Chapter 9
TEN MINUTES LATER, CHAMBERS found himself out on the street.
He’d taken nothing with him except his jacket and briefcase.
Pendergast, on the other hand, had spent several minutes sorting through items hidden in drawers beneath his spotless desk.
Now they stood side by side outside the field office HQ.
“Where’s your car?” Chambers asked.
“I, ah, have myself driven.”
“What—you mean, taxi?” He was under the impression Pendergast lived way out somewhere in St. Charles Parish.
“No.”
“O—kay.” Chambers was struggling with what had just happened, and why he had done what he did, when he didn’t particularly like Pendergast. It didn’t take long for the stifling heat to render this struggle a secondary consideration. “Well, hell. Do you want to get a coffee somewhere?”
“I’d prefer tea.”
“Fine. I know a breakfast joint that serves the best sweet tea in—”
“I’m sorry, Agent Chambers. I meant green tea.”
Chambers, defeated, fell silent.
“I, too, know an excellent place—where both green tea and coffee can be served. If you wouldn’t mind driving, I’ll direct you.”
Chambers didn’t mind. As they approached his car, Pendergast slowed. “What an unusual shade of robin’s-egg blue. It reminds me of a certain Magritte painting.”
“The Empire of Light?” Chambers asked.
Now Pendergast stopped altogether. “That’s correct,” he said.
“Well, get in and I’ll turn on the A/C. You must be melting in that black suit.”
“Actually, the climate rather agrees with me.”
“This is turning into a day of firsts.” Chambers unlocked the car, threw his case in the back, slid into the seat with a grunt, and started the ignition.
They didn’t speak much, Pendergast giving terse directions when needed.
Merging onto I-90, they crossed the river, then ramped off into the Warehouse District.
From there, they took local roads southwest through residential neighborhoods.
During the drive, Chambers had a chance to sort out what had gone down that morning…
and not just as it concerned his new partner.
Chambers, I’d hate to see your illustrious career end in early termination—with prejudice.
That was the last thing he’d expected to hear when he pulled into the parking lot that morning, moping as usual.
Moping. That label, or at least its self-administration, was unexpected, too.
“Pull in over here, if you please.” Pendergast motioned to a free spot near the corner of Carondelet and Sixth Street in the Faubourg Delassize neighborhood.
Chambers slid the Impala into the parking space, then followed Pendergast half a block down Carondelet to what at first glance looked like a dry cleaner.
The window facing the street was papered over with posters, the overhead sign was written in Chinese or maybe Japanese, and the storefront itself was so narrow, Chambers could almost gauge its width by stretching out his arms. But the place turned out to be a tea shop.
There were several small tables arranged along one wall, and across was a counter behind which a dozen gleaming tin containers with lids were arranged, with slates above each on which were scribbled more characters. Nothing was written in English.
An Asian woman approached them, order pad in hand, and gave them a polite little bow. Pendergast nodded his head in return, then replied in some rapid-fire tongue. The woman smiled, wrote something on her pad, then turned to Chambers. “Dozo?” she said to him.
Pendergast regained her attention and spoke again, this time at greater length. The woman nodded, bowed again, and walked away.
“I had no idea you speak Chinese,” Chambers said. “Were you stationed in Hong Kong or something?”
“Actually, that was Japanese,” Pendergast replied. He’d brought his own briefcase with him when they left the car. “The Chinese population here is still rebounding from the Exclusion Act. To get better tea, you’d need to go to Chinatown in New York.”
Chambers digested this as they sat down. The woman brought Pendergast’s tea in an exquisite little teapot and cup.
“Um, and where’s my coffee?” Chambers said, after the woman left.
“They’re not quite as used to making coffee.”
A brief pause.
“You’re from around here, right?” Chambers asked. “Originally, I mean.”
“My family had a house on Dauphine Street.”
“No kidding. You’re an honest-to-God local, then.”
“I left New Orleans when I was sent off to boarding school, and the house no longer exists. However, I’m pleased to be back.”
For some reason, Chambers felt himself wince. His numb disbelief was fading, but a strange discomfort was taking its place. “Look,” he said, trying to push the feeling aside. “I’ve got to tell you: that was the craziest experience I’ve ever had as an FBI agent.”
“I must admit to seeing things far crazier in my prior career.”
Chambers figured this was true, given Pendergast’s classified past in some esoteric military unit.
“I do, however, owe you an apology,” Pendergast went on. “For being the instrument of that imbroglio, I mean. I also thank you most sincerely for your intervention on my behalf—which I did not expect.”
Chambers nodded. Of course Pendergast hadn’t expected him to lift a finger. Probably the same reason he’d taken on the assignment without guidance or assistance in the first place.
