Линкольн Чайлд - City of Endless Night

“Was Dr. Adeyemi married?”

“No.”

“Were there any men — or, perhaps, women — that she had any relationships with? I mean of an especially close nature.”

Obaje answered with a peremptory “No.”

It did not take D’Agosta long to write down this response, but he made a show of taking additional copious notes. At last he looked up again. “You said you knew the ambassador both during university and afterward.”

Obaje gave a clipped nod. “For a time, yes.”

“Then — once again, please forgive my bluntness, but it’s our duty to ask difficult questions — during that time did you ever hear gossip about her; anything that might reflect badly?”

At this, Obaje stood up. “No, and frankly, once again I’m taken aback at the tenor of your questions. You’ve come into my office with the obvious intent of tarnishing her reputation. Let me tell you, Lieutenant — her reputation is above reproach, and you will find nothing, anywhere, that will lead you to a different conclusion. I don’t know what lies behind this crusade of yours, but I will not entertain it or you any longer. This meeting is at an end. Now, sir: kindly leave this office and this building.”

Out on the street, D’Agosta angrily shoved his notebook into his coat pocket. “I should have expected that,” he growled. “Frigging whitewash. Turning the lady into a martyr.” He shook his head. “Administrative assistant. Christ.”

“My dear Vincent,” Pendergast said as he wrapped his overcoat more tightly around his narrow person, “let me tell you a little bit about Mr. Obaje. You heard him tell you that Dr. Adeyemi was the youngest governor of Benue State.”

“Yeah. So?”

“What he did not tell you was that he was also a candidate for that same governorship. At the time, Obaje’s political star was on the rise. Great things were expected of him. But he lost the election — by a landslide. After that, Obaje’s star continued to fall. And now you find him here, an administrative assistant in the Nigerian mission, his career eclipsed, thanks to Dr. Adeyemi — through no fault of her own, of course.”

“What’s your point?”

“Simply this: I singled him out for an interview because he had the greatest reason to disparage and denigrate her.”

“You mean, to trash her?”

“In your vernacular, precisely.”

D’Agosta’s jaw worked for a moment. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that going in?”

“If I had, you wouldn’t have pressed him as hard as you did. I did this to spare you countless additional hours of fruitless research and interrogatory. You could spend a month hunting for skeletons, but I fear you won’t find any. The truth is as simple as it looks: the woman is a saint.”

“But that can’t be! It knocks the hell out of our motive.”

“Ah, but it is not ‘our’ motive.”

“You don’t buy it?”

Pendergast hesitated. “There is indeed a motive for these murders. But it is not the motive that you, the NYPD, and all of New York seem to believe.”

“I...” D’Agosta began, then stopped. He felt deflated, manipulated, kept in the dark. It was typical Pendergast, but in this instance he felt dissed — and it made him irritated. More than irritated. “Oh, I get it — you’ve got a better theory. One that you’ve been keeping, as usual , from everyone.”

“I am never arbitrary. There is always a method to my mystifications.”

“So let’s hear this dazzling theory of yours.”

“I didn’t say I had a theory; I only said yours was wrong.”

At this D’Agosta laughed harshly. “Well, shit, then go knock yourself out chasing your theories. I know what I’ve got to do!”

If Pendergast was surprised by this outburst, it manifested itself only in a slight widening of his pale eyes. He said nothing, but after a second or two merely nodded, turned silently on his handmade English shoes, and began making his way down Second Avenue.

This time, when Pendergast arrived for a visit to the DigiFlood campus, his Rolls-Royce was not ushered into Anton Ozmian’s personal parking space, or even into the corporate garage at all; rather, Proctor was forced to double-park in the maze of streets of Lower Manhattan. Nor was Pendergast whisked heavenward in a private elevator; rather, he was obliged to slip in with the rest of the masses at the building’s main entrance and present himself at security. His FBI credentials were sufficient to get him past the three guards at the checkpoint and onto an elevator to the top floor, but there, at the entrance to the Zen-like executive suite, he was met by two hulking men, squeezed into dark suits, who both appeared able to crack Brazil nuts between their knuckles.

“Special Agent Pendergast?” said one in a gruff voice, looking at a text message on his cell phone as he spoke.

“Indeed.”

“You don’t have an appointment to see Mr. Ozmian.”

“I have tried several times to make just such an appointment, but, alas, without success. I thought perhaps appearing here in person might precipitate a more favorable result.”

This volley, delivered in a buttery drawl, bounced off the two men without perceptible effect. “Mr. Ozmian doesn’t see visitors without an appointment.”

Pendergast hesitated a moment for effect. Then, once again, he slipped a pale white hand into his black suit and removed the wallet containing his FBI shield and ID. Letting it drop open, he showed it to first one, then the other, allowing it to remain before each face a good ten seconds. As he did so, he made a show of examining their nameplates and, apparently, committing them to memory.

“An appointment was merely a courtesy,” he said, allowing a little iron to mingle with the butter. “As a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, looking into an active homicide, I go where I please, when I please, as long as I have reasonable suspicion to do so. Now, I suggest you speak to your minders and arrange an audience with Mr. Ozmian without delay. Otherwise, there might be unpleasantness in store for each of you, personally.”

The two men absorbed this a moment, then looked at each other with uncertainty. “Wait here,” one of them said, and he turned and walked across the large waiting area, disappearing through the pair of birchwood doors, while the other stood guard.

It was fifteen minutes before he returned. “Follow us, please.”

They passed through the set of doors into the complex of offices that lay beyond. But instead of making their way through the labyrinth to the final, massive doors that led into Ozmian’s private office, the men steered Pendergast in another direction, toward a side corridor, with every door closed. Stopping at one, the men knocked.

“Come in,” came a voice.

The men opened the door and motioned Pendergast inside, and then, without entering themselves, closed the door behind him. Pendergast found himself inside a well-appointed office with a view of the Woolworth Building and one wall covered floor-to-ceiling with legal tomes. Behind the neat desk sat a thin, balding man with round glasses who looked very much like an owl. He gazed back at Pendergast with a neutral expression. Something like a smile passed briefly across his thin lips before disappearing again.

“Special Agent Pendergast,” the man said in a high, reedy voice. He indicated a few chairs arranged on the far side of the desk. “Please sit down.”

Pendergast did so. From three security staffers, to two bodyguards, to one lawyer — an interesting progression.

“My name is Weilman,” the man said from across the desk. “Counsel to Mr. Ozmian.”

Pendergast inclined his head.