Blue Labyrinth Read Free Page B

all this?”
    Agent Pendergast slowly crossed one leg over the other. “I can’t. Again, as I mentioned in my statement, I only became aware of my son’s existence—or the fact that I had a son—some eighteen months ago.”
    “And you saw him then?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where?”
    “In the Brazilian jungle.”
    “And since then?”
    “I have neither seen nor communicated with him.”
    “Why not? Why haven’t you sought him out?”
    “I told you: we are—were—estranged.”
    “Why, exactly, were you estranged?”
    “Our personalities were incompatible.”
    “Can you say anything about his character?”
    “I hardly knew him. He took delight in malicious games; he was an expert at taunting and mortification.”
    Angler took a deep breath. These non-answers were getting under his skin. “And his mother?”
    “In my statement you will see that she died shortly after his birth, in Africa.”
    “Right. The hunting accident.” There was something odd about that as well, but Angler could only deal with one absurdity at a time. “Might your son have been in some kind of trouble?”
    “I have no doubt of it.”
    “What kind of trouble?”
    “I have no idea. He was eminently capable of managing even the worst trouble.”
    “How can you know he was in trouble without knowing what sort?”
    “Because he had strong criminal tendencies.”
    They were just going around and around. Angler had the strong feeling Pendergast was not only uninterested in helping the NYPDcatch his son’s killer, but was probably withholding information, as well. Why would he do that? There was no guarantee the body was even that of his son. True, there was a remarkable resemblance. But the only identification was Pendergast’s own. It would be interesting to see if the victim’s DNA returned any hits in the database. And it would be simple to compare his DNA with Pendergast’s—which, since he was an FBI agent, was already on file.
    “Agent Pendergast,” he said coldly. “I must ask you again: Do you have any idea, any suspicion, any clue, as to who killed your son? Any information about the circumstances that might have led to his death? Any hint of why his body would be deposited on your doorstep?”
    “There is nothing in my statement that I am able to expand upon.”
    Angler pushed the report away. This was only the first round. In no way was he finished with this man. “I don’t know what’s stranger here—the specifics of this killing, your non-reaction to it, or the non-background of your son.”
    Pendergast’s expression remained absolutely blank. “O brave new world,” he said, “that has such people in’t.”
    “ ’Tis new to thee,” Angler shot back.
    At this, Pendergast showed the first sign of interest of the entire interview. His eyes widened ever so slightly, and he looked at the detective with something like curiosity.
    Angler leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk. “I think we’re done for the present, Agent Pendergast. So let me close by saying simply this:
You
may not want this case solved. But it
will
be solved, and I’m the man who’s going to do it. I will take it as far as it leads, if necessary to the doorstep of a certain uncooperative FBI agent. Is that understood?”
    “I would expect no less.” Pendergast rose, stood, and—nodding to Slade as he opened the door—exited the office without saying another word.
    Back at the Riverside Drive mansion, Pendergast strode purposefully through the reception hall and into the library. Moving toward one of the tall bookcases full of leather-bound volumes, he pulled asidea wooden panel, exposing a laptop computer. Typing quickly, using passwords when necessary, he first accessed the NYPD file servers, then the database of open homicide cases. Jotting down certain reference numbers, he moved next to the force’s DNA database, where he quickly located the forensic test results for DNA samples collected from the supposed Hotel Killer, who had