Brimstone

by Douglas Preston

  Bullard recovered immediately, his face reddening, the veins pulsing in his neck. Surprise gave way to ill-concealed rage. He raised the cigar to his thick lips, sucked in a lungful, exhaled. "So. The sorry fuck brought backup."

  "Keep your hands in view," Pendergast warned as he advanced, gun aimed.

  Bullard spread his hands. "Here's a scene for your next novel, D'Agosta. Bet you never saw anything like this boat in that slum you grew up in on Carmine Street, with a cheap, poolroom-hustling cop for a father and a mother who—"

  D'Agosta rushed at the man but Pendergast was even quicker, interposing himself with lightning speed. "Sergeant, don't give him what he wants."

  D'Agosta took a strangled breath. He could hardly breathe.

  "Come on," Bullard sneered. "Let's see if there's anything at all hanging under that belly of yours. I'm sixty, and I could take your fat ass with one hand."

  Pendergast held D'Agosta's gaze, shaking his head slowly. D'Agosta swallowed, stepped back.

  Pendergast turned and fastened his silvery eyes on Bullard.

  "And look at this, an undertaker playing FBI. White trash from the Deep South. Very white, it seems."

  "At your service," Pendergast said quietly.

  Bullard laughed and swelled like a black mamba, stretching the fabric of the warm-up suit. He still had his cigar tucked between two huge spatulate fingers, and now he stoppered the laugh by inserting it between his lips again and blowing a cloud of smoke in their direction.

  Pendergast dropped the fax on an ebony table. Then he pointed to a large lacquered panel in the far wall. "Sergeant, open that panel, please."

  "Just one goddamn minute, you need a warrant—"

  Pendergast pointed a slender finger at the fax. "Read."

  "I want my lawyer."

  "First, we will secure the premises and obtain the evidence outlined in the warrant. One misstep will mean cuffs and an obstruction-of-justice charge. Is there anyone else on the boat with you?"

  "Fuck you."

  D'Agosta went to the panel that Pendergast pointed to, pressed the lone button. The panel slid back to reveal a wall of electronics, a monitor, and a keyboard.

  "Seize the CPU."

  D'Agosta pushed the monitor to one side, followed its cabling, and found the box tucked into a niche beneath.

  "Don't you touch my computer."

  Pendergast nodded toward the table. "It's listed in the warrant, Mr. Bullard."

  D'Agosta yanked the cabling free with a satisfying jerk and hauled out the CPU. He dug into his pocket, pasted evidence labels over the drive bays and the plugs for the mouse and keyboard, set down the box, crossed his arms.

  "Are you armed?" Pendergast asked Bullard.

  "Of course not."

  Pendergast tucked his Les Baer back into his suit. "All right," he said, voice low and suddenly pleasant, the southern accent rising like cream. "In addition to the warrant, there's a subpoena, Mr. Bullard, which I suggest you read."

  "I want my lawyer."

  "Naturally. We're going to take you to One Police Plaza and question you under oath. You may have a lawyer present at that time."

  "I'm calling my lawyer now."

  "You will remain in the center of the room with your hands in view at all times. You do not have a right to call a lawyer just because you feel like it. When appropriate, you will be permitted to call."

  "My ass. You have no jurisdiction. I'll pull your badge and eat you for lunch, you albino prick. You have no idea who you're dealing with."

  "I am sure your lawyer would advise you to dispense with the small talk."

  "I'm not going to One Police Plaza."

  Pendergast unclipped his police radio. "Manhattan South? To whom am I speaking, please? Shirley? This is Special Agent Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm at the East Cove Yacht Harbor, on the yacht of Mr. Locke Bullard—"

  "You shut that radio off right now."

  Pendergast's smooth voice continued. "That's right, Locke Bullard, on his yacht, the Stormcloud. We're taking him in for questioning in the Grove and Cutforth murder investigations."

  D'Agosta watched Bullard go white. No doubt he knew that every news organization in New York monitored the police frequencies.

  "No, he's not a suspect. I repeat: not a suspect."

  The very emphasis Pendergast placed on the word had the curious effect of giving precisely the opposite impression.

