Narcissists. Very few of them could even ski. The Parade was the reason Arnaz bought a season pass and took the gondola to the lodge once or twice a week: that, and the atmosphere of this most famous ski lodge in the West, with its timbered walls hung with antique Navajo rugs, the massive wrought-iron chandeliers, the roaring fireplace so large you could barbecue a bull in it. Not to mention the walls of glass that looked out over a three-hundred- sixty-degree ocean of mountains, currently gray and brooding under a darkening sky.
But Arnaz had never seen anyone quite like the gentleman who sat at a small table by himself before the vast window, a silver flask of some unknown beverage in front of him, gazing out in the direction of snowbound Smuggler’s Cirque, with its complex of ancient, long-abandoned mining structures huddled like acolytes around the vast rickety wooden building that housed the famous Ireland Pump Engine: a magnificent example of nineteenth- century engineering, once the largest pump in the world, now just a rusted hulk.
Arnaz had been observing the ghostly man with fascination for upward of thirty minutes, during which time the man had not moved so much as a pinkie. Arnaz was a fashionista, and he knew his clothes. The man wore a black vicuna overcoat of the finest quality, cut, and style, but of a make that Arnaz did not recognize. The coat was unbuttoned, revealing a bespoke tailored black suit of an English cut, a Zegna tie, and a gorgeous cream-colored silk scarf, loosely draped. To top off the ensemble — literally — the man wore an incongruous, sable-colored trilby hat of 1960s vintage on his pale, skull-like head. Even though it was warm in the great room of the lodge, the man looked as cold as ice.
He wasn’t an actor; Arnaz, a movie buff, knew he had never seen him on the silver screen, even in a bit part. He surely wasn’t a banker, hedge fund manager, CEO, lawyer, or other business or financial wizard; that getup would be entirely unacceptable in such a crowd. He wasn’t a poseur, either; the man wore his clothes casually, nonchalantly, as if he’d been born in them. And he was far too elegant to be in the dot-com business. So what the heck was he?
A gangster.
Now, that made sense. He was a criminal. A very, very successful criminal. Russian, perhaps — he did have a slightly foreign look about him, in those pale eyes and high cheekbones. A Russian oligarch. But no…where were his women? The Russian billionaires that came to Roaring Fork — and there were quite a few — always went about with a passel of spangled, buxom whores.
Arnaz was stumped.
Pendergast heard himself being addressed and turned, slowly, to see Chief Stanley Morris approaching him from across the vast room.
“May I?”
Pendergast opened his hand in a slow invitation to sit.
“Thank you. I heard you were up here.”
“And how did you hear that?”
“Well…You’re not exactly inconspicuous, Agent Pendergast.”
A silence. And then Pendergast removed a small silver cup from his overcoat, and placed it on the table. “Sherry? This is a rather indifferent Amontillado, but nevertheless palatable.”
“Ah, no thanks.” The chief looked restless, shifting his soft body in the chair once, twice. “Look, I realize I messed up with your, um, protegee, Miss Swanson, and I’m sorry. I daresay I had it coming there at the town meeting. You don’t know what it’s like being chief of police in a town like this, where they’re always pulling you in five different directions at once.”
“I am indeed sorry to say this, but I fear your microscopic problems do not interest me.” Pendergast poured himself a small tot of sherry and tossed it back in one feral motion.
“Listen,” said the chief, shifting about again, “I came to ask your help. We’ve got this horrific quadruple murder, a one-acre crime scene of unbelievable complexity. All my forensic people are arguing with each other and that fire expert, they’re paralyzed, they’ve never seen anything like this before…” His voice cracked, then trailed off. “Look, the girl — Jenny, the older daughter — was my intern. She was a
The pale hand snaked out again, poured another tot; it was tossed off in turn. There was silence. Finally, Pendergast spoke. “I came here to rescue my protegee — your term, not mine — from your incompetency. My goal — my
“Yet you were up at the scene of the fire this morning. You showed your badge to get inside the tape.”
Pendergast waved away these words as one might brush off a fly.
“You were there. Why?”
“I saw the fire. I was ever so faintly intrigued.”
“You said there would be more. Why did you say that?”
Another casual wave-off.
“Damn it!
No answer.
The chief rose. “You said there would be more murders. I looked into your background and I realized that you, of all people, would know. I’m telling you, if there are more — and you refuse to help — then those murders will be on your head. I swear to God.”
This was answered by a shrug.
“Don’t you shrug at me, you son of a bitch!” the chief shouted, losing his temper at last. “You saw what they did to that family. How can you just sit there, drinking your sherry?” He gripped the side of the table and leaned forward. “I have just one thing to say to you, Pendergast — fuck you, and thanks for nothing!”
At this, the smallest hint of a smile crossed the thin lips. “Now, that is more like it.”
“More like what?” Morris roared.
“An old friend of mine in the NYPD has a colorful expression that is appropriate for this situation. What was it again? Ah, yes.” Pendergast glanced up at the chief. “I will help you, but only on the condition that you — as I believe he would put it—
18
Chief Stanley Morris stared at the ruined house. The residual heat from the previous day’s fire was now gone and a light snow had fallen the night before, covering the scene of horror with a soft white blanket. Plastic tarps had been spread over the main areas of evidence, and now his men were carefully removing them and shaking off the snow in preparation for the walk-through. It was eight o’clock in the morning, sunny, and fifteen degrees above zero. At least there was no wind.
Nothing like this had ever happened to Morris, on either a personal or a professional level, and he steeled himself for the ordeal that lay ahead. He’d hardly slept the night before, and when he finally did a dreadful nightmare had immediately awakened him again. He felt like hell and still hadn’t been able to fully process the depravity and horror of the crime.
He took a deep breath and looked around. To his left stood Chivers, the fire specialist; to his right, the figure of Pendergast, in his vicuna overcoat, incongruously pulled over an electric-blue down jacket. Puffy mittens and a hideous wool hat completed the picture. The man was so pallid he looked like he’d already been stricken by hypothermia. And yet his eyes were very much alive, moving restlessly about the scene.
Morris cleared his throat and made an effort to project the image of a chief of police firmly in control. “Ready, gentlemen?”
“You bet,” said Chivers, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He was clearly unhappy about the presence of the FBI agent.
Pendergast inclined his head.
