Douglas Preston - Brimstone

D'Agosta ordered for them, and Hayward was once again impressed with his self-assurance, which she hadn't expected, especially in a place like this.

"Where'd you learn so much about haute cuisine?" she asked.

"Are you kidding?" D'Agosta grinned. "I recognized about half the words on the menu. I was just winging it."

"Well, you could have fooled me."

"Maybe it's all the time I'm spending with Pendergast. He's rubbing off on me."

She nudged him. "Isn't that Michael Douglas in the corner?"

He turned. "So it is." Turned back, unimpressed.

She nodded. "And look who's over there." A woman sat in a quiet corner by herself, eating a plate of french fries, dipping each one in a large dish of ketchup and pushing them into her mouth with evident satisfaction.

D'Agosta stared. "She kinda looks familiar. Who is she?"

"You been living under a rock? Madonna."

"Really? Must've dyed her hair or something."

"This would make a great scene in a novel. Maybe your next."

"There won't be a next."

"Why not? I loved those two books you wrote. You've got real talent."

He shook his head. "Talent-maybe. My problem is, I don't have the touch."

"What touch?"

He rubbed his fingers together. "The money touch."

"A lot of people never get one novel published. You got two. And they were good . You can't give it up totally, Vinnie."

He shook his head. "Did I ever tell you this isn't my favorite subject?"

"I'll drop it if you want. For now. I actually wanted to ask you a question. I know we shouldn't be talking shop, but how in the world did Pendergast know that guy-what's his name, Vasquez-was gunning for him? Interpol's been chasing that killer for ten years, and he's a pro if ever there was one."

"I could hardly believe it myself. But when he explained, it made perfect sense. Bullard-who was no doubt behind it-felt threatened enough to set two goons on me after our first interview. Pendergast figured Bullard was desperate to leave the country and wouldn't let anybody stand in his way. He also figured Bullard would try again, this time against him . So he asked himself how a professional killer would do it. The answer was obvious: set yourself up in the vacant building across the street from his house. So right after we took Bullard downtown, Pendergast began watching the boarded-up windows of that building with a telescope. Soon enough, he noticed a fresh hole cut in the plywood. Bingo! That's when he let me in on it, told me what he was planning to do. Next, Pendergast established a routine so he could control when the man would strike."

"But how did he have the guts to walk in and out of his house, leaving himself exposed?"

"Whenever he stepped out of the building, he had Proctor train the telescope on the peephole. At one point, he had me shoot out a bulb on the street at a critical moment. That's when he tagged the man's weapon, knew the killer had missed his opportunity for the day. Figured he'd therefore act the next. So last night we had the dummy all ready for him. Proctor handled it perfectly, wheeled it out so just the upper part was visible."

"But why not just go in and take the guy out beforehand? Why run the risk?"

"No proof, for one thing. On top of that, the guy was barricaded in there-he might have slipped through our fingers. As you said, he was a real pro. And for sure he would have put up resistance. His vulnerable moment was while he was escaping. We just waited for him to run into our trap."

Hayward nodded. "That explains a lot."

"Too bad the guy took the suicide route."

Their first courses arrived, whisked to their table by no less than three waiters, with the sommelier hard on their heels to fill their wineglasses and another functionary to top off their water glasses.

"Now I've got a question for you ," said D'Agosta. "How'd you make captain? So fast, I mean."

"There's no great mystery. I saw how things were going, so I went and got my M.S. from NYU in forensic psychology. A degree really helps these days-and, of course, it didn't hurt that I'm a woman."

"Affirmative action?"

"More like belated action. Once the lid of oppression was lifted off the force by Commissioner Rocker, naturally some of us rose to the surface. They looked around in a panic and realized there weren't any high-level women on the force-because they'd been discriminating against us forever-and began promoting. I was in the right place at the right time, with the right test scores and credentials."

"Ambition and talent had nothing to do with it?"

"I wouldn't say that." She smiled.

"Neither would I." Vincent sipped his wine. "Where'd you grow up?"

"Macon, Georgia. My dad was a welder, my mom a homemaker. I had an older brother, killed in Vietnam. Friendly fire. I was eight."

"I'm sorry."

Hayward shook her head. "My parents never recovered. Dad died a year later, Mom the year after that. Cancer, both of them, but I think it was more from grief. He was their pride and joy."

"That's really hard."

"That was a long time ago, and I had a wonderful grandmother in Islip who raised me. It helped me realize I was pretty much alone in this world and that nobody would kick ass for me. I'd have to do the kicking myself."

"You've done a good job of it."

"It's a game."

He paused. "You really shooting for commissioner?"

She smiled, saying nothing, then raised her glass. "Nice to have you back in the Big Apple where you belong, Vinnie."

"I'll drink to that. You don't know how I've missed this town."

"Best place in the world to be a cop."

"When I was a lieutenant, back during the museum murders, I never really appreciated it. I thought it would be great to get out of the city, live in the country, breathe fresh air for a change, listen to the birds chirping, watch the leaves turn color. I wanted to go fishing every Sunday. But you know what? Fishing is boring, the birds wake you up in the morning, and instead of Le Cirque, up in Radium Hot Springs you've got Betty Daye's Family-Style Restaurant."

"Where you can feed a family of four for what it costs here to buy a donut."

"Yeah, but who wants chicken-fried steak at four ninety-nine when you can have duck magret dusted with Espelette pimento for only forty-one bucks?"

Hayward laughed. "That's what I love about New York-nothing's normal. Everything's totally over the top. Here we are having dinner in the same room with Madonna and Michael Douglas."

"New York'll drive you crazy, but it's never boring."

She took a sip of wine and the waiter rushed over to refill her glass. "Is there really a town called Radium Hot Springs up there? It sounds like a joke."

"I've been there. I'm pretty sure it's real."

"What was it like?"

"I kid about it, but it wasn't a bad place. Small town, good values. Canadians are a friendly bunch. But it wasn't home. I always felt like an exile, you know what I mean? And it was too damn quiet. I thought I'd go crazy, I couldn't concentrate with all those chirping birds. Give me the roar of rock-solid Friday afternoon Midtown gridlock, stretching from river to river. Man, that's the voice of life itself."

Hayward laughed as their main courses arrived with a flurry of white-gloved waiters.

"I could definitely get used to this," said D'Agosta, leaning back and tucking into his duck magret, following it with a swig of Chardonnay.

Hayward placed a sea scallopétuvée in her mouth and savored it. She didn't believe she had ever tasted anything quite so good in her life. "You did well, Vinnie," she said with a smile. "You really did well."

{ 44 }

D'Agosta had never been in the place before, but everything about it was dismally familiar. At least the sharp tang of alcohol and formaldehyde and God only knew what other chemicals helped chase away a lingering hangover. He and Laura Hayward hadn't left the restaurant until 11:30 the night before. At the sommelier's suggestion, he'd splurged on a demi bottle of dessert wine-Château d'Yquem 1990, it had cost him a week's pay at least-and it had proved to be the most wonderful wine he'd ever tasted. The whole evening had proved wonderful, in fact.