City of Endless Night Read online

  And here he was. “Thank you, Captain Singleton. And thank you, Mayor DeLillo. The homicide division is following up on several promising investigative threads.” He allowed for a pause. “I wish I could go into detail, but most of what we have so far falls into the category of ‘non-releasable information,’ which the department defines as: One: Information posing an undue risk to the personal safety of members of the department, victims, or others. Two: Information that may interfere with police operations. And three: Information that adversely affects the rights of an accused or the investigation or prosecution of a crime.”

  He paused and heard what sounded like a collective groan from the crowd. Well, Singleton had told him to be boring.

  “Since you have most of the details of the first two homicides, I will focus on what we’ve learned so far about last night’s homicide in East Hampton.” D’Agosta went on, describing the third killing in much more detail than Singleton. He spoke of the six dead bodyguards, the discovery of the boat and other evidence, but he held back mention of the size thirteen foot—that crucial detail he wanted to keep in reserve. He spoke of Bogachyov’s many lawsuits and shady business dealings. It was alleged, for example, that Bogachyov had been brokering decommissioned nuclear equipment and missile parts through Chinese shell companies connected to the North Korean regime.

  And then he returned to the crime, praising the fine work of the East Hampton Police Department—until a voice shouted out in interruption: “But are the killings connected?”

  D’Agosta halted, losing his place. Was that that son of a bitch Harriman? It sure sounded like him. After a moment of scanning his notes he went on, talking about his department’s work liaising with East Hampton, when the voice interrupted again.

  “Connected, or not? Can we have an answer?”

  It was that damn Harriman. D’Agosta looked up from his papers. “We are for the time being treating the three homicides as separate cases, but this doesn’t mean we don’t believe they may be connected.”

  “Which means what?” Harriman shouted.

  “It means we haven’t decided.”

  “Three decapitations in a week—and you’re saying they’re not connected? And this new murder—it’s just like the second, right?”

  “The third homicide does bear some similarities to the second one, yes,” said D’Agosta.

  “But not to the first murder? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “We’re still looking into that…” D’Agosta suddenly realized he was allowing Harriman to do exactly what Singleton had warned him about: hijack the room. “I’d like to finish what I was saying earlier, please. According to East Hampton PD, the investigative threads include—”

  “So you’re implying there are two murderers? The first who killed Grace Ozmian, and another murderer who did two and three? In other words, the first killing inspired a serial killer to commit the others? And it’s actually not just two and three—counting the dead guards you mentioned, it’s technically nine.”

  This was going south fast. “Mr. Harriman, save your questions for the Q and A.”

  But the discipline of the crowd was breaking down, and several other questions were being shouted at the podium. Singleton stepped forward, held up his hand, and the crowd shushed. D’Agosta felt his face flush.

  “I think we’re ready for questions,” said Singleton, turning back to D’Agosta.

  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.

  18

  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?”

  Paine nodded, hands clasped. He looked a little ragged, eyes bloodshot, clothes rumpled, hair mussed. Jet lag, maybe? “I want to be as helpful as I can,” he said, in a tone that implied just the opposite.

  D’Agosta led him through the preliminary questions about age, residence, how long he’d worked at Sharps & Gund, and so forth, receiving short, uninformative answers. Finally D’Agosta got to the meat of the interview.

  “I’d like you to describe for us the Cantucci security system: how it worked, how it was set up, and especially how it was circumvented.”

  At this Paine crossed his arms and began to describe the system in general terms, much as Marvin had done earlier. D’Agosta listened, taking a few notes, getting the strong impression as he did so that the guy was holding back. He asked a few probing questions about system details, and got in return more vague answers and evasion, until Paine finally said: “I really can’t answer any more questions of a technical nature.”

  “Why not?”

  “You must know I’ve signed NDAs about all this and I’m not supposed to talk about it. I could be fired—even sued.”

  “Has Ingmar threatened you with retaliation if you talk to us?” D’Agosta asked.

  “Not in any specific way, but the general message was clear.”

  “Mr. Paine, do you wish to terminate the interview? I want you to understand that if you do, we will get a subpoena, take you down to the station, and you’ll be compelled to answer questions under oath.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Is that what you want us to do?”

  “Yes, in fact. Because then my ass will be covered.”

  Son of a bitch. The guy was calling his bluff. D’Agosta leaned forward. “Believe me, we’re going to remember just how helpful you were, and we’re going to return the favor.”

