Brimstone p-5

by Douglas Preston

  "We'll check that," said D'Agosta. "So you chitchatted with Cutforth about the weather for thirty minutes, just hours before he was murdered?"

  "I don't believe we talked about the weather, Sergeant." There was a look of triumph in Bullard's eyes. He was winning again.

  Pendergast asked, "Mr. Bullard, are you about to leave the country?"

  Bullard looked at Marchand. "Do I have to answer that?"

  Another trip to the hall. When Bullard came back, he said, "Yes."

  "Where are you going?"

  "That question falls outside the scope of the subpoena," said the lawyer. "My client wants to cooperate, but he also asks you to respect his privacy. You have already stated he is not a suspect."

  Pendergast spoke to the lawyer. "Perhaps not a suspect. But your client may be a material witness, and it would not be beyond the bounds of probability he might be asked to surrender his passport-temporarily, of course."

  D'Agosta had his eyes on Bullard's face and-even though he was expecting a change-he was startled by how dark it became. He seemed about to burst out again.

  The lawyer smiled pleasantly. "An utterly absurd statement, Mr. Pendergast. Mr. Bullard will in no way be restrained in his movements. I am surprised and consider it most improper that you have even mentioned such a possibility, which might be construed as a threat."

  Hayward cast a dark glance at Pendergast. "Mr. Pendergast-"

  Pendergast held up his hand. "Mr. Bullard, do you believe in the existence of the devil?"

  Something flickered across Bullard's face, some swift and powerful emotion, but it went by too fast for D'Agosta to get a sense of what it was. Bullard took his time leaning back in the chair, crossing his legs, smiling. "Of course not. Do you?"

  The lawyer stood up. "It seems we've reached the end of our questions, gentlemen."

  There was no contradiction. The lawyer handed around his card with smiles and handshakes. "The next time you need to communicate with Mr. Bullard," he said, "do so through me. Mr. Bullard is going abroad." He gave Pendergast a pointed smile.

  "That," said Pendergast very quietly, "remains to be seen."

  { 26 }

  Bullard and his lawyer had left, shoving their way through a second throng of shouting reporters. Pendergast had disappeared, too, leaving D'Agosta alone with Hayward. They were now lingering in the mud-colored lobby of Police Plaza. He had something he wanted to say; and so, it seemed, did she.

  "Did Bullard really threaten you, Sergeant?" she asked.

  D'Agosta hesitated.

  "Just for my own information, off the record. I'm not asking you to tell tales out of school."

  "In a way, yes." They began walking side by side toward the building's exit. Outside, the remaining news teams were grudgingly packing up. The sky in the west was smeared with red. As he walked, D'Agosta could almost feel waves of heat radiating from Hayward. She was clearly still pissed off.

  "What kind of threat?"

  "I'd rather not talk about it.” I know all about that wife of yours in Canada. The image of Chester Dominic's smooth-shaven face came unbidden to his mind. It couldn't be true. Well, on second thought, it could be true-they had been apart for a long time. The marriage was over-who was he fooling? But not Chester Dominic, with that cheesy shit-eating grin and the phony car-salesman cheer. And the polyester suits. Jesus. Anybody but him.

  D'Agosta glanced over to see Hayward looking back at him. Her face showed concern mingled with skepticism. This wasn't easy for her, he thought. Pendergast was one hell of a good FBI agent, but he was no good at teamwork. It was his way or the highway-no compromise.

  "You might have to talk about it if charges are brought."

  "Fine. But not now." He took a deep breath. "Captain Hayward, Pendergast really did have to get tough with Bullard."

  "I don't believe it. He could've gotten a subpoena, scheduled the interview on the boat, and probably gotten more information out of the guy in the process. As it is, we didn't get jack out of that interrogation."

  "We went to the boat to ask questions. I was threatened. I don't see why you think scheduling it would have been more successful."

  "Okay, you've got a point, but it turned into a pissing contest, and that's never successful."

  They passed through the doors and paused on the broad marble steps. Hayward was still mad. More fence-mending was in order.

  "You doing anything?" D'Agosta asked.

