Once outside, the senator turned to Pendergast. “So you’re the two agents Pickett’s assigned to this case.” He looked at them, one after the other. “You must be Agent Pendergast.”
Pendergast inclined his head.
“They tell me you’re the best. That you always solve your cases. That there’s no smarter agent in the Bureau to handle this sort of thing.”
Pendergast remained still, face betraying nothing.
“To be frank, all I’ve seen so far is a whole lot of zilch. No arrests, no leads, no nothing. Oh: except, of course, for the raid on a bunch of old swingers wallowing in duck blood. And when I woke up yesterday, what did I see on the morning news? Pictures of ghosts, and Savannah the laughingstock of the nation. ‘The Savannah Vampire’—Christ. May I ask, Agent Pendergast, what you and your partner have been doing in the past ten days or so?”
“You may ask,” said Pendergast.
Drayton waited, but Pendergast apparently had finished speaking.
The senator stepped closer. “Let me explain something to you, Pendergast. You heard what I said back there. I’ve got a rally coming up that’s crucial to my re-election. I can’t have anything interfering with or depressing attendance. I can’t do anything to reprimand you about your failure to move this case forward, you or your partner here. Frankly, you’re too low-level, and I can’t reach down that far. But your boss, Pickett—who assured me you’d solve the case, who sang your praises, and who’s been covering for you—well, he was up for promotion to associate deputy director. Note my use of the past tense.”
Coldmoon felt his blood rise up. While he didn’t like Pickett, he felt a loyalty to the Bureau, and he took deep offense at this political hack making threats. But Pendergast said nothing.
“You understand what I’m saying, Pendergast?”
“Naturally.”
This was too much. “I’m sorry to hear, Senator,” Coldmoon said, “that your re-election campaign isn’t going well.”
Drayton turned two small, squinty, rage-filled eyes on him. “You insolent bastard. Maybe I can do something about squashing a low-level bug like you.”
“Go ahead,” said Coldmoon.
Drayton gave a smile, exposing his rack of snowy teeth. “You’re both going to find out what it means to disrespect a sitting U.S. senator, that I can tell you.”
“If you’re still sitting after the election,” said Coldmoon.
“Oh, believe me, the shit’s going to rain on you sooner than that, Agent—” He paused and picked up the ID hanging on his lanyard, then let it drop. “Coldmoon.”
At this, Drayton snapped his fingers over his head and spun around. The gesture sent his minions rushing to the SUV, some opening the door for him while he climbed inside as the rest of the retinue swarmed into the other vehicles.
Coldmoon tried to take a few measured breaths and calm himself down. He glanced at Pendergast, but the man’s face was as distant and neutral as ever.
“There goes the Lord of the Douchebags,” said Coldmoon as they watched the entourage pull out of the parking lot, light bar flashing.
“You should meet my friend Lieutenant D’Agosta of the NYPD,” said Pendergast mildly. “He, too, has a remarkable store of colorful expressions.”
“And here I’ve been holding back.” Coldmoon was still watching the receding vehicles. “You know, that guy really needs to be struck by lightning.”
“Patience, Agent Coldmoon.”
He swiveled toward Pendergast. “What does that mean?”
“Someone with his level of hubris and narcissism almost inevitably orchestrates their own downfall.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Coldmoon asked.
“Then I shall have to arrange for him to be caught en dasha belle.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a rather rude expression. Let me put it this way: you are named Armstrong because one of your ancestors supposedly killed General Custer. Right?”
“There’s no ‘supposedly’ about it.”
“As you wish. The point is: if Squire Drayton does not manage to disgrace himself, then I’ll personally make sure he meets his own Little Bighorn.”
He would not elaborate.
40
WELLSTONE SAT, NURSING A club soda and lime, at a window table in the bar of the newly opened Telfair Square Hotel. It was almost ten o’clock, and the bar was in the quiet period between the stampede of dinner-hour drinkers and the late-night revelers still to come. He, of course, was not staying here—his own suite was in the Marriott Riverfront—but this bar was a most convenient place to keep an eye on his target, directly across State Street.