  Bullard glowered at them from beneath his beetled, Cro-Magnon brow, swallowed, made an effort to seem reasonable. "Look, Pendergast, there's no reason to play tough cop."

  "Shirley, we're going to need backup, crowd control, and a squad car with escort to take Mr. Bullard downtown. That's right. Three should do it. On second thought, make it four. We're dealing with a well-known personality. It's likely to get busy."

  Pendergast slipped the radio back into his suit, removed his cell phone, and tossed it to Bullard. "Now you may call your lawyer. One Police Plaza, interrogation section, basement floor, in forty minutes. We'll supply the coffee."

  "You prick." Bullard dialed, spoke in low tones. When he was done, he handed the phone back to Pendergast.

  "I imagine he just told you what I already advised: to keep your mouth firmly closed." Pendergast smiled.

  Bullard said nothing.

  Now Pendergast began poking around the grand salon, in a desultory kind of way, peeking here and there, admiring the sporting prints on the walls. It was almost as if he was killing time.

  "Are we going?" Bullard finally burst out.

  "He's talking again," said D'Agosta.

  Pendergast nodded absently. "It seems our Mr. Bullard is a man who doesn't listen to his minders."

  Bullard fell silent, his body shaking with malevolence.

  "I think we need more time in here, Sergeant. Just to check things over, you understand."

  "Right." Though he was still steaming, D'Agosta found he had to conceal a smile. Now he realized what Pendergast was up to.

  Pendergast continued strolling about the room, adjusting a newspaper here, looking at a framed lithograph there. Ten more minutes passed as Bullard grew increasingly restive. Now D'Agosta began to hear faint sirens, the distant squawk of a bullhorn. Pendergast picked up a copy of Fortune, flipped through it, laid it back down. He checked his watch. "Do you see anything of interest I might have missed, Sergeant D'Agosta?"

  "Have you checked the photo album?"

  "An excellent idea." Pendergast opened the album, flipped through it. At a couple of pages, his hand paused and an intent look came into his face. He seemed to be memorizing faces; at least, it seemed so to D'Agosta.

  He shut it with a sigh. "Shall we, Mr. Bullard?"

  The man turned and shrugged into a windbreaker, his face dark. Pendergast led the way, followed by Bullard. D'Agosta brought up the rear, battering ram over his shoulder. As they stepped out of the hatch onto the dock, the crowd noise increased dramatically. There was shouting, the whoops of police sirens, the megaphoned voice of an official. Beyond the gates, photographers were jockeying for position. The police were struggling to clear a lane for their vehicles to pass.

  Seeing this, Bullard stopped short. "You bastard." He almost spat the words at Pendergast. "You delayed deliberately, letting this build."

  "Why hide your light under a bushel, Mr. Bullard?"

  "Yeah," said D'Agosta. "And you're going to look great on the cover of the Daily News with your windbreaker draped over your head."

  { 24 }

  Bryce Harriman headed back uptown behind the wheel of a Post press vehicle. The scene at the lower Manhattan marina had been a disaster. Except for a few rubberneckers, it was New York City press at their finest—swearing, pushing, shoving. It reminded Harriman of the running of the bulls at Pamplona. What a waste of time. Nobody had answered questions, nobody knew anything, nothing but chaos and shouting. He should have gone straight back to his office to write up the scene of Cutforth's murder rather than wa
sting time chasing this radio call.

  Ahead, the traffic coming in from West Street began to bunch up. He cursed, leaned on his horn. He should've taken the subway. At this rate, he wouldn't reach the office until after five, and he had to file by ten to make the morning edition.

  He wrote and rewrote the lead, tearing it up again and again in his head. He thought back to the mob scene in front of Cutforth's apartment building earlier that afternoon. Those were the people he was writing for: people desperate for the story, hungry for it. And he had an open field, with Smithback gone and the Times treating the story as a kind of local embarrassment.

  Cutforth's murder would be good for one headline, maybe two. But still, he was bound by the whim of the murderer, and there was no way of telling when—or if—the murderer would strike again. He had to have something new.