  Hayward looked at him. "I was planning on going home."

  "How about a drink? Strictly professional. I know-or at least I used to know-a place over on Church Street."

  She gazed at him for a moment, her pale face framed by glossy black hair, her eyes still flashing with residual irritation. "All right."

  D'Agosta descended the steps, Hayward by his side.

  "Pendergast's got his own methods," said D'Agosta.

  "That's exactly what I'm afraid of. Look, Sergeant-"

  "How about calling me Vinnie?"

  "Call me Laura, then. Here's what worries me: how many times has Pendergast had to testify against a perp in court?"

  "I don't know."

  "I'll tell you. Very few times. You know why?"

  "Why?"

  "Because most of his perps wind up dead. That's why."

  "That's not his fault."

  "I didn't say it was. It's just an observation. Let's say Bullard does become a suspect. This little shenanigan is going to look bad."

  They made a left at Park Row, then a right at Vesey. Ahead, D'Agosta saw the little place still there, apparently unchanged. A couple of dying ferns hung from macramé in the basement window, just the right touch to keep out other cops. He liked it for that-and for the Guinness on tap.

  "I never knew this place existed," said Hayward as they descended the steps and D'Agosta held open the door. He followed her into the cool, brew-fragrant interior. She took a table in the back and a man came up immediately.

  "Guinness," she said.

  "Two."

  D'Agosta couldn't shake the image of Dominic with his wife. It was going to drive him crazy, he realized, until he did something about it. He got up. "Back in a moment."

  He found the phone tucked into a nook in the back of the bar. It had been a long time since he used a pay phone, but this was one call he didn't want to make with his cell. He called information, got the Canadian operator, got the number, made the call. It took two trips to the bar and twenty quarters. Jesus.

  "Kootenay RV," came a nasal voice.

  "Chet Dominic there?"

  "He's gone."

  "Damn, I was supposed to meet him for an appointment, and I'm late. You got his cell?"

  "Who's this?"

  "Jack Torrance. I'm the one interested in the Itasca Sunflyer, you know, the one with the slide-out bedroom and Corian countertops? Chet's a friend from the club."

  "Oh, yes, Mr. Torrance, of course," came the suddenly fake-friendly voice. "Just a moment." She gave him the number.

  D'Agosta glanced at his watch, collected more quarters from the bar, dialed.

  "Hello?"

  It was Chester.

  "This is Dr. Morgan at the hospital. There's been a terrible accident."

  "What? Who?" The voice was instantly full of panic. D'Agosta wondered if Dominic had a wife and kids. Probably did, the scumbag.

  "I must speak to a Mrs. Lydia D'Agosta immediately."

  "Well, ah, wait-yes, yes, of course." There was a fumbling sound, a muffled voice, and then his wife's voice came on. "Yes? What is it? What's happened?"

  D'Agosta carefully depressed the hang-up bar, took a couple of deep breaths, and made his way back toward the table. Even before he got there, his cell phone was ringing. He answered.

  "Vinnie? It's Lydia. Are you all right?"

  "Sure. Why do you ask? You sound upset."

  "No, no, I'm fine. I just heard . I don't know, something about the hospital. I was worried." She was all flustered and confused.

 
"Wasn't me."

  "You know how it is, being out here like this, hearing everything secondhand . "

  "You still at work?"

  "I'm in the parking lot. Just pulling out now."

  "Right. See you." D'Agosta snapped the phone shut and reseated himself. You mean Chester Dominic was just pulling out, don't you? He felt a horrible prickly heat crawling over his skin. The Guinness had arrived, in a real imperial pint, with two inches of cream on the top. He raised it and took a long pull, then another, feeling the cool liquid loosening the tightness in his throat. He put the pint down to find Laura Hayward looking at him intently.

  "You were thirsty," she said.

  "Yeah." To hide his face, he took another pull. Who was he kidding? They'd been separated half a year now. He couldn't really blame her for that-not too much, anyway. And Vinnie Junior, his son, didn't want to move, either. Lydia wasn't a bad person at heart, but this was a low blow. A really low blow. He wondered if little Vinnie knew about it.

