Douglas Preston - Brimstone

"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 Postpress 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 wasting 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.