Линкольн Чайлд - City of Endless Night

But the charge on the panic room door was heavier, and it did indeed knock the unsecured but locked door open. The intruder slipped inside the panic room, where the air was filled with smoke and dust. The lights were off. He quickly took up a position just next to the door in the far wall of the little room: that is, the door leading into the target’s bedroom. Almost immediately he heard the target opening the door and stumbling inside, in terror and confusion due to the ineffectual explosion he’d just heard outside his bedroom door. The man turned, pulled shut the door, and slammed home the bolts. Then he scrabbled along the wall, found the switch, and turned on the lights.

And then he stared at the intruder already inside the panic room, his eyes widening. Yes, indeed, the target had just locked himself inside the panic room with his about-to-be killer. The intruder deeply enjoyed this moment of irony. The target was dressed only in boxer shorts, his comb-over askew, eyes bloodshot and bulging, slack jowls quivering, belly protruding. He still carried the sour reek of vodka.

“Mr. Viktor Alexeievich Bogachyov, I presume?”

The victim stared at him in abject terror. “What... who... are you... and for God’s sake — why ?”

“Why not?” said the intruder, raising the SOG knife.

Two minutes and fifteen seconds later, the intruder slipped over the stone wall and dropped down onto the other side. He could hear, from the compound, the sounds of multiple alarms and, beyond that, in the distance, approaching police sirens. He had killed the last guard on the way out, but in his kindness had spared the dog, who proved to be more intelligent than the humans and had fallen quivering and whining at his feet, urinating on himself — and thereby saving his own life.

He sprinted across the beach to the stone breakwater and ran along it to a small speedboat, sheltered between two big boulders in the lee of the breakwater, its quiet four-stroke engine still idling in neutral. He tossed his now-heavy backpack into the boat, jumped in after it, gently depressed the throttle, and headed into the black, heaving Atlantic Ocean. As he sped into the night, pleasant thoughts went through his head of the mise-en-scène the police were just now discovering as they entered the estate and began to search the grounds.

This time Pendergast insisted on taking Proctor and the Rolls, and D’Agosta was too weary to protest. It was December 22, Christmas was only three days away, and over the last week he had barely found time to catch a few hours of sleep, much less think about what he was going to buy his wife, Laura, for a present.

Proctor had driven them out to East Hampton on a morning that was gray and bitterly cold. D’Agosta found he was grateful for the extra space the rear compartment of the big vehicle provided, not to mention the fold-down desk of brilliantly polished wood that allowed him to catch up on his paperwork. As the car eased onto Further Lane, the estate and the activity surrounding it came into view. Police barricades had been set up across the road, there were ribbons of crime scene tape vibrating in a cold December wind, and the roadside was lined with parked CSU and M.E. vans. A bunch of uniforms were walking around, some with clipboards, trying to keep from freezing to death.

“Christ,” said D’Agosta. “Too many damn people on-site.”

As they pulled into the improvised parking area, outlined on a patch of grass with crime scene tape and signs, he saw everyone turn and gape at Pendergast’s Silver Wraith.

He got out one side and Pendergast got out the other. Pulling his coat tight against the frigid wind coming off the Atlantic, D’Agosta headed toward the command and control van, Pendergast following.

Inside the small space he found the East Hampton chief of police. D’Agosta had spoken to him on the phone earlier and was relieved at the man’s professional attitude, and now he was even more pleased to see him in person: a rugged older man with iron-gray hair and mustache, and an easygoing manner.

“You must be Lieutenant CDS D’Agosta,” he said, rising and grasping his hand firmly. “Chief Al Denton.”

A lot of small-town cops couldn’t stand working with the NYPD, maybe for good reason, but this time D’Agosta sensed he was going to get the cooperation he needed. He turned to give space for Pendergast to introduce himself and was surprised to see the agent had vanished.

“Show you around?” Denton asked.

“Uh, sure. Thanks.” Typical of Pendergast.

Denton threw on a coat, and D’Agosta followed the chief back out into the blustery morning. They crossed Further Lane and came to the main gates into the compound, a vast, partially gilded affair involving many tons of wrought iron. The gates stood open and were guarded by two cops, one holding a clipboard. There was a rack with Tyvek suits, masks, gloves, and booties, but the chief waved him past. “The CSU team’s completed the house,” he said, “and most of the grounds.”

“That was fast.”

“Out here, with the winter weather, we’ve got to move fast or the evidence will deteriorate. So we called in SOC assets from all across the East End. Say, where’s the FBI guy you said was coming with you?”

“He’s around here somewhere.”

The chief frowned, and D’Agosta didn’t blame him: it was considered rude not to liaise with local law enforcement. They passed between the gates, walked through a staging area set up under a tent, and headed down the graveled drive leading toward the mansion. It was a gigantic cement eyesore of a house, looking like a bunch of slabs piled together, propped up by glass, about as warm and cozy as the Kremlin.

“So this Russian guy, what’s his name—?”

“Bogachyov.”

“Bogachyov. How long’s he been in East Hampton?”

“He bought the land a few years ago, took a couple of years to build the house, moved in six months ago.”

“He give you any problems?”

Denton shook his head. “Nothing but problems. Right from the beginning. When he bought the place, the seller said he was cheated and sued. That case is still in court. In the middle of the night, Bogachyov tore down a historic shingle house. Claimed he didn’t know it was landmarked. Lawsuit over that. Then he built this monstrosity, which violated a whole bunch of town ordinances, all without the right permits. More lawsuits over that. And then he stiffed the contractors; stiffed his help; even stiffed the guys who mow his lawn. Lawsuits up the wazoo. He’s the kind of jackass who just does whatever the hell he wants. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he’s maybe the most hated man in this town. Was, I should say.”

“Where’d he get his money?”

“He’s one of these Russian oligarchs. International arms broker or something equally unpleasant. The house, the land, all owned by a shell company, or at least that’s what’s on the tax rolls.”

“So there are plenty of people who’d want to see him dead.”

“Hell, yes. Half the town. And that’s not even counting the people he’s stepped on, or killed, in his own business dealings.”

As they came up to the house, D’Agosta spied Pendergast, walking rapidly around the far corner.

Denton saw him, too. “Hey, that guy shouldn’t be in here.”

“He’s—”

“Hey, you!” Denton called out, breaking into a jog, D’Agosta following. Pendergast stopped and pivoted. His long black coat and gaunt, ivory face made him look uncannily like the Grim Reaper.

“Mister—!”

“Ah, Chief Denton,” said Pendergast, striding forward, slipping a black leather glove off a pale hand, grasping the chief’s hand with a quick bow. “Special Agent Pendergast.” He then swiveled back around and continued on his way, striding at high speed across the lawn toward the tall hedge at the ocean end of the property.