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 going 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."
"I require full payment in advance," Vasquez said.
"What if you fail?"
"I don't."
"Bullshit. Everyone fails."
"The day I fail is the day I die. Now, do you agree?"
Bullard hesitated. Still, if you were going to do something, do it right.
"Very well," he said curtly. "But time is of the essence here." If Vasquez screwed him, there were other Vasquezes out there, willing to finish the job and reduce the competition; two killings wouldn't cost much more than one.
Vasquez held up a piece of paper with a number on it. He waited a moment, giving Bullard time to jot it down. "When the two million shows up in this account, I will undertake the assignment. We need never speak again."
The screen went black. Bullard realized Vasquez must have cut the transmission. He wasn't used to people hanging up on him. He felt a momentary irritation, then took a deep breath. He had worked with artists before, and they were all cut from the same cloth: egotistical, flamboyant, greedy.
And Vasquez was the best kind of artist: the kind that truly loved his work.
{ 28 }
D'Agosta pulled his Ford Taurus up to the iron gates, then stopped, wondering if he might have gotten the directions wrong. He was at least an hour late-the paperwork from the previous day's blowup with Bullard had taken all morning. Cops these days couldn't fire their gun, couldn't question a suspect, couldn't even break wind without having to fill out reports after the fact.
The rusty gates hung open, as if abandoned, mounted on two crumbling stone pillars. The graveled drive beyond was carpeted with sprouting ragweed well over a foot high, recently smashed down by the passage of a vehicle. But no, this had to be the place: a stone plaque mortared into one of the pillars bore the name, abraded by time and weather but still legible: Ravenscry.