City of Endless Night Page 7

  He stopped, chest heaving, and let the Brancusi drop to the carpet. The obliteration of the painting he had bought for twenty-one million dollars at Christie’s had the effect of helping him master his anger. He stood motionless, controlling his breathing, letting the fight-or-flight hormones subside, waiting for his heart rate to come back down. When he felt he had returned to a physiologically stable state, he went back over to the granite desk and examined the Post article again. There was an essential detail he had overlooked on the first reading: the byline.

  And there it was: Bryce Harriman. Bryce Harriman.

  He punched the intercom button. “Joyce, I want Isabel in my office immediately.”

  He went over to the Johns and looked down at it. A total loss. Twenty-one million dollars, and of course there was no way he could collect the insurance, having destroyed it himself. But he found a strange satisfaction in having done so. Twenty-one million dollars didn’t even begin to plumb the ocean of his anger. This Bryce Harriman was going to understand, very soon, just how deep that ocean was—because, if necessary, he would drown the bastard in it.

  13

  D’AGOSTA HAD CATEGORICALLY refused a ride in Pendergast’s Rolls-Royce while on duty—how would that look?—and as a result Pendergast rode with him in his squad car, silent and displeased. He hadn’t worked with Pendergast this closely in a while, and he’d forgotten what a pain in the ass the FBI agent could be.

  As Sergeant Curry drove them through stop-and-go traffic on the Long Island Expressway, D’Agosta unrolled the copy of the Post he’d picked up that morning and looked at the screaming headline yet again. Singleton had reamed him out that morning for not getting to Izolda Ozmian before Harriman did and putting the fear of God into her about talking to the press. The story had been craftily designed to capture the public’s attention, raise the level of hysteria, and ensure Harriman a steady stream of “exclusive” stories to come. It had put D’Agosta in a ferocious mood that morning, which had only deepened as the day progressed. He told himself there was nothing he could do about the piece and that he should just move forward and solve the case as quickly as possible. They’d already tracked down the location where the dead boy’s father had settled—Piermont, New York, where he worked as a bartender. After they finished with this interview in Long Island, Piermont would be D’Agosta’s very next stop.

  As they pulled into the half-empty mall in Jericho that contained the offices of Sharps & Gund, D’Agosta felt surprise that a big-time security outfit would have its headquarters in such a place. It seemed they had taken over the far end of the mall, occupying a space that was once an anchor store, and he could even see the faint SEARS outline on the now-blank exterior wall. There was nothing to indicate it was even occupied, save a row of reserved parking spaces full of cars—nice cars. Very nice cars. It appeared that not only was Sharps & Gund discreet—it was downright invisible.

  Sergeant Curry pulled into a visitor space and they got out. It was a cold, gray day, and a bitter wind scraped an old plastic bag across the pavement before them as they approached the double glass doors. Here, finally, was a small Sharps & Gund logo. Discreet, tasteful.

  The doors weren’t locked. D’Agosta pushed through, Pendergast and Curry following, and he found himself in an elegant, understated reception area, done up in polished hardwoods, with a reception counter twenty feet long, occupied by three receptionists who seemed to be doing nothing but waiting with their hands folded.

  “NYPD and FBI here to see Jonathan Ingmar,” said D’Agosta, leaning on the counter and removing his shield. “We have an appointment.”

  “Of course, gentlemen,” said one of the receptionists. “Please have a seat.”

  D’Agosta didn’t sit and neither did Pendergast or Curry. They waited at the counter as the receptionist made a call.

  “Someone will be out shortly,” she said, with a bright-red lipstick smile. “It might be a few minutes.”

  On hearing this, Pendergast wandered over to the seating area, sat down, crossed his legs, picked up a magazine, and began flipping the pages. Somehow the nonchalance of it irritated D’Agosta. He stood at the counter for a few minutes, then finally took a seat opposite the agent. “He’d better not keep us waiting.”

  “Of course he will. I predict thirty minutes at the very least.”

  “Bullshit. I’m just going to go in there, then.”

  “You won’t get past the layers of locked doors and pit-bull assistants.”

  “Then we’ll get a subpoena and drag his ass down to the station and question him there.”