  "Bad news?"

  D'Agosta glanced at Hayward. "Sort of."

  "Anything I can do?"

  "No, thanks." He sat up. "I'm sorry. I'm lousy company tonight."

  "Don't worry. It's not a date."

  There was a silence, then Hayward said, "I read your two novels."

  D'Agosta felt himself reddening. This was the last conversation he wanted to have.

  "They were great. I just wanted to tell you that."

  "Thanks."

  "I loved the deadpan style. Gritty. Those books really captured what it's like to be on the job. Not like most of the phony police fiction around."

  D'Agosta nodded. "So where'd you find them? On a remainder table?"

  "I bought them when they were first published. As it happens, I've been sort of following your career."

  "Really?" D'Agosta was surprised. When they'd worked together on the subway murders years ago, he hadn't thought he'd made much of an impression on her. Not a good impression, anyway. Then again, she'd always played her cards close.

  "Really I-" She hesitated. "I was still finishing up my master's at NYU when we worked together. That was my first big case. I was ambitious as hell, and to me, just starting, you looked like just the kind of cop I wanted to be. So I was really curious when you went off to Canada to write novels. I wondered why a cop as good as you would give it up."

  "I had a lot I wanted to say-about crime, criminals, the justice system. And about people in general."

  "You said it well."

  "Not well enough."

  Her pint was empty and so was his.

  "Another round?" he asked.

  "Sure. Vinnie, I've got to tell you, I couldn't believe it when I saw you in sergeant's stripes with a Southampton P.D. badge. I thought maybe I was dealing with a twin brother."

  D'Agosta tried to muster a laugh. "Life."

  "That was some case we worked on, those subway murders."

  "Sure was. You remember the riot?"

  She shook her head. "What a sight. Like something in a movie. I still have nightmares about it sometimes."

  "I missed it. I was about half a mile underground, finishing what Captain Waxie started."

  "Old Waxie. You know, he was sucked down so deep into those tunnels they never did find his body. Probably got eaten by an alligator."

  "Or worse."

  She paused. "The force is different now, really different. Thank God-what a cast of characters we had to deal with back then, when I was just a new jack."

  "You remember McCarroll at the T.A.? They called him McCarrion because of his breath?" He chuckled.

  "Do I. I had to work for that bastard for six months. It was tough to be a woman on the T.A. force back then. I had two strikes against me: not only was I female, but I was in graduate school. Make that three strikes: I wouldn't sleep with McCarrion."

  "He made a pass at you?"

  "His idea of a pass was to get real close, breathe all over me, tell me I had a nice body, and pucker his lips."

  D'Agosta made a face. "Oh, my God. You report him?"

  "And kiss my career good-bye? He was just a harmless cretin, anyway, not worth reporting. Now the NYPD is like a different planet-totally professional. And anyway, nobody would dare pull a stunt like that on a captain."

  The second round came, and D'Agosta buried his mug in it and listened to her reminisce, telling funny stories about McCarroll and another long-gone captain, Al "Crisco" DuPrisco. It brought back a lot of memories.

  He shook his head. "Jesus, there's no better place to be a cop than in the Big Apple."

  "You said it."

  "I gotta get back on the job, Laura. I'm rotting out there in Southampton."

  She said nothing. D'Agosta looked up, his eyes meeting hers and seeing what-pity? "Sorry." He looked away. Funny how life had reversed everything. Now here she was, probably the youngest captain on the force. And he . Well, if anyone deserved success, she did .

  "Look," he said, suddenly professional again. "I really asked you for a drink because I wanted to make sure you were okay with Pendergast. I've worked with him on not just one big case, but two. Believe me, his methods may be unorthodox, but they work. You couldn't ask for a better fed on your side."

  "I appreciate your loyalty. But the fact is, he's got a cooperation problem. I went out on a limb to have that subpoena and warrant ready to go, and he embarrassed me. I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt this time, but please, Vinnie, keep the guy in line. He obviously respects you."

  "He respects you, too."

  There was a silence.

