Pendergast went on. “Savannah doubled in size during the railroad boom of the mid-nineteenth century, you know, and buildings serving any number of functions quickly sprang up. This hotel, for example, was originally a hospital for yellow fever victims, and then a Confederate munitions factory, before becoming a lodging house. Like so many other structures, it fell into disrepair in the 1950s and closed in the ’60s. Luckily a guardian angel came along, and she judiciously restored it to its former charm.”
Coldmoon tried another sip and set the drink aside. She? he wondered idly. He couldn’t speak to its former charm—how charming could a yellow fever hospital be?—but old: hell yes, it was old. True, the restoration had been done with care—everything was clean, there was no dust on the furniture—but the floorboards were wide and uneven and creaked and groaned with every footfall, until it felt like the whole place was griping. There were short sets of stairs everywhere, and the halls were crooked. And then there was his bedroom—large, with a four-poster bed and little frilly doilies over the chair backs and pillowcases…but no TV or internet. The bathroom was decked out like nothing he’d ever seen, with a massive porcelain tub and a marble shitter with a wooden seat. Not to mention the rows of little soaps and shampoos and body creams. A yellow fever hospital…Christ, that was perfect. What he wouldn’t give for a Hampton Inn and its modern conveniences right now.
But he didn’t want any more history lectures, so he changed the subject. “What happened to Constance? She left the crime scene around the same time Pickett did…and I haven’t seen her since.”
Pendergast’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “That is no coincidence. After her previous experience with Pickett’s idea of accommodations, she went along with him to make sure he booked us into a comfortable place. Good thing she did, too—he was about to get us rooms in some dreadful hotel chain on the edge of town.”
Coldmoon sighed. “So Pickett left the crime scene just to arrange for our rooms? First he drags us here to Rebel Yell Central, then he vanishes. Nice way to pass the buck.”
Pendergast finished his drink and set the glass on a nearby coaster. “I thought it was rather thoughtful of him.”
Coldmoon looked up. “Thoughtful? He kidnaps the both of us, yanks me away from reporting to my new post—a post I was supposed to be at weeks ago—and then he dumps us in this creepy old place, to handle some damned ?heslí case?”
“I don’t speak Lakota, but I perfectly comprehend your tone of voice. And over the last several hours, I’ve observed your vexed attitude. So, as your partner, I’d like to make a suggestion, if I may.”
Even though Coldmoon was angry, he noted Pendergast had not said senior partner. What was that—throwing him a bone? If so, he wasn’t taking it. The agent in the opposite chair, with his pale skin, pale hair, and pale eyes, looked irritatingly complacent, if not smugly satisfied. But Pendergast so rarely offered advice that Coldmoon’s instincts told him to shut up and listen.
“I know no more about this case, or the politics that brought us here, than you do. Senator Drayton is a powerful man, and perhaps his support helped Pickett achieve his promotion to the highest echelons of the Bureau. But Pickett doesn’t like this case any more than you do. And he certainly isn’t planning to take any credit for it, whatever the outcome might be.”
“How do you know that?” Coldmoon asked suspiciously.
“Precisely because of the way he left us alone to deal with Commander Delaplane. When we examined the scene, when we spoke to potential witnesses…he was notably absent. Do you really think someone of his rank would busy himself in finding us lodging, instead of taking personal supervision of a high-profile case—one of importance to a U.S. senator?”
“What are you saying—that he’s looking out for us?”
“I’m saying he understands perfectly well how we both feel, and he’s signaling that he’s going to let us handle this investigation our way—which, I must say, is a notable change.” Pendergast rubbed his hands together, as if already anticipating the lack of oversight. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And the greedy Denver Field Office—may its tribe decrease!—won’t deny you that empty desk, when the time comes for you to claim it.”
He settled back in his chair and resumed his normal voice. “In any case, the history here is deep and strong. For example, I just took a little stroll through some of the picturesque back streets.”