Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [65]
Except perhaps Helen.
Pendergast raked the kitchen with his pale eyes. It was almost obsessively neat and, like the rest of the house, decidedly masculine in its choice of furnishings: the heavy oak breakfast table, the oversize slab of butcher block studded with massive knives, the dark cherry cabinets and black granite countertops.
He made his way out of the kitchen, through the hall, and up the stairs to the second floor. The doors off the landing were closed, and he opened each one in turn. One led to an attic staircase, which he climbed to an unfinished, peaked-ceilinged space smelling of mothballs and dust. He pulled a string hanging beside a bare bulb, bathing the room in harsh light. There were a number of boxes and trunks here, neatly arranged against the walls, all locked. In one corner stood a full-length mirror, dull and cobwebbed.
Pendergast withdrew a pearl-handled switchblade from his jacket pocket and flicked it open. Methodically, without hurry, he slit open the boxes and sorted through them, resealing them with fresh packing tape when he was done. The steamer trunks came next: locks picked, searched, and relocked, everything left as before.
As he moved toward the stairs, he paused before the mirror, and then, with the sleeve of his black suit, polished the mirror clean in one area and gazed into it. The face that looked back at him seemed almost alien; he turned away.
Turning off the light, he descended to the second floor, which consisted of two bathrooms, Esterhazy’s bedroom, a study, and a guest bedroom. Pendergast went to the bathrooms first, opening the medicine cabinets and examining the contents. He squirted tubes of toothpaste, cans of shaving cream, and containers of talcum into the toilets to make sure they were genuine and not containers for hiding valuables, returning the flattened and emptied containers to their proper places. The guest bedroom came next. Nothing of interest.
Pendergast’s breathing quickened slightly.
He then passed into Esterhazy’s own bedroom. It was as meticulously neat as the rest of the house: hardcover novels and biographies were carefully stacked on their shelves, antique Wedgwood and Quimper ceramics arranged in small niches.
Pendergast pulled the covers from the bed and examined the mattress, sliding it off the bed and palpating it, pulling the fabric aside and examining the springs. He felt the pillows and examined the bed frame, and then remade the bed. Opening the clothes closet, he systematically felt through every item of clothing, looking for anything concealed within. He pulled every drawer from the old Duncan Phyfe armoire and examined the contents, no longer being overly careful to replace them in order. He plucked the books off the shelves one at a time, flipped through them, and shoved them back out of order. His movements became more rapid, verging on the brusque.
Next came the study. Pendergast walked over to the lone filing cabinet, jimmied the lock with a savage twist of the switchblade, and opened each drawer, removing the folders inside, examining them closely, and then dropping them back in place. It took almost an hour to go through all the bills, tax forms, correspondence, financial ledgers, and other documents—interesting in the light they threw on Esterhazy but of no obvious significance. Next came the heavy shelves of reference books and medical texts. The contents of the desk followed. A laptop sat atop the desk; taking a screwdriver from his pocket, Pendergast opened its base, plucked out the hard disk, and slipped it into his pocket. The walls were covered with framed commendations and awards; these were removed, their backs inspected, then rehung indifferently.
He paused in the doorway before proceeding downstairs. The contents of the study—and indeed the house—remained more or less neat and regular; no one would know that every millimeter had been invaded, scrutinized, violated… except Judson. He