Two Graves

“You don’t say,” said Pendergast.

“I do say. In fact, I believe this is significant. He killed first in the Marlborough Grand, the Vanderbilt, the Royal Cheshire. Five-star hotels all. It suggests to me the perp comes from a wealthy, privileged background. He starts off where he’s comfortable, then, as his confidence grows, he gets more daring, goes slumming, so to speak.”

“He chose this hotel,” Pendergast spoke mildly, “for one reason only: because it is the only one in Manhattan with a twenty-one in its address. It has nothing to do with his background or his ‘slumming’ habits.”

Gibbs sighed. “Special Agent Pendergast, how about if you stick to your own area of expertise and leave the profiling to the experts?”

“And which experts might that be?”

Gibbs stared at him.

Pendergast glanced at the open door of Room 516; at the shadows of those working within, still silhouetted upon the opposite wall of the corridor by the bright crime-scene lights. “Do you know Plato’s Allegory of the Cave?” he asked.

“No.”

“You might find it enlightening in the present situation. Agent Gibbs, I’ve thoroughly examined your forensic profile of the so-called Hotel Killer. As you say, it is based on probabilities and aggregates—the assumption that this killer is like others of his type. But the truth is, this killer is completely outside your bell curve. He does not fit any of your assumptions or conform to any of your precious data. What you are doing is not only a colossal waste of time but an actual hindrance. Your puerile analysis is badly sidetracking this investigation—which may well be the killer’s intention.”

D’Agosta stiffened.

Gibbs stared at Pendergast, and then spoke in measured tones. “From the begi

Pendergast inclined his head in silent acquiescence. There was a silence—and then he spoke again. “Agent Gibbs?”

“Yes, what now?”

“I note blood on your left shoe. Just a spot.”

Gibbs looked down at his feet. “What? Where?”

Pendergast stooped, rubbed a finger along the edge of the sole, brought it up red. “Unfortunately, the shoe will have to be taken up as evidence. I’m afraid a report will need to be made of your error at the scene of the crime. Alas, it’s obligatory, as the lieutenant will confirm.” Pendergast waved his hand, calling over a CSI assistant with evidence bags. “Special Agent Gibbs will give you his shoe now—pity, as I note it’s a handmade Testoni, no doubt a painful loss for Mr. Gibbs, considering his modest salary.”

A moment later, D’Agosta watched as Gibbs stomped down the hall in one shoe and one stockinged foot. Fu

“One has to be so careful at a crime scene these days,” Pendergast murmured at his side.

D’Agosta said nothing. Something was going to happen, and it wasn’t going to be nice.

39

IT WAS A COLD, GRAY, DRIZZLY MONDAY MORNING, THE cars lined up on the lot like blocks of wood, dull in the dull light, streaming rivulets of water down their flanks. It was just past eleven but already it was shaping up to be a terrible day for selling, which was just perfect as far as Corrie was concerned. She’d retreated with the other salespeople into the lounge, where they were all drinking bad coffee and shooting the breeze, waiting for customers to show up. There were four other salespeople in the lounge—all men. Joe Ricco and his son Joe Junior weren’t around, and the salesmen were in a relaxed mood.

Corrie had gotten to know them over the past two days, and they were all first-rate, top-drawer assholes. All except Charlie Foote—the man her father had mentioned. He was younger than the rest, a little shy, and for the most part he didn’t join in the asinine frat-house banter. He’d graduated college, unlike most of the others, and he was the best salesman of the group; something about his gentle voice and understated, self-deprecating ma

One of the older salesmen had the floor and was finishing up a tits-and-ass joke, which Corrie laughed hard at. She took a sip of her coffee, added another container of fake cream to try to drown out the burnt taste, and said, “Weird, isn’t it, that I replaced a salesman with the same last name.”

She directed her statement to the salesman who had made the joke. His name was Miller. He was a real comedian, and Corrie had been forcing herself to laugh at all his lame jokes. She had even passed on a hot customer to him, pretending to need guidance, and then let him keep the sale. In return, Miller had sort of taken her under his wing, no doubt hoping to get lucky. He was already starting to make comments about a bar he went to after work that served killer margaritas. She wouldn’t disabuse him of the pathetic notion she might sleep with him—at least, not until she had a chance to cash in her chips.

“Yeah,” said Miller, lighting up even though he was only supposed to do that outside. But Joe Ricco smoked and so no one objected. Miller was a beefy, crew-cut redhead with triple rolls around his neck, a beer belly, wide lips, and a pug nose. The look was somewhat mitigated by his expensive suit. They all dressed well. Gone were the days, she thought, of the fast-talking salesman in plaid polyester.

“What was he like?” Corrie asked. “Jack Swanson, I mean.”

Miller exhaled. “Asshole.”

“Oh, yeah? So that’s why he was fired?”

Miller guffawed. “Nah. The guy robbed a bank.”

“What?” Corrie feigned shock.

“Miller, take it easy, we’re not supposed to talk about that at work,” said another salesman, a guy by the name of Rivera.

“Fuck it,” said Miller. “There’s no customers around. She’d hear about it eventually.”

“Robbed a bank!” Corrie interjected, eager to keep the thread of conversation going. “How?”

Miller seemed to find this fu

More laughter.

“How do they know it was him?” Corrie asked.

“First, the car came from our lot, like I said, our dealer plates. Second, he’s wearing his usual crappy suit—which we all identified. And Ricco himself saw the guy driving it off.”

Nods all around.

“Third, they find a hair of his on the headrest.”

“Open and shut,” said Corrie. She felt glum. This was going to be a bitch and a half—assuming her father really was i

“Not only that, but they found his fingerprints on the piece of paper the guy handed to the cashier.”

This was begi

“Naw. The guy disappeared. They’re still looking for him.”

Corrie let a beat pass. “So how was he an asshole?”

Miller took another drag, exhaled into his nose while looking at her. “You’re interested, aren’t ya?”

“Yeah. I mean, we do have the same name.”

A nod. “Like I said, he couldn’t sell worth shit. And… he wouldn’t get with the program.”

“Program?”

“We do business a certain way around here.”

“Should I know about this program?”

Miller stubbed out the cigarette and rose, looking toward the showroom floor, where a couple of people had walked in and were folding their umbrellas. The man was holding a manila file folder. “You’re going to find out right now. On a crappy day like today, everyone who walks in is a buyer. Follow me.” He winked at her, his eyes roaming over her tits.