Douglas Preston: Brimstone

"I'll be going-"

"No, you won't." The sergeant took out his notebook, flipped back a wad of pages, licked his pencil. "You live around here?"

"I've taken a house in Amagansett for a week."

"Address?"

"The Brickman House, Windmill Lane."

Another rich asshole. "And your permanent address?"

"That would be the Dakota, Central Park West."

The sergeant paused. Now, that's a coincidence. Aloud, he said, "Name?"

"Look, Sergeant, honestly, if it's a problem, I'll just go on back-"

"Your first name,sir ?" he said more sharply.

"Is that really necessary? It's difficult to spell, even more difficult to pronounce. I often wonder what my mother was thinking-"

The sergeant gave him a look that shut him up quick. One more quip from this asshole, and it would be the cuffs.

"Let's try again. First name?"

"Aloysius."

"Spell it."

The man spelled it.

"Last?"

"Pendergast."

The pencil in the sergeant's hand began writing this down, too. Then it paused. Slowly the sergeant looked up. The Oakleys had come off, and he found himself staring into that face he knew so well, with the blond-white hair, gray eyes, finely chiseled features, skin as pale and translucent as Carrara marble.

"Pendergast?"

"In the very flesh, my dear Vincent." The New York accent was gone, replaced by the cultured southern drawl he remembered vividly.

"What are you doing here?"

"The same might be asked of you."

Vincent D'Agosta felt himself coloring. The last time he had seen Pendergast he had been a proud New York City police lieutenant. And now here he was in Shithampton, a lowly sergeant decorating hedges with police tape.

"I was in Amagansett when the news arrived that Jeremy Grove had met an untimely end. How could I resist? I apologize for the outfit, but I was hard-pressed to get here as soon as possible."

"You're on the case?"

"Until I'm officially assigned to the case, I can do nothing but feed the ducks. I worked on my last case without full authorization, and it, shall we say, strained some high-level nerves. I must say, Vincent, running into you is a most welcome surprise."

"For me, too," said D'Agosta, coloring again. "Sorry, I'm really not at my best here-"

Pendergast laid a hand on his arm. "We shall have plenty of time to talk later. For now, I see a large individual approaching who appears to be suffering from emphraxis."

A low-pitched, menacing voice intruded from behind. "I hate to break up this little conversation." D'Agosta turned to see Lieutenant Braskie.

Braskie stopped, stared at Pendergast, then turned back to D'Agosta. "Perhaps I'm a little confused here, Sergeant, but isn't this individual trespassing at the scene of a crime ?"

"Well, uh, Lieutenant, we were-" D'Agosta looked at Pendergast.

"This man isn't a friend of yours, now, is he?"

"As a matter of fact-"

"The sergeant was just telling me to leave," interjected Pendergast smoothly.

"Oh, he was, was he? And if I may be so bold as to inquire what you were doing here in the first place, sir?"

"Feeding the ducks."

"Feeding the ducks." D'Agosta could see Braskie's face flushing. He wished Pendergast would hurry up and pull out his shield.

"Well, sir," Braskie went on, "that's a beautiful thing to do. Let's see some ID."

D'Agosta waited smugly. This was going to be good.

"As I was just explaining to the officer here, I left my wallet back at the house-"

Braskie turned on D'Agosta, saw the notebook in his hand. "You got this man's information?"

"Yes." D'Agosta looked at Pendergast almost pleadingly, but the FBI agent's face had shut down completely.

"Did you ask him how he got through the police cordon?"

"No-"

"Don't you think maybe you should?"

"I came through the side gate in Little Dune Road," Pendergast said.

"Not possible. It's locked. I checked it myself."

"Perhaps the lock is defective. At least, it seemed to fall open in my hands."

Braskie turned to D'Agosta. "Now, at last, there's something useful you can do. Go plug that hole, Sergeant. And report back to me at eleven o'clock sharp . We need to talk. And as for you, sir, I will escort you off the premises."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

D'Agosta looked with dismay at the retreating form of Lieutenant Braskie, with Pendergast strolling along behind him, hands in the pockets of his baggy surfer shorts, head tilted back as if taking the air.

{ 3 }

Lieutenant L. P. Braskie Jr. of the Southampton Police Department stood beneath the trellis of the mansion's grape arbor, watching the SOC team comb the endless acreage of lawn for clues. His face wore a stolid mask of professionalism as he thought of Chief MacCready playing golf in the Highlands of Scotland. He pictured in his mind the links of St. Andrews in autumn: the narrow doglegs of greensward, the grim castle, the barren moors beyond. He'd wait until tomorrow to give the chief a call, let him know what was going on. MacCready had been chief for twenty years, and this golf trip was one more reason why Southampton needed fresh blood. Braskie was a local boy with roots in the town and friends in City Hall, and he'd also managed to build up some powerful relationships among the summer people. A favor here and a favor there worked wonders. A foot in both worlds. He'd played his cards well.

And now this. They'd have the perp in the bag in a week or two, and come November and the elections, he'd be a shoo-in. Maybe he'd call MacCready the day after tomorrow: Gee, Chief, I really hesitated to interrupt your hard-earned vacation . ...

Braskie knew, from long experience in South Fork homicide, that the first twenty-four hours of a murder investigation were often the most crucial. Fact was, if you didn't get on the trail and follow it right away, you might as well hang up your hat. Find ingress and egress, and everything that followed-forensic evidence, murder weapon, witnesses, motive-would form a chain leading to the perp. Braskie's job wasn't to do the work himself but to make sure everyone else did theirs. And there was little question in his mind that the weak link in this chain was Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta. He didn't do what he was told. He knew better. Story was, D'Agosta had once been a homicide lieutenant himself in the NYPD, and a good one. Quit to write mystery novels, moved to Canada, went broke, and had to come back with his tail tucked firmly between his butt cheeks. Couldn't get a job in the city and ended up out here. If Braskie were chief, he'd never have hired someone like that in the first place-the guy might know his stuff, but he was guaranteed trouble. Not a team player. Had a chip on his shoulder the size of Manhattan.

Braskie checked his watch. Eleven o'clock, and speak of the devil. He watched D'Agosta approach the trellis-a real type, fringe of black hair hanging over his collar, growing gut, attitude oozing from his pores like B.O. Here in Southampton, he stuck out like a bunion. No great surprise the man's wife had decided to stay behind in Canada with their only kid.

"Sir," said D'Agosta, able to make even that single word a trifle insolent.

Braskie shifted his gaze back to the SOC team combing the lawn. "We've got an important case here, Sergeant."

The man nodded.

Braskie narrowed his eyes, looked toward the mansion, toward the sea. "We don't have the luxury of screwing it up."

"No, sir."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. I have to tell you, D'Agosta, that ever since you came on the force, you've made it pretty clear that Southampton isn't where you want to be."

D'Agosta said nothing.

He sighed and looked straight at D'Agosta, only to find the pugnacious face staring back at him. His "go ahead, make my day" face. "Sergeant D'Agosta, do I really need to spell it out? You're here . You're a sergeant in the Southampton Police Department. Get over it."