Two Graves

The colonel looked back at Pendergast, saying nothing.

“There is one other. There will be a man in Nova Godói—a tall, powerfully built man with closely cropped snow-white hair. His name is Fischer. No one else is to touch him. He is mine and I will, again, deal with him.”

A silence settled over the table.

“Those are my only conditions,” Pendergast said. “Now—are you interested in hearing what I plan to do next?”

For a moment, the colonel remained silent. Then a slow smile spread over his features. “I find that I am very much interested, Agent Pendergast,” he said.

52

THROUGH THE WINDOW OF THE LITTLE CABIN, CORRIE could see an early-morning frost glittering on the ground and rimming the twigs of the surrounding beech trees. A weak sun struggled through the checked curtains, and the woodstove, well stoked, radiated a welcome warmth. Jack bustled over it, oiling a griddle. A pan of sizzling bacon sat nearby.

He glanced over. “Jack’s special blueberry pancakes, coming up.”

“Let me help,” said Corrie, starting to get up.

“No, no!” Jack turned, his apron already smeared. He was not, she had to admit, much of a cook. But then, neither was she.

“I’m ru

“I don’t like doing nothing.”

He smiled. “Get used to it.”

Corrie sipped the coffee. She had arrived by the afternoon bus the day before, making sure no one followed her, and had walked from Frank’s Place all the way to the cabin. Her father had been ridiculously glad to see her. She had filled him in on the details of her investigation, and he was excited.

“So is it really true Charlie doesn’t hustle the customers?” Corrie asked. While Charlie seemed convincing enough about other matters, she still found it hard to believe a car salesman could be scrupulously honest.

“Not that I ever saw,” said Jack. “Old Ricco once had him into the office, left the door open, and was raking him over the coals for not getting with the program. Said it was ‘hurting morale.’ ” Jack laughed. “Can you believe it? Honesty hurting morale.”

“So why do they keep him on if he won’t cooperate?”

“Charlie can really sell ’em.” He ladled batter onto the griddle to the chorus of a friendly hiss.

One thing was starting to dawn on Corrie. Her father’s problem wasn’t dishonesty, but the opposite: a sort of inflexible, priggish honesty that bordered on self-righteousness. She’d learned from him that he’d been let go from a previous job—selling stereo equipment—because he refused to go along with certain shady sales tactics. In that job, too, he’d threatened to go to the Better Business Bureau. And he hadn’t succeeded in selling insurance for similar reasons of punctiliousness.

She watched him as he bustled about the stove. She couldn’t help wondering what she would have done in the same situation. Would she have gone along with the credit scam? Probably not, but she sure as hell wasn’t the type to go ru

Once again, she wondered if she was really cut out for law enforcement. She simply didn’t have the instincts of someone who took satisfaction in punishing wrongdoers. How did Pendergast do it?

Jack flipped the pancakes with a flourish. “Take a look at that.”

They were indeed perfectly golden brown, the tiny wild blueberries leaking a delicious-looking purple stain. Maybe he was going to pull it off, after all.

“Real maple syrup to go with it,” Jack said, lifting up the bottle. “So Charlie’s got an actor friend who’s going in there wearing a wire. I love it. I should’ve thought of that.”

“It won’t be admissible as evidence.”

“Maybe not. But all they have to do is start poking around and asking questions, and the whole crappy business will come out. It’s a good idea—really good.”

Corrie’s cell phone rang. She took it out. “That’s Charlie now.” She answered, putting the phone on speaker.

“Corrie,” said Charlie breathlessly. “You won’t believe this. It’s unbelievable. We’ve nailed them. We don’t need my friend after all. I’ve got the smoking gun—proof that they framed your father.”

“What? How?”

“Yesterday, after you left, Ricco and the boys had a sales meeting. I was excluded. After the meeting, they all went over to the Blue Goose Saloon—to talk about the break-in, probably—leaving me to cover the showroom myself for the last hour of the day.”

“And?”

“Old Ricco had gotten something out of his safe for the meeting and didn’t shut it properly. Left it open just a crack. So I went in there—I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity—and inside I found an envelope of cash, something like ten grand, with a note on it to a guy named Le

“What project?”

“Framing Jack Swanson for bank robbery.”

“It said that?” Corrie couldn’t believe it.

“Son of a gun!” said Jack, leaping from his chair and smacking his fist in his palm.

“Who’s that, your dad?” said Foote.

“Yeah. I’ve got the phone on speaker.”

“Good. Anyway, it doesn’t just come out and say it like that—not in so many words, of course. The report is written in a kind of oblique way, not naming names or anything, but when you read the whole note it’s as clear as day. Otero even asks Ricco at the end to burn the report. This is a smoking gun—no mistake about it.”

“That’s fantastic!” Jack said. “What did you do with it?”

“I had to leave it in there—but I photographed it with my cell camera. I’ve got the pictures right in my pocket. So listen, here’s what we need to do. We’ve got to go straight to the police, give them the pictures, and get them to raid that safe ASAP—I mean ASAP. The dealership opens at ten, that’s in three hours. We’ll just have to hope Ricco doesn’t come in early today. Corrie, you and I have to take this to the cops right now, this morning, so they can get a warrant and search that safe. We know it’s in the safe at least until ten o’clock. But if we wait much beyond that, God only knows, by eleven Ricco might have made the payment and burned the note and the safe will be empty.”

“I understand,” said Corrie. Jack was crowding her, his face tense.

“Listen, Corrie. I’ll come get you. We have to go together—two of Ricco’s employees will be better than one.”

“Yes, but…” She thought fast.

“Just tell him where we are,” said Jack. “You can trust him.”

She shook her head.

“How far away are you?” Foote asked.

“A little over an hour by car, but—”

“That far? Shit. Look, I know you don’t want to give away where your father’s hiding, but we can’t wait.”

“All right. I’ll meet you. There’s a country store in Old Foundry, New Jersey, called Frank’s Place. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“How will you get there if you don’t have a car?”

“Don’t worry about me, the cabin’s not too far. I’ll be there.”

She hung up. Jack seized her and hugged her. “This is great!” he said. Then his expression changed suddenly as acrid smoke filled the small cabin. “Oh, no. I’ve burned the pancakes!”

53

THE DOCKS OF ALSDORF, SUCH AS THEY WERE, LAY ALONGSIDE the Rio Itajaí-Açu, a broad, brown, odorous river flowing out of the deep forested interior of the southernmost provinces of Brazil. The docks were a busy area, thronging with fishermen unloading their catches in great wooden wheelbarrows, fish dealers shouting and waving wads of money, ice mongers trundling blocks, whores, drunks, and peddlers pushing food carts loaded with soft pretzels, knockwurst, sauerbraten, and—even more strangely—kebabs of tandoori chicken.