Page 18 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

“Prodigal son, sir?” Coldmoon asked.

“Did you neglect your Bible studies?” He laughed at what was evidently meant as a joke.

“I’m not a Christian, sir.”

“Oh. I see.” There was a silence just long enough to make Coldmoon wonder if he’d failed some secret exam. “In any case, welcome. I don’t normally make a habit of greeting new agents the moment they arrive—especially on a Sunday evening—but we’re changing your assignment to a new case that’s developing quickly. SA Pologna was already in the starting gate, so to speak. This is a murder that just took place up north on the Rosebud Rez. Normally, that’s handled out of the South Dakota Field Office, but they seem to think they needed an agent that speaks Lakota.”

“Thank you, sir,” Coldmoon said.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Dudek pulled a file toward him, opened it, and leafed through the contents. “The acting director has really sung your praises here. You’ve been partnering with that Agent Pendergast—the one whose perps all seem to buy the ranch before trial. Lot of rumors about that fellow.”

Coldmoon said nothing. He didn’t like to make premature judgments, but there was an air about Dudek he recalled from a drill instructor at the academy: impatient, intolerant, inflexible—and a gossip.

Dudek was still looking through Coldmoon’s file. “I knew it was Agent Pendergast who held you up, but I hadn’t realized how long he’d been at it. So you worked with him on two cases, start to finish?”

“Three, actually, sir,” Coldmoon said. “Two in Florida, one in Georgia.”

“Well, from what I’ve heard of the guy, you’re well rid of him.” Dudek palmed the file closed with a slapping motion. “Are the rumors true?”

“Rumors?” asked Coldmoon, wondering if he should continue appending “sir” to everything he said and deciding not to.

“You know, those stories about him driving a Rolls, living in a…well, never mind. The important thing is you’re here now, and you escaped with your reputation intact. Not only intact, but elevated, it seems.” Dudek shook his head.

Coldmoon resisted the impulse to inform his new superior that the improvement in his professional reputation was due to Pendergast.

Dudek looked up from his desk, meeting Coldmoon’s eyes. “You grew up on Pine Ridge Reservation, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many years?”

“Seventeen.”

“Much interaction with your pals over in Rosebud?”

The residents of the next reservation over were hardly pals of Coldmoon’s, and he wasn’t sure why Dudek assumed they might be. “No.”

“Good. And your undercover operation in Philly last year—were you native?”

At first, Coldmoon didn’t understand. “I was undercover as a terrorist.”

Dudek blew a little air out from his cheeks, as if surprised Coldmoon couldn’t keep up. “I mean: were you in character as your own ethnicity?”

“Oh.” Coldmoon paused. “No. Sir.”

Dudek pushed the file toward him. It was not clear whether or not this was a gesture of dismissal.

“And will there be a briefing on the case, sir?”

“Briefing? Your role is to solve the homicide of a prominent Lakota artist. It’s straightforward. Pologna will brief you once you’ve been onboarded.” He glanced from the office door to Coldmoon and back again. “I asked you here because I wanted to have a look at you first.”

As in, like, a side of beef? That’s what Coldmoon would have said to Pendergast after such a remark. But somehow he didn’t think Dudek would appreciate it. And speaking of appreciation, he squashed a twinge of doubt about SA Pologna. He carried the Lakota principle that he would render no judgments on anyone except through direct experience.

At that moment Dudek’s phone rang again, and Coldmoon—hoisting his bags—left to find his own way to the Human Resources department.

12

December 1, 1880

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