“Roads?” The chief was unable to keep up, almost silly with shock.
“Yes, roads. The first road is the more traveled one, the one where I file a complaint against you for abuse of police authority, with the videotape as proof to back up my own lengthy list of charges. This would end your career on the very cusp of retirement, destroy your reputation, endanger your pension, and quite possibly lead to the shame of community service or even a minor jail sentence. And then there is the other road.” He waited, crossing his arms.
“What other road?” the chief finally croaked.
“And you a New Englander… The road less traveled, of course! That is where you throw yourself wholeheartedly into helping me with my investigation. In. Every. Way. On this road, my colleague SAC Bulto misplaces the videotape and we never speak of this matter again. Oh, and of course all charges against me are dropped.” He paused. “Which road shall we take?”
“That road,” the chief said hastily. “I’ll take the, uh, road less traveled.”
“That road shall make all the difference. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Here.” And Pendergast waved his document under the chief’s nose.
Mourdock almost dropped the note in his eagerness to grab it. “I’ll have these files for you by tomorrow morning.”
The FBI agent exchanged a brief glance with his young assistant. She glanced in the direction of the chief, her expression one of disdainful satisfaction, then turned and left the station without another word.
“Much obliged.” Pendergast extended his hand. “I can see that you and I are going to be fast friends.”
As Gavin watched the two exit, he thought: He’s formidable for sure, but that Constance Greene, she’s scary…in a strangely intriguing way.
11
Walt Adderly, proprietor of the Captain Hull Inn, stepped out of his office and into the narrow passageway that led to the Chart Room restaurant. He peered into the dim confines. It was one thirty PM, and while most of the lunchtime diners had left—people ate their meals early in Exmouth—Adderly knew from checking the receipts that they’d had a decent crowd.
His eye stopped when it reached the figure sitting alone at table 8. It was that fellow who was looking into the wine theft for Lake. Percival had told Adderly the man was an FBI agent, which of course Adderly didn’t believe: Lake liked his little jokes. The sculptor had also told him that the man—Pendergast, Adderly recalled from the hotel ledger—was rather eccentric. This, at least, was believable: the guy was dressed in a suit of unrelieved black, like someone in mourning, and even in the dimness of the restaurant his pale face stood out like a harvest moon.
As Adderly watched from the shelter of the passageway, Margie, the senior waitress, bustled up with the man’s order. “Here you go,” she said. “Fried catfish. Enjoy!”
“Indeed,” Adderly heard Pendergast murmur in reply. He eyed the plate for a moment. He picked up a fork, poked here and there at the fish, took a tentative bite. Then he put his fork down again. He glanced around the restaurant—it was now empty except for old Willard Stevens, finishing up his third and last cup of coffee—and motioned the waitress over.
“Yes?” asked Margie as she came back.
“May I inquire as to who prepared this?”
“Who?” Margie blinked at this unexpected question. “Our cook, Reggie.”
“Is he your regular cook?”
“These days, yes.”
“I see.” And with this, the man picked up his plate, stood, and walked past the other tables, around the bar, and through the double doors that led into the kitchen.
This was so unusual that Adderly stood where he was for a moment, perplexed. He’d had people so pleased with their meals that they’d asked the cook to come out and be complimented. He’d also had a few send their meals back for various reasons. But he’d never seen a patron just get up and walk into the kitchen before, carrying his lunch with him.
It occurred to him that he’d better go see what was up.
He stepped out of the passage into the restaurant proper, then into the kitchen. Usually a bustle of activity, the place was now almost still. The dishwasher, the two waitresses, the line cook, and Reggie all stood in a huddle, watching the man named Pendergast as he wandered around the food preparation area, opening drawers, picking up various utensils and examining them before replacing them. Then he turned his attention to Reggie.
“You are the cook, I presume?” Pendergast asked.
Reggie nodded.
“And what, pray tell, are your qualifications?”
Reggie looked as surprised as the rest. “Four years as a mess specialist in the Navy.”
“Of course. Well, perhaps we are not completely without hope.” Pendergast lifted his lunch plate and handed it to Reggie. “To begin with, one simply cannot get good catfish this far north. And I assume this was frozen to begin with—right?”