  Paine looked back at him, eyes blinking behind large glasses. “So be it. The harder you ride me, the better it’ll look to Ingmar. Look, Lieutenant, I need my job.”

  At this Pendergast spoke, his voice mild and honeyed. “So what you require, Mr. Paine, is to be coerced?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Since we are short on time, and getting a subpoena will take several days, I wonder if there isn’t a way we can coerce you right here and now.”

  Paine stared. “Like how? Is that a threat?”

  “Heavens, no! I’m just thinking of creating a little drama. Sergeant Curry, I assume you carry a battering ram in that squad car of yours?”

  “Always.”

  “Excellent! Here’s what we’ll all do. We’ll leave the house, drive away, then return shortly with sirens blaring. Mr. Paine, you will refuse to open the door. Sergeant Curry, you will enter stage center and batter down the door in a suitably spectacular and destructive fashion, so that all the neighbors will hear. We shall lead Mr. Paine out of the house in handcuffs—after suitably disarranging his clothing and hair and perhaps tearing a few buttons off his shirt in the process—and take him to the station where we can finish the interview. All this without need of a subpoena, because, Mr. Paine, you will agree on video—for the legal purposes of law enforcement, you understand, and it won’t ever get back to your employer—that this was entirely voluntary and you understand your rights and all the rest.”

  A silence. Paine looked at D’Agosta, then back at Pendergast. “Who’s going to pay for my door?”

  Pendergast smiled. “Consider which will cost more: a new door, or the four-hundred-dollar-an-hour attorney you will need to hire if the lieutenant serves you with a subpoena and takes you downtown for what will be at least a twelve-hour interview, possibly stretching over several days—unless of course you want to take your chances with one of the pro bono hacks supplied by the state.”

  A long silence. “Okay,” said Paine, actually breaking into a sort of cynical smile. “This is going to be interesting.”

  “Excellent,” said Pendergast rising. “We shall be back. In, say, an hour?”

  19

  AFTER THE BIG hullabaloo in Maplewood—all the neighbors, D’Agosta had noticed with a certain gratification, had been plastered to their windows—they had taken Paine down to 1PP and he was now comfortably ensconced in a small conference room, where he had become a most cooperative and friendly witness. The official setting seemed to loosen his tongue, and he had gone into great technical detail about the Cantucci system. They were now moving on to Sharps & Gund itself.

  “I was the senior man on the Cantucci install,” Paine was saying. “A lot of the people I have to deal with are difficult, but Cantucci was a royal pain in the ass. There was a lot of stuff he didn’t like—cosmetic stuff, mostly, such as the placement of cameras or the color of the CCTV monitors—and he just about nitpicked us to death. He was the kind of guy who didn’t want to sully himself by dealing with the low-level people like myself. He always took his complaints right to Mr. Ingmar, every little thing. It drove Ingmar crazy that Cantucci would only talk to him, calling him up at all hours of the day and night and treating him like his lapdog. Ingmar reall
y came to hate him, and even talked about firing him as a client, except that the man owed us a lot of money. They had a shouting match once, on the phone.”

  “What about?” D’Agosta asked.

  “Money. Cantucci wasn’t paying the bills. Said he wouldn’t pay a dime until the install was completed to his satisfaction.”

  “And did he pay in the end?”

  “Not totally. He chiseled Ingmar over the final bill, finding fault with every little thing and deducting for it. I think we got about eighty cents on the dollar. I’m pretty sure Ingmar took a loss on the job.”

  “What was the total?”

  Paine thought for a moment. “I’d guess around two hundred. Plus a monthly fee of two grand.”

  D’Agosta shifted position, consulted his notes. He was now getting to the heart of his questions. “Would Ingmar have been capable—did he personally have the knowledge—to bypass the security system the way the killer did?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Who else at Sharps and Gund would have sufficient skills to do what the killer did, in circumventing the system?”

  “My install partner, Lasher. Possibly the guy who heads the IT department, maybe the chief of programming and design. But I really don’t think either of them knew how the Cantucci system itself was laid out or had access to the technical lockbox.” He paused, considering. “Really, Ingmar and Lasher are probably the only two, other than me of course.”

  This is good, D’Agosta thought. Really good. “You and Lasher were the techs who responded to and performed the repair that had apparently been rigged, staged for by the killer?”

  “I was the guy, but Lasher had been fired by that time, so I went with another techie.”

  “Which is?”

  “Hallie Iyer. She still works for the company.”