Pendergast stood up as if to leave. Perelman was aghast. Was that it—he was just going to walk out, after getting himself kicked off the case?
But then he hesitated. “Before I take my leave,” said Pendergast, “I wanted to express my sincerest condolences for your loss.”
At this, Baugh exploded. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“I’m referring, of course, to the tragedy of having to put down your horse, Noble Nexus.”
Perelman had never seen such a crimson color on a human face as he now saw on Baugh’s. The commander lowered his head and leaned over his desk, speaking in a whisper. “Get the hell out.”
Pendergast didn’t move. “Once upon a time, there was a man who purchased a lovely dressage horse. His name was Noble Nexus.”
“Get—the fuck—out.”
Pendergast stopped and said, in a voice that froze Perelman to the bone: “It is in your best interest, Commander, to hear my little fairy tale about the rider and his beautiful horse…and the tragedy that followed.”
The commander fell into apoplectic silence.
“Noble Nexus was a Dutch Warmblood out of a famous lineage, bred and trained at Rocking Horse Farms in Georgetown, Kentucky. The rider purchased Noble Nexus for one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. The former owners were concerned about selling the horse to the rider, because they had watched him ride and weren’t sure he was experienced enough to handle such a high-spirited animal. But good money is good money, and so they sold him the horse.
“The rider took the horse home to his little ranch in Palmdale, Florida, and began riding him in dressage competitions. The man, in truth, was not a good rider, but he compensated by having a highly trained horse with a strong desire to please. So, while the rider did not distinguish himself in these competitions, he did well enough. That gave our man the idea he was a far more talented dressage rider than he actually was. It also helped him qualify for the Florida Winter Equestrian Jubilee.”
Perelman saw that Baugh looked almost paralyzed. His face had gone from red to palest white. Darby was sitting like a statue, still holding the steno pad and pen.
“At the jubilee, when his turn came, the man rode Noble Nexus into the dressage arena and began to perform. Noble Nexus was a marvelous horse, with spirit, beauty, and athleticism. He had a heart as big as the world, ready and willing to perform his very best. But his rider was nervous and unsure. In the arena, with all those people watching, Noble Nexus tried to understand what the rider wanted him to do, but the rider was sending him contradictory signals with the wrong leg pressure, the wrong touch, the wrong weighting. What was worse, to steady his nerves the man had taken a quick drink before the competition. Horses have an extremely keen sense of smell, and this new and ugly scent on his rider alarmed Noble Nexus. Things reached a crisis when the rider tried to get Noble Nexus to perform a difficult maneuver known as tempi changes, in which the horse changes lead in the middle of a canter, multiple times in a row.”
At this Pendergast paused and tilted his head to examine Baugh with a cold eye.
“They started cantering around the arena, but Noble Nexus was confused and scared. When he didn’t know what to do, the rider jabbed his spurs hard into his flanks. So Noble Nexus did what any normal horse would do: he threw his rider. In front of the entire stadium.”
Another long pause.
“The rider was unhurt physically, just a little dusted up. But he was humiliated. This rider had a particular kind of personality: he was one of those men who are supremely sure of themselves, who rise in life from the ability to project absolute self-assurance to all those around them. A man who is never wrong, who has no self-reflection, a man to whom any mistake or problem must be someone else’s fault. In short, he was a man who would go to any lengths to preserve his self-image. To such a man, getting thrown from a horse in front of ten thousand people could mean only one thing: the horse was at fault. More than that—the horse was dangerous. There was only one way the rider could prove to the world that it was the horse, and not he, who was to blame: Noble Nexus had to be put down.”
Pendergast fell silent. Perelman felt horror creep up his spine.
Baugh spoke. “You’re a sick man, Pendergast, if you think this story is going to intimidate me. That was a dangerous horse, and I have the paperwork to prove it. A trainer certified it as dangerous, and a top-notch vet approved the certification and put it down. It was the only safe and humane thing to do, or other riders would have been put at risk.”
Pendergast removed a document from his briefcase and laid it on the desk. “Here is an affidavit, sworn and notarized, from the trainer in question, stating that you bullied him, up to and including the threat of physical harm, into certifying the horse as dangerous. In the affidavit he details your intimidation and expresses his opinion that the horse was not dangerous and that the fault of being thrown was entirely yours. He also expresses his enormous regret at what he did and his desire to atone.”
He slipped another piece of paper out of his briefcase.
“This is another sworn and notarized affidavit, from the veterinarian you engaged, who confesses to taking a five-thousand-dollar payment in order to approve the certification and put down the horse. He additionally says that you threatened to, quote, ‘make sure his son would never find work as long as he lives’ if the vet refused to cooperate. The son had just graduated from the U.S. Coast Guard Academy, which put that veterinarian very much in your power. And he, too, expresses enormous sorrow at the role he played in the killing of that beautiful animal.”
Baugh had gone even paler. God only knew what he must be feeling. Perelman, for his part, felt sick to his stomach. The story reminded him of what he’d been forced to do to Sligo—something he would never get over as long as he lived.
A vast silence gathered in the room. Baugh seemed unable to speak.
“Commander,” Pendergast said in a quiet voice. “Over the course of my career, I’ve dealt with many murderous and psychotic human beings. But I have rarely seen anything as abhorrent as this cold-blooded, deliberate murder of a trusting and innocent horse, merely to satisfy your inflated ego.”
Finally, Baugh opened his mouth and managed to croak out: “What…are you going to do with those?”
“First, I will state my requirements. You will allow me to continue my investigation as I see fit, with your full cooperation. You will immediately rescind your termination of Dr. Gladstone’s involvement in the case and issue her a letter of apology, along with a check for $101.25 to pay for the buoy Lieutenant Lickspittle—I mean Duran—intentionally damaged. You will have no further contact with Dr. Gladstone. You will maintain the compartmentalization that I have created so that the mole on your staff no longer has access to information on my activities. Pursuant to that, I will tell you nothing of my work…and you will not inquire.”
The man’s mouth worked a little before the phrase all right emerged.
“As for the affidavits, I will keep them in a safe place in case further problems arise.”
He rose. Perelman did likewise: he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. Pendergast had left the commander a quivering, heaving wreck.
Pendergast turned to Darby and said, in a suddenly loud voice: “Why, Lieutenant, you haven’t taken any notes! Shame on you!”