  “A man like the Sharps and Gund CEO will have lawyers who will make that proposition lengthy and difficult.” Pendergast flipped another page of the only magazine in the waiting area. D’Agosta noted it was People, and he seemed to be looking through an article on the Kardashians.

  With a sigh, D’Agosta rolled the Post back up and shoved it into his pocket, crossed his arms, and sat back. Sergeant Curry remained standing, impassive.

  It wasn’t thirty minutes; it was forty-five. Finally a small, skinny Brooklyn type with a beard, hipster hat, and black silk shirt came to get them. They wound through several layers of ever more elegant and understated offices before being ushered into the presence of Jonathan Ingmar. His office was white and spare, and did not seem to contain any electronic devices beyond an old-fashioned phone sitting on a hectare-size desk. Ingmar was a slender man of about fifty with a boyish face and an untidy mess of blond hair. He had an offensively cheerful look on his face.

  By this time, D’Agosta was fighting mad and making a serious effort to control it. It annoyed him that Pendergast seemed so nonchalant, so unbothered, by the extended wait.

  “My apologies, gentlemen,” said the Sharps & Gund CEO, waving about a beautifully manicured hand, “but it’s been a busy day.” He glanced at his watch. “I can give you five minutes.”

  D’Agosta turned on a handheld recorder and set it on the table, then took out his notebook, flipped it open. “We need a list of all past and present employees who worked on or had anything to do with the Cantucci account.”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but our personnel records are confidential.”

  “Then we’ll get a court order.”

  Ingmar spread his hands. “If you can get such an order, naturally we’ll obey the law.”

  “Look, Mr. Ingmar, it’s clear that the Cantucci murder was an inside job—planned and executed by someone who worked for your company and had access to your source code. We’re not going to be happy if you obstruct us.”

  “That’s pure speculation, Lieutenant. I run a tight ship here. My employees are vetted as much as any CIA recruit, if not more. I can assure you you’re barking up the wrong tree. Surely you understand that a security company such as ours must be careful with our employee information?”

  D’Agosta didn’t like the tone of this man’s voice at all. “Okay, Ingmar, you want to do this the hard way? If you don’t cooperate right now, we’re going to get a court order, we’re going to subpoena your personnel records going back to the birth of George Washington—and we’re going to haul your ass down to One Police Plaza for questioning.”

  He halted, breathing hard. Ingmar returned a cool gaze. “Be my guest. Your five minutes are up, gentlemen. Mr. Blount will show you out.”

  The eager hipster reappeared but now Pendergast, who had said nothing and hadn’t even shown any interest in the conversation, turned to D’Agosta. “May I see that copy of the Post?”

  D’Agosta handed it to him, wondering what the hell Pendergast was up to. The FBI agent unrolled the newspaper before Ingmar and held it up in front of his face. “Surely you read the Post today?”

  Ingmar snatched the paper with disdain, glanced at it, tossed it aside.

  “But you didn’t read Bryce Harriman’s front-page article!”

  “Not interested. Blount, show them out.”

  “You should, because tomorrow’s front page will
feature your company—and you.”

  There was a chill silence. After a moment, Ingmar spoke. “Are you threatening to leak information to the press?”

  “Leak? Not at all. The word is release. The public is clamoring for information on the Cantucci murder. Mayor DeLillo is concerned. Law enforcement has a responsibility to the public to keep them abreast of our progress. You and your company will be the poster boys of that progress.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The leading theory of the crime is that the killer was employed by your company. Your company. That makes you a person of interest yourself. Don’t you love that phrase, a person of interest? So rich with dark suggestion, so full of murky hints—without actually saying anything at all.”

  D’Agosta saw a most remarkable and satisfying change take place on the face of Jonathan Ingmar, the cool, arrogant look vanishing in a swelling of veins and a flushing of skin. “This is sheer defamation. I’ll sue you to within an inch of your life.”

  “It’s only defamation if it isn’t true. And it is, in fact, true: you are indeed a person of interest in this case, especially after your petulant refusal to cooperate. Not to mention keeping us waiting for forty-five minutes in your reception area with only the Kardashians for company!”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Pendergast chuckled in the most grating way. “How clever of you.”

  “I’m calling my attorney.”

