson understood. He heard the door open and voices in the hall; someone had arrived. 'Yes. Thank you, sir.' This was even more money than Blast had been paying him--and for the simplest of assignments. Just so long as he didn't have to go into the Black Brake swamp itself--he'd heard one too many rumors about that place as it was.
Pendergast saw him to the kitchen door. Hudson stepped out into the night, filled with a fierce gratitude and sense of loyalty toward the man who had spared his life.
49
LAURA HAYWARD FOLLOWED THE SQUAD CAR out of town on a winding road that led south toward the Mississippi River. She felt conspicuous and more than a little awkward behind the wheel of Helen Pendergast's vintage Porsche convertible, but the FBI agent had offered his wife's car so courteously she simply hadn't had the heart to refuse. As she drove along the sloping road, overleafed with oaks and walnut trees, her mind drifted back to her first job with the New Orleans Police Department. She'd only been a substitute dispatcher then, but the experience had confirmed her desire to become a cop. That was before she'd headed north to New York City, to attend the John Jay College of Criminal Justice and later take her first job as a Transit Authority cop. In the almost fifteen years since, she'd lost most of her southern accent--and become a die-hard New Yorker, to boot.
The sight of St. Francisville--whitewashed houses with long porches and tin roofs, the heavy air redolent of magnolias--seemed to melt right through her New York carapace. She mused that her experience with the local police had, so far, gone better than the bureaucratic run-around she'd gotten in Florida trying to get information on the Blast homicide. There was still something to be said for the gentility of the Old South.
The squad car turned into a driveway and Hayward followed, parking next to it. She stepped out to see a modest ranch house, with tidy flower beds framed by two magnolias.
The two cops who had escorted her to the Blackletter house, a sergeant in the homicide division and a regular officer, climbed out of their car, hiking up their belts and walking toward her. The white one, Officer Field, had carrot hair and a red face and was sweating copiously. The other, Sergeant Detective Cring, had an almost excessive earnestness about him, a man who did his duty, dotted every
The house was whitewashed like its neighbors, neat and clean. Crime-scene tape, detached by the wind, fluttered over the lawn and coiled around the porch columns. The front door latch was sealed with orange evidence tape.
'Captain,' said Cring, 'do you want to examine the grounds or would you like to go inside?'
'Inside, please.'
She followed them onto the porch. Her arrival at the St. Francisville police station unannounced had been a big event and, initially, not a positive one. They were not happy to see an NYPD captain--and a woman no less--arriving in a flashy car to check up on a local homicide without warning or peace officer status, or even a courtesy call from up north. But Hayward had been able to turn around their suspicion with friendly chatter about her days on the job in New Orleans, and pretty soon they were old buddies. Or at least, she hoped so.
'We'll do a walk-through,' Cring went on as he approached the door. He took out a penknife and slit through the tape. Freed, the door swung open, its lock broken.
'What about those?' Hayward asked, pointing to a bootie box sitting by the door.
'The crime scene's already been thoroughly worked over,' said Cring. 'No need.'
'Right.'
'It was a pretty straightforward case,' Cring said as they stepped inside, the house exhaling a breath of stale, faintly foul air.
'Straightforward how?' Hayward asked.
'Robbery gone bad.'
'How do you know?'
'The house was tossed, a bunch of electronics taken--flat panel, couple of computers, stereo. You'll see for yourself.'
'Thank you.'
'It took place between nine and ten in the evening. The perp used a pry bar to get inside, as you probably noticed, and walked through this front hallway into the den, through there, where Blackletter was tinkering with his robots.'
