• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1341 0

sat a procession of condos and luxury hotels, punctuated by swimming pools and haciendas and restaurants. It was sunset. As he watched, the sunbathers and sand-castle builders and beachcombers all seemed to pause, as if at some invisible signal, to look west. Beach chairs were reoriented; video cameras were held up. D’Agosta followed the general gaze. The sun was sinking into the Gulf of Mexico, a semicircle of orange fire. He had never before seen a sunset unimpeded by cityscapes or New Jersey, and it surprised him: one minute the sun was there, falling, measurably falling behind the endless flat line of the horizon… and then it was gone, strewing pink bands of afterglow in its wake. He licked his lips, tasted the faint sea air. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine himself and Laura moving to a place like this once he’d put in his twenty.

Blast’s condo was on the top floor of a luxury high-rise overlooking the beach. They took the elevator up, and Pendergast rang the bell. There was a long delay, then a faint scratching sound as the peephole cover was swiveled aside. Another, briefer delay, followed by the unlocking and opening of the door. A man stood on the far side, short, slightly built, with a full head of brilliantined black hair combed straight back. “Yes?”

Pendergast offered his shield and D’Agosta did the same. “Mr. Blast?” Pendergast inquired.

The man looked from one shield to the other, then at Pendergast. There was no fear or anxiety in his eyes, D’Agosta noted—only mild curiosity.

“May we come in?”

The man considered this a moment. Then he opened the door wider.

They passed through a front hall into a living room that was opulently if gaudily decorated. Heavy gold curtains framed a picture window looking out over the ocean. Thick white shag carpeting covered the floor. A faint smell of incense hung in the air. Two Pomeranians, one white and one black, glared at them from a nearby ottoman.

D’Agosta turned his attention back to Blast. The man looked nothing like his ancestor Audubon. He was small and fussy, with a pencil mustache and—given the climate—a remarkable lack of tan. Yet his movements were quick and lithe, betraying none of the languid decadence of the surrounding decor.

“Would you care to sit down?” he said, motioning them toward a brace of massive armchairs upholstered in crimson velvet. He spoke with the faintest of southern drawls.

Pendergast took a seat, and D’Agosta did the same. Blast sank into a white leather sofa across from them. “I assume you’re not here about my rental property on Shell Road?”

“Quite correct,” Pendergast replied.

“Then how can I help you?”

Pendergast let the question hang in the air for a moment before answering. “We’re here about the Black Frame.”

Blast’s surprise manifested itself only in a faint widening of the eyes. After a moment he smiled, displaying brilliant little white teeth. It was not a particularly friendly smile. The man reminded D’Agosta of a mink, sleek and ready to bite. “Are you offering to sell?”

Pendergast shook his head. “No. We wish to examine it.”

“Always preferable to know one’s competition,” said Blast.

Pendergast threw one leg over the other. “Odd you should mention competition. Because that’s another reason we’re here.”

Blast cocked his head to one side quizzically.

“Helen Esterhazy Pendergast.” The FBI agent slowly enunciated each word.

This time Blast remained absolutely still. He looked from Pendergast to D’Agosta, then back. “I’m sorry, as long as we’re on the subject of names: may I have yours, please?”

“Special Agent Pendergast,” he said. “And this is my associate, Lieutenant D’Agosta.”

“Helen Esterhazy Pendergast,” Blast repeated. “A relative of yours?”

“She was my wife,” said Pendergast coldly.

The little man spread his hands. “Never heard the name in my life. Désolée. Now, if that’s all…?” He stood.

Pendergast rose abruptly as well. D’Agosta stiffened, but instead of physically confronting Blast, as he feared, the agent clasped his hands behind his back, walked over to the picture window, and gazed out of it.