  The traffic parted slightly and he switched lanes, flipping a bird at the blaring horn behind him, switched back, risking his life and those of half a dozen others to get one car length ahead. Flipped another bird. People were such assholes…

  …And then it came to him. The fresh angle. What he needed was an expert to explain, to put it all in perspective. But who? Just as quickly the answer, the second stroke of genius, came as well.

  He picked up his cell, dialed his office. "Iris, what's up?"

  "What's up yourself?" his assistant retorted. "I've been as busy as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest answering the phones around here."

  Harriman winced at the jokey, familiar tone she had taken with him. He was supposed to be the boss, not the secretary in the next cubicle.

  "You want your messages?" she asked.

  "No. Listen, I want you to get a hold of somebody for me, that researcher into the paranormal, what's his name, Monk, or Munch, something German. He had that Discovery Channel special on exorcism, remember? Yes, that's the one. No, I don’t care how long it takes. Just get him for me."

  He punched the call off and tossed the phone on the passenger seat, sat back, and smiled, letting the cacophony of honks, toots, and beeps that surrounded his car wash over him like a symphony.

  { 25 }

  D'Agosta had to admire the genius that went into maintaining the interrogation section of One Police Plaza. It was perhaps the last place you could smoke in New York City without being arrested, and as a result, the painted cinder-block walls sported a tarry, brownish sheen. They made a point of keeping them grimy. The air was so dead and stale it felt like there must be a corpse hidden somewhere. And the linoleum floor was so old it could have been peeled up and put in a glass case in the Smithsonian.

  D'Agosta felt a certain satisfaction in the surroundings. Locke Bullard, still dressed in blue warm-ups and deck shoes, sat in a chair at the greasy metal table, his eyes bloodshot with anger. Pendergast sat across from him, and D'Agosta stood behind, near the door. The civilian interrogations administrator—a mandatory presence these days—stood by the video camera, sucking in his belly and trying to look officious. They were all waiting on Bullard's lawyer, stuck somewhere in the traffic of their own making.

  The door opened and Captain Hayward stepped in. As she did so, D'Agosta felt the temperature in the room go down by about twenty degrees. She fastened cold eyes on Pendergast, then on D'Agosta, and motioned them to follow her into the hall.

  She led the way to a disused office, ushered them in, closed the door. "Whose idea was the media circus?" she demanded.

  "Unfortunately it was the only way," Pendergast answered.

  "Don't give me that. This was staged, and you were both producer and director. There must be fifty press outside, every last one following you over from the marina. This is exactly what I didn't want to happen, the kind of hullabaloo I warned you against creating."

  Pendergast spoke calmly. "Captain, I can assure you that Bullard left us no choice. For a moment, I thought I would have to handcuff him."

  "You should've scheduled a meeting on the boat with his lawyer, so he wouldn't feel ambushed and defensive."

  "There's a good chance that more advance warning would have caused him to flee the country."

  Hayward expelled an irritated stream of air. "I'm a captain of detectives in the New York City police force. This is my case. Bullard's not a suspect and will not be treated as such." She swiveled to face D'Agosta. "You're going to manage the questioning, Sergeant. I want Special Agent Pendergast to remain well in the background with his mouth shut. He's caused enough trouble as it is."

  "As you wish," Pendergast said politely to Hayward's turned back.

  When they stepped back into the interrogation room, Bullard rose to his feet, pointing to Pendergast. "You're going to pay for this, both you and your fat fuck gofer here."

  "Did you get that on videotape?" Hayward calmly asked the civilian administrator.

  "Yes, ma'am. Tape's been rolling since he arrived."

  She nodded. Bullard's pupils were pinpoints of hatred.

  Silence fell, broken at last by a knock at the door.

  "Come in," Hayward called.

  The door opened, and a uniformed policeman admitted a man dressed in a charcoal suit. He had short-cropped gray hair, gray eyes, and a pleasant, friendly face. D'Agosta noticed the glint of a half-hidden cross beneath the officer's blue shirt as he turned and closed the door. Hayward may not believe in the devil, he thought, but not all her minions have gotten the message.

  "Finally!" Bullard roared out, staring at the lawyer. "Jesus Christ, George, I called you forty minutes ago. Get me the hell out of here."