His coffee arrived and he took a hesitant sip. It tasted freshly ground, with a touch of cream and, he guessed, two sugars.
“This isn’t bad at all—just the way I like it,” he said, surprised.
Pendergast nodded. “I noted your preference in beverages. At the office, at least.”
Chambers put down his cup. “The office…” He hesitated. “As long as we’re on the subject, I think I’m the one who owes the bigger apology. Instead of mentoring you, I’ve basically thrown you into the deep end.”
“The water’s been pleasant enough. And you have my sympathies regarding the loss of your wife.”
Chambers knew that as the supervising agent, he should maintain a certain reserve and keep his personal life to himself.
But having just been thrown out of the office with his junior partner, there no longer seemed any point in keeping up appearances.
Chambers wondered if Pendergast knew other agents were calling his mentor a broke-dick.
He drew in a ragged breath. Christ, here he was, drinking coffee in this hole-in-the-wall, having maybe just wrecked his career. And here, right on schedule, he could sense the return of that fog of depression through which he’d moved, zombie-like, for months.
“I hope you won’t take offense,” Pendergast said, “when I say that I saw you as a good agent who had suffered an insupportable tragedy in his life and couldn’t cope—leaving me to operate on my own. Not a role that displeased me, to be honest. But I do have a personal question.”
This candor was surprising enough to stave off—for now—the returning fog of depression. “Sure, what’s the question?”
“I reviewed your record with Agent Decker when we were selecting the most agreeable posting for me. You’re well educated in criminalistics, mathematics, and deviant psychology—but as far as I can tell, you displayed little interest in cultural disciplines.”
“Go on.”
“And yet just now, you rather offhandedly mentioned a painting by Magritte.”
“That’s thanks to my wife,” Chambers said.
“She taught art history and comparative lit at a private high school, and her father was the most well-read man I’ve ever met.
I never saw her without a book or a palette and a brush in her hand.
” He shrugged. “I absorbed more from her than I realized… until she was gone.”
Pendergast remained silent.
“That Impala outside—it was to be hers. Magritte was her favorite artist, and The Empire of Light her favorite set of paintings. That’s why I bought the car to surprise her. I’d taken possession, driven it home, and was waiting for her—when I got a call from the hospital.”
Pendergast said nothing—for which Chambers was grateful. He took in another shallow, shuddering breath, then let it out slowly. His head ached, and he felt drained of emotion. Despite this, he forced himself to lean into the silence. “How did you know to target Urbanski like that?”
“A most unpleasant fellow. Those edicts, posted in the lobby like stone tablets from God, urging us to inform on our own, were a disgrace.”
“I don’t mean that. I know he’s an asshole—but how did you sense he was crooked?”
After a long silence, Pendergast said, “There are some things I just know. There’s no simple way to put it. I’m… still learning to act properly on them, rather than question their source.” And he took another sip of tea.
Chambers sat back. He knew Pendergast wasn’t going to give him any more. At least not now.
He took one more breath—tentative, but deep this time.
There was no denying it: the fog of melancholy and grief that usually hung over him was, for the moment anyway, keeping its distance.
Still, here he was: set adrift for his sins, with this strange new agent he was supposed to mentor—although it felt more like he was the mentee and this ivory-skinned man his mentor.
Pendergast, meanwhile, had picked up his briefcase and removed an envelope.
“What’s that?” Chambers asked.
“This,” said Pendergast, “is what Agent Malone left on my chair. He said it was for my scrapbook. Shall we see what it is?” A small knife suddenly appeared in his hand, and he slit the envelope open.
“Thoughtful of him,” Pendergast murmured as he drew out the contents: a recent newspaper article, folded up.
Every agent had some kind of hobby during off hours. Some collected firearms. Another kept bees. Chambers wondered if Pendergast really did keep a scrapbook full of juicy clippings, like Malone had told him, or if the guy was just having fun with a new jack.
“Unsolved murder in Diamondhead, Mississippi,” Pendergast said, perusing the article. “Brutal, bizarre. Victim from Louisiana—”
“Pendergast?” Chambers interrupted.
The pale figure looked up.
“I hate to interrupt, but what the hell are we going to do now? I don’t exactly feel like going home. Any suggestions?”
Silently, Pendergast raised the article, letting it dangle between his fingers. “What was it Estevez told us to do? Grab some rat-shit investigation, is how I believe he phrased it.” He gave the article a little shake.
After a moment, Chambers cleared his throat. “Diamondhead?”
“The body was discovered there early yesterday morning.”
“That’s only sixty miles away.”
A nod.
“And the cross-border issues allow us to claim it’s federal.”
Pendergast nodded again.
“And you have no problem with my being in charge.”
“I should insist upon it.”
“Then let’s go.” Chambers stood up. “You can tell me what’s in the article on the way.”