Линкольн Чайлд - City of Endless Night

There was an uproar of questions all shouted at once.

“Ms. Levitas of Slate ,” said D’Agosta, pointing at a woman in the rear, as far from Harriman as possible.

“Just to follow up on the previous question, how can these killings not be connected?”

Damn that Harriman — even when he wasn’t asking questions he was still orchestrating the press conference. “We’re considering all possibilities,” said D’Agosta stolidly.

“Is it a serial killer?”

This shouted question came from Harriman again. How the hell did he get into the front row? Next time D’Agosta would see that he was buried in the back of the room, or preferably out in the hall. “As I’ve said repeatedly, we are working on all possibilities—”

“Possibility?” Harriman shouted. “You mean a serial killer is actually a possibility ?”

Singleton spoke firmly: “Mr. Harriman, there are other reporters in the room. We call on Mr. Goudreau of the Daily News .”

“Why is the FBI involved?”

“We’re marshaling all law enforcement assets,” said Singleton.

“But what’s the federal angle?” Goudreau followed up.

“In the first homicide there was a suggestion of possible interstate transportation of the body. And the third homicide, with its potential international ramifications, has reinforced federal involvement. We are grateful to the FBI for giving us the benefit of their expertise.”

A roar of shouted questions came from the audience.

“One more question!” said Singleton, looking around. This was followed by another eruption.

He pointed. “Ms. Anders of Fox.”

The Fox anchor was trying to speak but was drowned out by her peers, who kept shouting questions.

“Quiet, please!” Singleton boomed out. It worked. A hush fell.

“My question is for the mayor: What steps are you taking to keep the city safe?”

The mayor strode forward with a heavy step. “Aside from putting forty detectives and another hundred uniformed officers on the case, we’re pulling over two thousand officers into overtime patrol, and we’re taking many, many other steps I cannot enumerate for security reasons. I can assure you that every possible action is being taken to keep our citizens safe.”

“Lieutenant, where are the heads ?”

Harriman again — the fucker.

“You heard the man,” said D’Agosta. “No more questions!”

“No!” came another shout. “Answer the question!”

The sound level went up as more took up the refrain. Where are the heads? What about the heads? Answer the question!

“We’re working on that,” said D’Agosta. “Now—”

“You mean you don’t know, do you?”

“As I said—”

But they wouldn’t let him finish. “Any idea why the killer’s taking the heads?” someone else yelled.

“Not yet, but—”

Singleton broke in smoothly. “We’ve asked the FBI Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico to help us with that very question.”

This was news to D’Agosta, and he realized it was something Singleton must have just pulled out of his hat — a damn good idea.

“When will you—?”

“ Thank you ladies and gentlemen, this press conference is over! ” Singleton said, and turned off the mike. As the room broke up, Singleton passed by him, speaking in an undertone: “In my office, please.”

As D’Agosta turned to gather his papers, he glanced in the direction of the mayor and found the man staring at him, a dark look in his big glistening eyes.

Sitting in the passenger seat of a squad car driven by Sergeant Curry, D’Agosta had a rare moment of peace and quiet to think. This time, the chewing-out in Singleton’s office actually hadn’t been as bad as D’Agosta feared. The captain had pointed out, more in a paternal way than as a reprimand, that D’Agosta had let Harriman dominate the conference in exactly the way he had warned him against, but that all in all it could have been worse and he was sure D’Agosta had learned a valuable lesson.

“Just get us something, anything ,” said Singleton, “by the end of the day tomorrow that we can get in the paper. We’ve got to show progress. You bring me something good and all will be forgiven.” He clapped D’Agosta on the back in another fatherly way as he was on his way out, then gave his shoulder a warning squeeze.

That had been the previous afternoon. D’Agosta had twelve hours left to come up with something.

Hard on the heels of Singleton’s command — like a curse — the results came back from the security camera in Piermont’s Fountainhead bar. They confirmed beyond all doubt that Baugh had indeed been in the bar, mixing drinks, from three in the afternoon until after twelve on the night Grace Ozmian was killed. When D’Agosta mapped out the time necessary to get from Piermont to Queens and back, and matched it against the window of uncertainty as to when the girl’s killing occurred, he realized there was no possible way Baugh could have murdered the girl. So that lead — which had seemed so promising — was DOA. Unless Baugh hired a killer... but that, in D’Agosta’s judgment, seemed highly unlikely: Baugh was the type who’d want to do it himself.

Curry braked and muttered a curse when a black stretch limo cut him off as he navigated the congestion leading into the Holland Tunnel. D’Agosta’s best hope for some sort of newsworthy breakthrough was the interview he was headed to now, a very promising lead in the Cantucci murder. He knew the killer was, almost beyond doubt, someone connected to the security company Sharps & Gund — an employee, or ex-employee. He was on the way to interview a certain William Paine, one of the two Sharps & Gund technicians who had installed the security system in the Cantucci house. While D’Agosta already knew Paine himself was not a suspect — D’Agosta had verified the man had been in Dubai for the past three weeks on a big system install — he felt sure that Paine would be able to point him to other possible suspects. More important, Paine could verify that this had been an inside job. What he needed more than anything was hard information connecting Sharps & Gund to the Cantucci murder, not mere speculation but something solid enough to go public with.

They emerged from the Holland Tunnel and made their way through Hudson County and across Newark Bay and the wasteland of Port Newark, finally reaching the enclave of Maplewood. One turn, another, and a third and they had arrived at their destination. There, parked along the curb, was Pendergast’s Rolls, the dark form of Proctor inside, waiting behind the wheel.

The house was a modest two-story Colonial of white clapboard, a brown lawn, and a garden withered by the early-winter cold. It must have snowed in Jersey last week, D’Agosta thought, given the icy crusts remaining in spots on the lawn.

Curry pulled up behind the Rolls and they got out and walked up the front steps, rang the doorbell. A big lumbering man answered, introduced himself as Paine. “FBI’s already here,” he said sourly as they followed him into the living room.

Pendergast was sitting on the sofa, as gaunt and white as ever. D’Agosta removed his iPad, on which he sometimes took notes, while Curry took out his steno notebook. Pendergast never took notes or even seemed to carry paper and pen with him.

“Lieutenant,” said Pendergast, “I’ve been waiting for you and I’ve resisted the urge to ask questions.”

D’Agosta nodded his appreciation. He and Curry took seats, along with Paine.

“Let me open by saying you’re not a suspect,” said D’Agosta. “Understood?”