Still Life With Crows by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

bun?”
    “No bun, thank you.”
    Maisie nodded, turned, and then—with a single backward glance—took the plate and disappeared into the kitchen. Ludwig watched her depart, waited a beat, and then made his move. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his coffee and strolled over, pausing in front of the FBI agent. The man looked up and fixed Ludwig with a long, cool gaze from a pair of extremely pale eyes.
    Ludwig stuck out his hand. “Smit Ludwig. Editor of the Cry County Courier. ”
    “Mr. Ludwig,” said the man, shaking the proffered hand. “My name is Pendergast. Do sit down. You were at the press conference early this morning. I must say you asked some rather insightful questions.”
    Ludwig flushed at the unexpected praise and eased his creaky and not exactly youthful frame into the banquette opposite.
    Maisie reappeared in the swinging kitchen door. In one hand, she carried a plate mounded with freshly ground sirloin, in the other, a second plate with the rest of the ingredients, and an egg in an egg cup. She set both plates before Pendergast.
    “Anything else?” she asked. She looked stricken—and who wouldn’t be, Ludwig thought, running a decent sirloin like that through a meat grinder?
    “That will be all, thank you very much.”
    “We aim to please.” Maisie attempted a smile, but Ludwig could see she was thoroughly defeated. This was something utterly foreign to her experience.
    Ludwig—and the entire diner—watched as Pendergast sprinkled the garlic over the raw meat, added salt and pepper, cracked the raw egg on top, and carefully folded the ingredients together. Then he molded it with his fork into a pleasing mound, sprinkled parsley on top, and sat back to contemplate his work.
    Suddenly, Ludwig understood. “Steak tartare?” he asked, nodding toward the plate.
    “Yes, it is.”
    “I saw somebody make that on the Food Network. How is it?”
    Pendergast delicately lifted a portion to his mouth, chewed with half-closed eyes. “All that is lacking is a ’97 Léoville Poyferré.”
    “You really should try the meatloaf,” Ludwig replied, lowering his voice. “Maisie has her strengths and weaknesses: the meatloaf is one of her strengths. It’s damn good, in fact.”
    “I shall take it under consideration.”
    “Where are you from, Mr. Pendergast? Can’t quite place the accent.”
    “New Orleans.”
    “What a coincidence! I went there for Mardi Gras once.”
    “How nice for you. I myself have never attended.”
    Ludwig paused, the smile frozen on his face, wondering how to steer the conversation onto a more pertinent topic. Around him, the low murmur of conversation had picked up once again.
    “This killing’s really shaken us up,” he said, lowering his voice still further. “Nothing like this has ever happened in sleepy little Medicine Creek before.”
    “The case has its atypical aspects.”
    It appeared Pendergast wasn’t biting. Ludwig knocked back his coffee cup, then raised it above his head. “Maisie! Another!”
    Maisie came over with the pot and an extra cup. “You need to learn some manners, Smit Ludwig,” she said, refilling his cup and pouring one for Pendergast as well. “You wouldn’t yell for your mother that way.”
    Ludwig grinned. “Maisie’s been teaching me manners these past twenty years.”
    “It’s a lost cause,” said Maisie, turning away.
    Small talk had failed. Ludwig decided to try the direct approach. He removed a steno notebook from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Got time for a few questions?”
    Pendergast paused, a forkful of raw meat halfway to his mouth. “Sheriff Hazen would prefer that I not speak to the press.”
    Ludwig lowered his voice. “I need something for tomorrow’s paper. The townspeople are hurting. They’re frightened. They’ve got a right to know. Please. ”
    He stopped, surprising even himself at the depth of feeling in his comments. The FBI agent’s eyes held his own in a gaze that seemed to last for