Crimson Shore

“First you called me a ‘dick.’ Now you’ve called me a ‘prick.’ I commend you on your poesy. But you seem to forget that a lady is present. Perhaps your mother should have employed the soap treatment more frequently to your rather orotund mouth.”

Constance had seen Pendergast deliberately provoke people before, but not quite so belligerently. She wondered why the first thing he’d done in this investigation was to go out of his way to make an enemy of the chief of police.

The chief took a step closer. “Okay. I’m done. I want you out of this town. Now. Get back in your faggoty little vehicle and you and your girlfriend get your asses out.”

“Or?”

“Or I’ll take you in for loitering and disturbing the peace.”

Most uncharacteristically, Pendergast laughed aloud. “No, thank you. I’m going to stay as long as I please. In fact, I’m looking forward to watching the baseball game at the Inn tonight — during which, no doubt, the New York Yankees will firmly insert the Red Sox back into the cesspit they’ve been trying to crawl out of during the American League championship.”

A long, steaming silence. Then the cop, calmly and with deliberation, reached down to his belt and unhooked a pair of handcuffs. “Put your hands behind your back, sir, and turn around.”

Pendergast instantly complied. The chief slapped on the cuffs.

“Right this way, sir.” He gave Pendergast a gentle nudge toward the patrol car. Constance waited for Pendergast to say something, pull his shield. But he did nothing.

“Just a minute,” she said to the cop’s retreating back, her voice low.

He stopped and turned.

Constance looked into the man’s face. “You do this, and you’ll be the sorriest man in the state of Massachusetts.”

The chief’s eyes widened in mock fear. “Are you threatening me?”

“Constance?” Pendergast asked, his voice managing to be pleasant while at the same time full of warning.

Constance kept her attention on the chief. “I’m not threatening you,” she said. “I’m merely predicting a sad and humiliating future for you.”

“And who’s going to do this, exactly—you?”

“Constance?” Pendergast said, a little louder.

She made a great effort to stifle her reply, to stem the furious flow of blood that suddenly thrummed in her ears.

“Bitch.” The cop turned and continued to ease Pendergast toward the squad car, the FBI agent going willingly. The chief opened the back door and put his hand on Pendergast’s head to push him into the seat.

“Bring the checkbook to the station,” Pendergast told Constance, reaching into his pocket with some difficulty and tossing her the car keys, “so you can make bail.”

Constance stared as the squad car pulled away from the curb and went speeding down Main Street with a screech of rubber, slowing her breathing, waiting for the red mist to recede from her vision. It wasn’t until the car was out of sight that she remembered there was no one to drive their roadster.

5

The Exmouth police station was located in a quaint brick building at the opposite end of town.

“Please take care to park within the lines,” said Constance to the young man she had recruited to drive the car the length of town. He’d been gawking at the car while she stood there, wondering what to do, and she had offered to let him drive it. He had leapt at the chance. Only once he was in the car had she noticed he smelled like fish.

He pulled the car into the space and yanked the parking break.

“Wow,” he said. “I can’t believe it. What a ride.” He looked at her. “Where’d you get this car?”

“It isn’t mine. Thank you very much for being a gentleman. You may go now.”

He hesitated and she had the sense he was noticing her for the first time, his eyes roving over her figure. He was a brawny, honest yeoman type, with a wedding ring on his left hand. “Say, if you’re free later—”

“I’m not, and neither are you,” she said, plucking the keys from his hand. She exited the car and began walking toward the police station, leaving the man in the parking lot staring after her.

She entered a surprisingly spotless waiting room, presided over by portraits of the governor and the lieutenant governor, with a large gold-fringed American flag in the corner and a wood-paneled wall covered with plaques and commendations. A tiny woman sat behind a desk, answering phones and trying to look busy. Beyond her, through the open door, Constance could hear a television, tuned to a game show of some kind.

“May I help you?” the woman asked.

“I’m here to — what is the term? — make bail for Mr. Pendergast.”

The lady looked at her curiously. “He’s being processed. Please have a seat. May I have your name?”

“Constance Greene.” She seated herself, smoothing her long dress.