Jennings watched as the man stepped forward and slowly, painfully sat down. Pendergast, Pendergast… The name rang a bell — he wasn’t sure why. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk and crossing his capacious forearms. “Pleasant day,” he observed.

The man named Pendergast did not directly acknowledge this pleasantry.

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “Now, just what can I do for you, Mr. Pendergast?”

In reply, Pendergast plucked a small leather wallet from his suit jacket, opened it, and placed it on the desk.

Jennings peered at it. “FBI. Is this, ah, official business of some sort?”

“No.” The voice was faint, yet melodious, with mellow accents of New Orleans gentry. “It is a personal matter.” And yet the FBI shield lay there on the desk, like some charm or totem.

“I see.” Jennings waited.

“I’m here about an exhumation.”

“I see,” Jennings repeated. “Is this in reference to an exhumation that has already been completed or a request in process?”

“A new exhumation order.”

Jennings removed his elbows from the desk, sat back, took off his glasses, and began to polish them with the fat end of his polyester tie. “Just who is it you would like exhumed?”

“My wife. Helen Esterhazy Pendergast.”

The polishing stopped for a moment. Then it resumed at a slower pace. “And you say this is not a question of a court order? A police request to determine cause of death?”

Pendergast shook his head. “As I said, it’s personal.”

Jennings raised a hand to his mouth and coughed politely. “You must understand, Mr. Pendergast, that these things have to be done through proper channels. There are rules in place, and they have been enacted with good reason. Exhumation of interred remains is not an act to be taken lightly.”

When Pendergast said nothing, Jennings, encouraged by the sound of his own voice, went on. “If we’re not dealing with a court order or some other officially sanctioned request — such as a forensic autopsy due to suspicions about cause of death — there is really only one circumstance under which an application for exhumation can be approved—”

“If the family of the deceased wishes to move the remains to another burial spot,” Pendergast finished.

“Well, ah, yes, that is it precisely,” Jennings said. The interjection had caught him off guard, and he struggled for a moment to find his rhythm again. “Is that the case?”

“It is.”

“Well then, I think we can get the application process started.” He turned to a filing cabinet that stood beside the bookcase, opened a drawer, pulled out a form, and placed it on his desk blotter. He examined it for a moment. “You realize there are certain, ah, prerequisites. For example, we would need a copy of the death certificate of… of your late wife.”

Reaching into his jacket again, Pendergast produced a folded piece of paper, unfolded it, and placed it on the desk beside his shield.

Leaning forward, Jennings examined it. “Ah. Very good. But what is this? I see the originating cemetery is Saint-Savin. That’s clear on the other side of the parish. I’m afraid you’ll have to take this request over to the west parish office.”

He found the silvery eyes staring into his. “You also have jurisdiction — technically speaking.”

“Yes, but as a matter of protocol, Saint-Savin is handled only through the west parish branch.”

“I picked you, Mr. Jennings, for a very particular reason. Only you can do this for me — no one else.”

“I’m flattered, I’m sure.” Jennings felt a flush of pleasure at the declaration of confidence. “I suppose we could make an exception. Moving on, then, to the matter of the application fee…”

Once again, the pale, slender hand disappeared into the suit jacket. Once again, it reappeared, this time with a check, dated and signed, made out in the correct amount.

“Well, well,” Jennings said, looking at it. “And then there is the form of consent, naturally, from the management of the cemetery where the remains are currently interred.”

Another form was produced and laid on the desk.

“And the form of consent from the cemetery to which the body is being transferred.”

Still another form was placed, slowly and deliberately, on the polished wood.

Jennings stared at the row of paper in front of him. “Well, aren’t we organized today!” He attempted a smile but was discouraged by the grim look on the man’s face. “I, ah, believe that is everything we need. Oh — except the form from the transport company in charge of moving the remains from the old burial site to the new.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Jennings.”

Jennings blinked in surprise at the apparition on the far side of his desk. “I don’t quite understand.”

“If you take a closer look at the two forms of consent, I think all will become clear.”

Jennings put his glasses back on his nose and peered at the two documents for a moment. Then he looked up quickly. “But these cemeteries are one and the same!”

“That is correct. So as you can see, there will be no need for transportation. Cemetery management will be in charge of transferring the body.”

“Is there something wrong with the current burial spot of the deceased?”

“The current spot is fine. I chose it myself.”

“Is it a question of new construction? Must the body be moved because of changes being done at the cemetery?”

“I selected Saint-Savin Cemetery specifically because nothing will ever change there — and no new families are being accepted for burial.”

Jennings leaned forward slightly. “Then may I ask why are you moving the body?”

“Because, Mr. Jennings, moving the body is the only way I can get temporary access to it.”

Jennings licked his lips. “Access?”

“A medical examiner will be standing by, fully licensed and accredited by the State of Louisiana, during the exhumation. An examination of the remains will be performed in a mobile forensic lab, parked on cemetery grounds. Then the body will be reburied — in a grave directly adjoining the one in which it had previously lain, within the Pendergast family plot. It is all spelled out in the application.”

“Examination?” Jennings said. “Is this related to some sort of… question of inheritance?”

“No. It’s strictly a private matter.”

“This is irregular, Mr. Pendergast — most irregular. I can’t say I’ve ever had such a request before. I’m sorry, but this is not something I can approve. You’ll have to go through the courts.”

Pendergast regarded him for a moment. “Is that your final word on the subject?”

“The guidelines on exhumations are quite clear. I can do nothing.” Jennings spread his hands.

“I see.” Pendergast picked up the shield and replaced it in his suit jacket. He left the paperwork where it was. “Would you mind coming with me for a moment?”

“But where—?”

“It will only take a minute.”

Reluctantly, Jennings rose out of his seat.

“I wish to show you,” Pendergast said, “why I chose you in particular for this request.”

They walked through the outer office, down the main corridor of the public building, and out the main entrance. Pendergast stopped on the wide front steps.

Jennings looked around at the bustling thoroughfare. “Like I said, pleasant day,” he observed with excessive cheer, trying to make small talk.

“Pleasant day indeed,” came the reply.

“That’s what I love about this part of Louisiana. The sun just seems to shine more brightly than anywhere else.”

“Yes. It lends a curious gilding effect to everything it touches. Take that plaque, for instance.” And Pendergast gestured toward an old brass plaque that had been set into the brick façade of the building.

Jennings peered at the plaque. He passed it every morning, of course, on the way to his office, but it had been many years since he had bothered to examine it.