“Don’t make any changes on my account. I understand that sleeping in hovels builds character.”

Pendergast turned back to Perelman, who had been following this exchange with curiosity. “Thank you for humoring me and my interest in trash. I enjoyed having a chance to talk. No doubt we’ll see you again soon.”

“Stop by in the evening, if you’re free. If I’m not tinkering with my boat, you’ll usually find me on my veranda, playing guitar, drinking tequila, and pretending to read poetry. Ms. Greene, it was a pleasure to meet you.” And with a nod to his workers, Perelman turned back toward the command tent.

“One moment, please!” he heard Pendergast call. The agent gestured at the two bags of garbage. “Allow me to take those off your hands.”

Perelman frowned. “What?”

“You were kind enough to drive me to the beach. These men were kind enough to carry the bags while I filled them with trash. The least I can do is spare you the trouble of disposing of them.”

“But why—?” Perelman stopped, realizing he wasn’t going to get a straight answer. He nodded to the two sanitation workers, who followed Pendergast and his ward back to the town car, where Pendergast directed the men to put the bags in the trunk. Then the workers returned to the chief and watched as the gleaming black car made a three-point turn and then took off south, over the bridge and toward the Flamingo View Motel.

9

ROGER SMITHBACK ASCENDED the outside steps leading to the dingy attic apartment, trying to be as quiet as possible and not wake the occupant of the first floor. The climb was more difficult than before: that fifth Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks had really done a number on his cerebellum.

He gained the landing and steadied himself a moment, breathing deeply and taking in the nocturnal landscape. Similar little Cape Cod–style houses spread out around him, lining the banks of a man-made canal. He could hear cars, singing, the faint crash of surf, and the endless drone of insects.

Opening the door, he turned on the light, then tacked across the room to an easy chair, which he flounced down into. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and quickly hunted for the photos he’d surreptitiously taken that evening. Thank God, there they were—and decently exposed. Smithback knew how to deploy the more unsavory arts of reportage, but the darkness of the bar had made him worry.

He let his phone hand sink to the floor, then closed his eyes. Immediately, the room began to spin. He opened his eyes again and glanced at his watch. Just after nine. Kraski would still be in his office; he never left the place if he could help it.

After being unceremoniously escorted from the crime scene, Smithback had returned to the mainland, where he’d picked up his Subaru, then driven back to Sanibel—an ordeal in itself—intending to book a motel room. But with the influx of press, they’d become scarce as hen’s teeth. Even the crappiest motels were showing NO VACANCY signs. In the end, he’d been forced to rent a “second-floor suite” from a private homeowner—a post office retiree—at an outrageous rate. The “suite” consisted of one room and a bath, as well as a landlord who would talk his ear off every time they ran into each other. Worse, it was in a frumpy section of Sanibel known as Gumbo Limbo—near the causeway and far from Turner Beach. The silver lining was that the “suite” came with a coveted A-class beach permit, marking him as a resident and, as such, free to wander…as long as he steered clear of that red-haired dickwad from the Coast Guard. Of course, residents couldn’t approach any closer to the crime scene than nonresidents, but at least his movements weren’t restricted and he could get through the checkpoints.

That still left the problem of obtaining more information. Kraski had practically soiled his linen over the photographs and story, praising Smithback effusively for getting the exclusive. Praise from the editor of the Herald was rare, and Smithback had eaten it up. But that was yesterday’s news. As good as it was, Kraski wanted more, and he had quickly reverted to his usual grumpy and demanding persona.

Unlike his deceased brother Bill, also a reporter, Roger Smithback preferred to keep a low profile when he worked. One of the skills he’d picked up while pounding the beat in Miami had been to quickly ID restaurants and bars—which ones were for tourists, which ones were for locals, which for cops, which for wiseguys, and so on. So he’d spent the evening hopping from one promising-looking bar on Periwinkle Way to another, drinking seltzer and keeping his ears open. And eventually, this strategy had led him to the Reef Bar and a certain Paul Rameau. Rameau was a friendly giant of a medical technician who’d seen enough over the past thirty-six hours to need to drown those sights in the flowing bowl: specifically, high-ABV dry-hopped craft beer. Smithback had managed to get a barstool next to him and they’d soon become, if not fast friends, at least drinking buddies.

Rameau, it seemed, had a capacity for beer that matched his enormous size. And so Smithback found it necessary, for reasons of comradeship and credibility, to switch from seltzer to scotch.

He shook his head, forced himself to sit up in the chair. Christ, he’d better call this in before he fell asleep. He took another quick look at the photos, then pulled up his contact list and pressed a button.

His phone was answered on the first ring. “Kraski.”

“Hey, boss.”

“Smithback. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. What you got for me?”

Just like a baby bird, beak wide, frantic with hunger. Already his coup of the previous day was ancient history. Smithback, who was interested in game theory, decided his best strategy was to play to Kraski’s impatience and string him along a bit.

“It’s rough out there,” he replied. “Really rough.”

“Yeah?”

“Something this unprecedented—well, there’s nothing in the playbook. The authorities are working on instinct. Starting with a complete shutdown on information.”

“Have you been drinking? You’re slurring your words.”

“In service of a lead, I assure you.”

“All right. Go on.”

Smithback didn’t respond. He was mentally adding up how many beers he’d bought Rameau and wondering whether he could expense them all or not.

“Roger?” Kraski asked. “You there?”

“Yes, boss.”

“So what you got?”

“The locals don’t know anything; I’ve asked around. But I’ve rented a room and I’m well positioned if anything should come up.”

“Now that you’re on the crime beat, you know you’ve got to dig.”

“They’ve got this one squeezed up tighter than a duck’s ass.”

Silence over the line. Then a sigh of exasperation. “Smithback, I admire how you jumped into this case. But being my best investigative reporter means you have to bring me product—and, on a hot case like this, daily, not next week. You showed real initiative yesterday—so where’d that go today?”

Best investigative reporter. That was more like it. Smithback knew he’d gamed Kraski about as far as he could with this no-info sob story. “I was just getting to that. I’ve got product.”

“Yeah?” Instantly, annoyance was replaced with eagerness. “Like what?”