Линкольн Чайлд - City of Endless Night

“But you said Robert Hightower actually threatened to kill you and your family. Did you believe him?”

Ozmian shook his head. He looked defeated. “I don’t know. People say stupid things. But Hightower... he went off the deepest end.” He looked from Pendergast to Longstreet and back again. “I answered your question. Now get out.”

It was clear to Longstreet that he would have no more to say on this or any other subject.

Pendergast rose from his chair. He made a slight bow without offering to shake hands. “Thank you, Mr. Ozmian. And good day.”

Ozmian responded with a perfunctory nod.

Minutes later, as the elevator doors whispered open and they stepped out into the main lobby, Longstreet could not restrain a chuckle. “Aloysius,” he said, slapping the man’s slender back, “that was a tour de force. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone turn the tables quite so neatly. Consider yourself officially out of the doghouse.”

Pendergast acknowledged the compliment in silence.

Across the expansive lobby, Bryce Harriman — who had just entered from the chilly street via the bank of revolving doors — stopped in his tracks. He recognized the man exiting one of the elevators: it was Special Agent Pendergast, the elusive fed who had figured, one way or another, in several of the murder cases he’d reported on over the years.

The FBI agent could be doing only one thing here at DigiFlood: following up on the Decapitator case, perhaps even interviewing Ozmian. That would put Ozmian into a foul mood. So much the better. A moment later he was hurrying toward the security station.

Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta sat in the tidy living room of the apartment he shared with Laura Hayward, moodily drinking a Budweiser and listening to the bleat of traffic on the avenue below. From the kitchen came sounds of cooking — the creak of an oven door opening, the whuff of a gas burner being lit. Laura, a superb cook, was in the midst of outdoing herself in the preparation of a New Year’s Day feast.

D’Agosta knew why she was working so hard — to cheer him up, make him forget the Decapitator case... if only for a little while.

The prospect filled him with guilt. He didn’t feel worthy of all this effort — in fact, at the moment, he didn’t feel worthy of anything.

He drained his Budweiser, moodily crushed the can in his fist, then placed it on a magazine that sat on the end table. Four similarly crushed cans were there already, lined up like injured sentries.

He was popping the tab on his sixth when Laura emerged from the kitchen. If she noticed all the empties, she said nothing; she merely sat down in an armchair across from him.

“Too hot in there,” she said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Anyway, all the heavy lifting is done.”

“Sure I can’t help?” he asked for the fourth time.

“Thanks, but nothing to do. We’ll be eating in half an hour — hope you’ve got a good appetite.”

D’Agosta, who felt more thirsty than hungry, nodded and took another pull.

“What the hell ever happened to Michelob?” he asked suddenly, holding up the can of Bud almost accusatorily. “The real Michelob, I mean. Now, there was a premium beer. And that fat-bellied brown bottle with the gold foil at the neck — you really felt you were drinking something special. But today everybody’s crazy for craft beers. It’s like they’ve forgotten what a classic American beverage tastes like.”

Laura said nothing.

D’Agosta lifted the can to take another pull, then put it aside. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m sitting around, sulking like a kid, feeling sorry for myself.”

“Vinnie, it’s not just you. It’s everybody who’s on the case. I mean, it’s tearing apart the whole city. I can’t even imagine the pressure you’re under.”

“I’ve got a ton of detectives working on this — and they’re just going around and around in circles.” They’re probably spending miserable New Year’s Days, too , he thought. And it’s my fault. I haven’t moved the case forward.

He sat forward, realized he was a little drunk, sat back again. “It’s the goddamnedest thing. This Adeyemi. I’ve talked to anyone who might have an ax to grind with her. Nothing. Even her enemies say she’s a saint. I’ve had my people digging twenty-four seven. Christ, I’ve even thought of flying to Nigeria myself. I just know there’s some deep shit in her background!”

“Vinnie, don’t beat yourself up about it. Not today.”

And yet he couldn’t leave it alone. It was like a sore tooth that your tongue kept returning to, testing and probing despite the pain. The worst of it, he knew, was a feeling he couldn’t shake: that the whole case was unraveling, coming apart before his eyes. Like the rest of the NYPD and everyone else in the city, he was sure it was some crazy psycho targeting the worst of the one percenters. God knew when Harriman first published the idea, it made perfect sense to him and everyone else. But no matter what stone he looked under, he couldn’t make this latest killing fit the pattern.

Then there was Pendergast. More than once, he’d thought back on what the FBI agent had said: 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. He felt bad that he’d blown his stack. But the man could be so damn infuriating — trashing your theories while withholding his own.

What he had to do, D’Agosta realized, was refocus. After all, Pendergast hadn’t come out and said he thought Adeyemi was a saint, exactly. He’d just implied they were looking at things the wrong way. Maybe instead of a history of hidden bad behavior, Adeyemi had done one truly horrific thing in her life. That would be a whole lot easier to cover up. Harder to find, admittedly — but once found, bingo.

He was woken from this reverie by the clatter of china; Laura was setting the dining room table. Leaving his beer unfinished, he rose and went over to help her. In the last few minutes, he’d found that his appetite had, in fact, sharpened. He’d forget about the case for a little while, enjoy his wife’s company and cooking... and then get back to headquarters and start making a fresh round of calls.

From her chair, Isabel Alves-Vettoretto watched her employer read over the three sheets of paper that Bryce Harriman had handed him, then read them over again.

She gave Harriman an appraising glance. Alves-Vettoretto was a dead shot at reading people. She could sense a mix of emotions warring within the reporter: anxiety, moral outrage, pride, defiance.

Now Ozmian finished his second reading and — leaning over his massive desk — handed Harriman’s proposed article to Alves-Vettoretto. She read it through with mild interest. So the reporter had done his homework , she thought. Alves-Vettoretto had studied accounts of the great conquerors of world history, and now a quotation of Julius Caesar’s came to mind: It’s only hubris if I fail.

She set the papers carefully on the edge of the desk. In the brief period between Pendergast’s walking out and Bryce Harriman’s being ushered in, Ozmian had been uncharacteristically still, poring over something on his computer, deep in thought. But now his gestures became quick and economical. After Alves-Vettoretto had put down the papers, she caught a silent glance from Ozmian. Understanding what the glance meant, she stood up and excused herself from the office.

What she had to do had been carefully set up and putting it in motion took five minutes. When she returned, Harriman was placing another piece of paper on Ozmian’s desk with an air of triumph — it appeared to be a copy of the affidavit Harriman had said he’d gotten from the eyewitness in Massachusetts.