Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [105]
“When did it happen? How?”
“Lunchtime. It’s bizarre. She was on a field trip.”
“Outside the hospital?”
“Central Park Zoo. Seems one of the doctors helped her escape.”
“Dr. Ostrom? Dr. Felder? Impossible.”
“No. Apparently his name was Poole. Ernest Poole.”
“Who the devil is Poole?” Pendergast started the engine. “And what in the name of heaven was a self-confessed baby-killer doing outside the walls of Mount Mercy?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. You can bet the press will have a field day if they find out—which they probably will.”
“Keep this from the press at all costs.”
“I’m doing my best. Naturally, homicide is all over it.”
“Call them off. I can’t have a lot of detectives blundering about.”
“No dice. An investigation’s obligatory. SOP.”
For perhaps ten seconds, Pendergast stood motionless, thinking. Then he spoke again. “Have you looked into the background of this Dr. Poole?”
“Not yet.”
“If homicide must occupy themselves with something, have them do that. They’ll discover he’s a fraud.”
“You know who he is?”
“I’d rather not speculate at the moment.” Pendergast paused again. “I was a fool not to anticipate something like this. I believed Constance to be perfectly safe at Mount Mercy. A dreadful oversight—another dreadful oversight.”
“Well, she’s probably not in any real danger. Maybe she got infatuated with the doctor, escaped for some sort of dalliance…” D’Agosta’s voice trailed off awkwardly.
“Vincent, I’ve already told you she didn’t escape. She was kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?”
“Yes. No doubt by this ersatz Dr. Poole. Keep it from the press and stop homicide from muddying the waters.”
“I’ll do everything I can.”
“Thank you.” And Pendergast accelerated onto the icy street, the rented car fishtailing and spraying snow, heading for the airport and New York City.
CHAPTER 59
New York City
NED BETTERTON STOOD BY THE ENTRANCE to the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin, staring out at the confusion of yachts, sailboats, and assorted pleasure craft, all rocking gently back and forth in the calm waters of the Hudson. He was wearing the only suit jacket he’d brought along—a blue blazer—and he’d purchased a gaudy ascot that he’d tucked into his collar, along with a white cap placed rakishly on his head. It was not quite six PM, and the sun was rapidly sinking behind the ramparts of New Jersey.
Hands in his pockets, he glanced out at the vessel he’d seen the German motor out to the day before, moored some distance from the docks. It was quite a yacht, gleaming white with three tiers of smoked windows—well over a hundred feet in length. There did not appear to be any activity on board.
Betterton’s leave was up, and the calls from Kranston at the Bee had turned threatening. The man was furious that he himself had to cover the church meetings and other crap. Good—the hell with him. This was a hot lead, this yacht. It just might be his ticket out.
You call yourself a reporter? You couldn’t report your way out of a douche bag! Betterton flushed at the dressing-down Corinne Swanson had given him. That was another reason he was back at the Boat Basin. He knew, somehow or other, Pendergast was involved… and not as an investigator.
It had been the blue blazer, actually, that gave him the idea. He knew it was a common courtesy for yachtsmen anchored in proximity of one another to exchange visits, share drinks, or otherwise pay a courtesy call. He’d pose as a yachtsman, go on board, and see what there was to see. But these were bad guys, drug smugglers—he’d have to play it very, very carefully.
He soon discovered it wouldn’t be as simple as just strolling into the marina. The place was surrounded by a chain-link fence and sported a staffed guardhouse by a closed gate. A big sign read GUESTS BY INVITATION ONLY. The place reeked of money, sealed off from the hoi polloi.
He studied the chain-link fence, which ran along the shore, back from the water, and disappeared into some brush. Making sure no one was watching, he followed the fence into the brush, pushing his way into the growth along the