Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [106]
“May I?”
“Be my guest. The CSI people have been through here with a fine-tooth comb.”
She knelt and picked up several of the frames. They showed what she presumed to be various family members and friends. Some were clearly of Blackletter himself: in Africa flying a plane, inoculating natives, standing before a bush clinic. There were several pictures showing Blackletter in company with an attractive blond woman some years his junior; in one he had his arm around her.
“Was Dr. Blackletter married?”
“Never,” said Cring.
She turned this last picture over in her hands. The glass in the frame had cracked in its fall to the floor. Hayward slid the photo out of its frame and turned it over. Written on the back with a generous, looping hand was, TO MORRIS, IN MEMORY OF THAT FLIGHT OVER THE LAKE. LOVE, M.
“May I keep this? Just the photo, I mean.”
A hesitation. “Well, we’ll have to enter it in the chain-of-custody logs.” Another hesitation. “May I ask the reason why?”
“It may be pertinent to my investigation.” Hayward had been careful not to tell them exactly what her investigation was, and they, after making a few halfhearted attempts to find out, had tactfully dropped the subject.
But now Cring brought it up again. “If you don’t mind me asking, we’re sort of puzzled why an NYPD homicide captain would be interested in a fairly routine burglary and murder all the way down here. We don’t mean to pry, but it would be useful to know what you’re looking for—so we can help.”
Hayward knew she couldn’t keep dodging the question, so she opted for misdirection. “It involves a terrorism investigation.”
A silence. “I see.”
“Terrorism,” Field repeated from behind her, speaking for the first time. He’d been following them so silently she’d almost forgotten he was there. “You got a lot of that up in New York, I hear.”
“Yes,” said Hayward. “You understand why we can’t go into details.”
“Absolutely.”
“We’re keeping a low profile on this one. Which is why I’m down here informally, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, of course,” said Field. “If I may ask—anything to do with the robots?”
Hayward flashed him a quick smile. “The less said the better.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the officer, flushing with pleasure at having guessed.
Hayward hated herself for telling lies like this. It was bad policy all around, and if it ever got out she could lose her job.
“Give the picture to me,” said Cring, with a warning glance to his subordinate. “I’ll see that it’s logged and back in your hands right away.” He slid the photograph into an evidence envelope, sealed it, and initialed it.
“I think we’re done here,” said Hayward, looking around, feeling guilty about her crude deception. She hoped Pendergast wasn’t starting to rub off on her.
She stepped out of the dark house and into the humid sunlight. Glancing around, she noticed that the street dead-ended at the river not half a mile away. On impulse she turned back to Cring, who was securing the front door.
“Detective,” she said.
He turned. “Ma’am?”
“You understand that you can’t speak to anybody about what we just discussed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But you probably also understand now why I believe this robbery to be a fake.”
Cring rubbed his chin. “A fake?”
“Staged.” She nodded down the street. “In fact, I’d bet that if you were to check, you just might find those missing electronics down there, beyond the end of the road, at the bottom of the Mississippi.”
Cring looked from her, to the river, and back again. He nodded slowly.
“I’ll swing by for that photo this afternoon,” she said as she slipped into the Porsche.
50
Penumbra Plantation
THE OLD SERVANT, MAURICE, OPENED THE DOOR for Hayward, and she entered the dim confines of the mansion house. It again struck her as exactly the kind of place she imagined Pendergast coming from, decaying antebellum gentry, from the dilapidated house down to the mournful old servant in formal clothes.
“This way, Captain Hayward,” Maurice said,