  The lawyer, unruffled, greeted Bullard as if they were all at a cocktail party. Then he turned and shook Pendergast's hand. "George Marchand of Marchand & Quisling. I represent Mr. Bullard." His voice was almost musical in its pleasantness, but his eyes lingered first over Hayward's badge, then D'Agosta's.

  "This is my colleague Sergeant D'Agosta."

  "How do you do?"

  There was a silence as Marchand turned his cool eyes around the room. "The subpoena?"

  Pendergast slipped a copy from his black suit and handed it to the lawyer. The man scrutinized it.

  "That's your copy," said Hayward. Her voice was deadpan, neutral.

  "Thank you. May I ask why this questioning could not be done at Mr. Bullard's convenience in his offices or on his yacht?" He addressed the question in general, to all of them. Hayward nodded toward D'Agosta.

  "On an earlier occasion at Mr. Bullard's club, he refused to answer questions. On this particular occasion, he threatened me with what I think a reasonable person might consider implied blackmail. He gave every sign of imminent departure from the country. His information is crucial in our investigation."

  "Is he a suspect?"

  "No. But he's an important witness."

  "I see. And this implied threat of blackmail—what's that all about?"

  "It's a goddamned—," Bullard began.

  The lawyer cut Bullard off with a wave of his hand.

  "The threat was made in my presence," Pendergast spoke up. "Mr. Bullard made a second threat, just before you arrived, for the benefit of the video recorder."

  "You're a damned liar—"

  "Not one more word, Mr. Bullard. I believe you've said more than enough as it is."

  "For Christ's sake, George, these men are—"

  "Quiet." The lawyer spoke pleasantly, but there was a curious emphasis in his tone.

  Bullard fell silent.

  "My client," the lawyer said, "is anxious to cooperate. Here's how it will work. First, you will ask the question. Then, if necessary, I will confer privately with my client in the hall. And then he will give his response. Agreed?"

  "Agreed," said Hayward. "Swear him in."

  They went through the process, the civilian administrator presiding, Bullard grunting his responses. At the conclusion, he turned again to his lawyer. "Damn it, George, you're supposed to be on my side!"

  "My client and I need to confer privately."

  Marchand to
ok Bullard out into the hallway. A minute later they were back.

  "First question," the lawyer said.

  D'Agosta stepped forward, glanced down at his notes, and droned out, in his most stolid cop voice: "Mr. Bullard, on October 16, 2:02 A.M., Jeremy Grove called you. You spoke with him for forty-two minutes. What did you talk about? Start at the beginning and proceed through the call."

  "I already—" He stopped when Marchand laid a firm hand on his shoulder. They went out into the hall again.

  "You're not going to let him do this with every question, are you?" D'Agosta asked.

  "Yes, I am," said Hayward. "He has a right to a lawyer."

  The two men returned. "Grove called me to chat," Bullard said. "A social call."

  "That late?"

  Bullard looked at his lawyer and the lawyer nodded.

  "Yes."

  "What did you chat about?"

  "Just like I told you before. Pleasantries. How he was doing, how I was doing, how the family was doing, how the dog was doing, that sort of thing."

  "What else?"

  "I don't recall."

  Silence. "Mr. Bullard. You talked for forty-two minutes about your dogs, then within hours Grove is murdered."

  "That wasn't a question," said the lawyer crisply. "Next."

  D'Agosta found Hayward's rather penetrating gaze on him. He turned the page.

  "Where were you during this call?"

  "On my yacht. Cruising the sound."

  "How many crew were on board with you?"

  "I went out without a crew. The yacht's computerized, I do it all the time."

  There was a brief but significant silence.

  "How did you meet Grove?"

  "I don't recall."

  "Was he a close friend?"

  "No."

  "Did you have any business dealings with him?"

  "No."

  "When was the last time you saw him?"

  "I don't recall."

  "So why would he call you then?"

  "You'll have to ask him."

  This was bullshit. It was the same runaround as before. D'Agosta moved on to the next call.

  "On October 22, at 7:54 P.M., Nigel Cutforth placed a call to your home number. Did you take the call?"