  "So how come you gave up writing?" Hayward asked, shifting the subject back to him. "I thought you had a pretty good career going."

  "Yeah, a career in bankruptcy court. I just couldn't make it. After two novels, I didn't have two nickels to rub together. Lydia-that's my wife-she couldn't take it anymore."

  "You're married?" Her eyes rapidly glanced at his hand, but his wedding ring hadn't fit for years.

  "Yeah."

  "Why am I surprised? All the good guys are taken. Here's to Lydia."

  She raised her pint. D'Agosta didn't raise his glass; instead, he said, "We're separated. She's still living in Canada."

  "I'm sorry." She lowered her pint, but she did not look very sorry. Or was it just his imagination?

  "You know that threat Bullard made against me?" D'Agosta swallowed. He wasn't sure why he was telling her this, but he suddenly felt he couldn't go another minute without getting it off his chest. "He somehow found out my wife was having an affair and told me about it. Along with a lot of other compromising personal information he dug up and threatened to make public."

  "Bastard. In that case, I'm glad Pendergast stuck it to him." She hesitated. "You want to talk about it?"

  "We are talking about it."

  "I'm sorry, Vincent. That's tough. Is the marriage worth saving?"

  "It was over half a year ago. We've just been in denial stage."

  "Kids?"

  "One. Lives with his mom. Going to college next year on scholarship. Great kid."

  "How long were you married?"

  "Twenty-five years. Married right out of high school."

  "God. You sure there isn't something there worth holding on to?"

  "Some good memories. But nothing now. It's over."

  "Well then, Bullard just did you a favor." She extended her hand and laid it on his, comfortingly.

  D'Agosta looked at her. She was right: in a way, Bullard had done him a favor. Maybe a really big favor.

  { 27 }

  Midnight. The boat was still in its slip, the crew aboard, everything ready for a departure at first light. Bullard stood on deck, breathing the night air, looking across the bay toward Staten Island. There was one last thing he had to take care of before weighing anchor. He had made two serious mistakes, and they had to be corrected. The first was impulsively hiring those goons to cap D'Agosta. Damn stupid thing: he knew better than that. If you were goi
ng to kill a cop, you had to do it right. The bastard had mouthed off with a few empty threats, and in his nervous state he'd allowed himself to be spooked. Christ, he was jumpy these days. He wasn't thinking clearly. The fact was, that fat fuck was not his real enemy. He was just a gumshoe. The real enemy was the FBI agent, Pendergast. That man was dangerous as an adder: coiled up, cool, smooth, ready to strike. Pendergast played for keeps, and he was the brains in that team. Kill the brain and the body will die. Get Pendergast and the investigation would go away.

  The same rule about cops was even truer for FBI agents. You didn't kill them unless there was no other way. It almost never made things better. But there were exceptions to every rule, and this was one of them. Bullard could allow nothing-nothing-to interfere with what he had to do.

  He went below decks. All was quiet. He slipped into a soundproofed room, locked the door behind him, checked his watch. Still a few minutes. He pressed a few buttons, and a videoconferencing screen came to life. Pendergast had made off with one CPU and some of his files, but all his computers were networked, their business-related data folders encrypted. He used public encryption with 2,048-bit keys, unbreakable even by the most powerful computers in the world. He wasn't worried about what Pendergast might find. He was worried about the man himself.

  He pressed a few more keys, and a dim face appeared on the screen. It was a face as smooth and tight as a drum, so thin it looked as if the wet skin had been stretched over the bones and allowed to dry. His head was shaved so smooth there wasn't even a five o'clock shadow on the scalp. It gave Bullard the creeps. But the man was good. More than good: he was the best there was. He called himself Vasquez.

  The man said nothing, offered no greeting, just stared, hands folded, his face expressionless. Bullard eased back in his chair, smiled, although the smile made no difference. The image Vasquez was seeing on-screen was the computer-generated face of a nonexistent person.

  Bullard spoke. "The target is Pendergast, first name unknown. Special Agent with the FBI. Lives at 891 Riverside Drive. I want two in the brainpan. I'll give you a million per bullet."