Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [57]
“No. It’s strictly a private matter.”
“This is irregular, Mr. Pendergast—most irregular. I can’t say I’ve ever had such a request before. I’m sorry, but this is not something I can approve. You’ll have to go through the courts.”
Pendergast regarded him for a moment. “Is that your final word on the subject?”
“The guidelines on exhumations are quite clear. I can do nothing.” Jennings spread his hands.
“I see.” Pendergast picked up the shield and replaced it in his suit jacket. He left the paperwork where it was. “Would you mind coming with me for a moment?”
“But where—?”
“It will only take a minute.”
Reluctantly, Jennings rose out of his seat.
“I wish to show you,” Pendergast said, “why I chose you in particular for this request.”
They walked through the outer office, down the main corridor of the public building, and out the main entrance. Pendergast stopped on the wide front steps.
Jennings looked around at the bustling thoroughfare. “Like I said, pleasant day,” he observed with excessive cheer, trying to make small talk.
“Pleasant day indeed,” came the reply.
“That’s what I love about this part of Louisiana. The sun just seems to shine more brightly than anywhere else.”
“Yes. It lends a curious gilding effect to everything it touches. Take that plaque, for instance.” And Pendergast gestured toward an old brass plaque that had been set into the brick façade of the building.
Jennings peered at the plaque. He passed it every morning, of course, on the way to his office, but it had been many years since he had bothered to examine it.
THIS CITY HALL OF PLANKWOOD, LOUISIANA, WAS
ERECTED WITH FUNDS GENEROUSLY DONATED BY
COMSTOCK ERASMUS PENDERGAST IN THE YEAR OF OUR
LORD 1892
“Comstock Pendergast,” Jennings murmured under his breath. No wonder the name seemed vaguely familiar.
“My great-grand-uncle. The Pendergast family, you see, has long had a tradition of supporting certain towns in the parishes of both New Orleans and St. Charles, places where various branches of our family lived these past centuries. While we may no longer be around in many of these towns, our legacy lives on.”
“Of course,” Jennings said, still staring at the plaque. He began to conceive a rather unpleasant notion as to why Pendergast had been so particular in selecting his office for the request.
“We don’t advertise it. But the fact is, the various Pendergast trusts and charities continue to make benefactions to several towns—including Plankwood.”
Jennings looked from the plaque to Pendergast. “Plankwood?”
Pendergast nodded. “Our trusts provide scholarships to graduating seniors, help maintain the police auxiliary fund, buy books for the library—and support the good work of your very own public health office. It would be a shame to see this support falter… or, perhaps, cease entirely.”
“Cease?” Jennings repeated.
“Programs might be cut.” Pendergast’s gaunt features assumed a sorrowful cast. “Salaries reduced. Jobs lost.” He placed a certain emphasis on this last phrase as his gray eyes affixed Jennings.
Jennings raised a hand to his chin, rubbed it thoughtfully. “On second thought, Mr. Pendergast, I feel certain your request might be reviewed favorably—if you can assure me that it is of great importance.”
“I can, Mr. Jennings.”
“In that case, I’ll get the application process started.” He glanced back at the plaque. “I could even go so far as to promise you that the paperwork will be put through in a rush. In ten days, perhaps as little as a week, we can have this order approved—”
“I’ll stop by for it tomorrow afternoon, thank you,” Pendergast said.
“What?” Jennings removed his glasses, blinked in the sunlight. “Oh, of course. Tomorrow afternoon.”
CHAPTER 30
Boston, Massachusetts
THE MAN WITH THE SUNKEN EYES AND FIVE O’CLOCK shadow shuffled across Copley Square, in the shadow of the John Hancock Tower. Except for brief glances at the passing traffic, his head hung dejectedly; his hands were deep in the pockets of his grimy raincoat.
He walked down Dartmouth Street and entered