  But before Ingmar could act, Pendergast had removed his cell phone and was punching in a number. “Is this the city desk? I should like to speak to Mr. Harriman, please.”

  “Wait! That’s enough. Hang up.”

  Pendergast clicked off the phone. “Now, Mr. Ingmar, do you think we could perhaps impose on you just a few minutes—or perhaps a few hours—longer? Let’s start with the employees who installed the Cantucci system. I’m so glad to hear about your CIA-level vetting process. Please fetch the vetting files for those individuals. Oh, and we’ll also need to have your own file, as well.”

  “I’m going to raise hell about this. You mark my words.”

  D’Agosta spoke up. His dark mood had begun to lift. “Let’s see, Ingmar. What was it you said again? Be my guest. Thank you; we will. So get those files—and get them right now.”

  14

  CURRY DROPPED PENDERGAST off at the Dakota—the FBI agent had some vague excuse as for why he couldn’t accompany them to talk to the dead boy’s father in Piermont—while D’Agosta and Curry proceeded to the West Side Highway, over the George Washington Bridge, and up the Palisades Parkway. The town of Piermont, New York, sat beside Route 9W on the west side of the Hudson River, not far from the New Jersey line. Curry was the most taciturn of sergeants, for which D’Agosta was grateful. While Curry drove, D’Agosta glanced through the files they had copied from Sharps & Gund.

  Two techs had installed the Cantucci system. One was still with the company and looked pretty straight; the other had left four months earlier. Been fired, actually. The guy’s name was Lasher and his personnel file had started out clean when he joined the firm five years back, but in the past year things seemed to have gone downhill. The file was peppered with warning letters regarding lateness; an occasional non-politically-correct observation; and two off-color comments made to female co-workers, both of which they’d reported. The file ended with a report documenting an outburst by Lasher, the specifics left unclear save to say it had been a “furious rant” that had resulted in his immediate dismissal.

  Leaning back in the seat as Curry negotiated a traffic slowdown, D’Agosta’s mood improved still further. This guy Lasher looked like a prime suspect for the Cantucci murder. He seemed just the kind of disgruntled prick who’d retaliate against the company that fired him. Maybe Lasher killed Cantucci himself; or maybe he partnered with the killer, lending his necessary inside expertise. Either way, this was a damn good lead, and he would make sure the guy was interviewed as soon as possible.

  D’Agosta was more than ever convinced the two murders were not at all connected and should be treated as separate cases. As proof of this, totally separate leads were developing nicely on both fronts. The father of the dead kid, Jory Baugh—whom they were on their way to see—was clearly a person of interest in the Ozmian killing. This could be a double win for him, clearing two big cases at the same time. If this didn’t earn him a promotion, nothing would.

  He turned to Curry. “Let me fill you in on this guy in Piermont, Baugh. The dead kid was his only child. Grace Ozmian, the hit-and-run driver whose death we’re investigating, got off practically scot-free. After the boy’s death, the family fell apart. The mother became an alcoholic and eventually committed suicide. The father spent time in a mental clinic and lost his Beverly Hills landscaping business. He moved east six months ago. Works in a bar.”

  “Why move east?” asked Curry. “He got family here?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Curry nodded again. He was a big guy with a round head and a reddish crew cut. He didn’t look smart, and he didn’t talk smart, but D’Agosta had eventually figured out he was smart—damn smart. He just didn’t open his mouth until he had something to say.

  They left the Palisades Parkway for 9W north. It was four o’clock and rush hour was not yet in full swing. In a few minutes they came into the town of Piermont. It was a charming little spot, nestled on the river, with a marina alongside a gigantic pier that gave the town its name, cute wooden houses perched on the hills above the Hudson, and a dramatic view of the Tappan Zee Bridge. D’Agosta pulled out his cell phone and called up Google Maps.

  “The bar’s called The Fountainhead. Right on Piermont Avenue.” He gave Curry directions and moments later they were pulling up to an attractive watering hole. A blustery wind off the Hudson battered them as they exited the car and entered the bar. At quarter past four it was still almost deserted, with a lone bartender behind the bar. He was a big guy, built like a longshoreman, wearing a wifebeater, his muscled arms covered with tats.

  D’Agosta went up to the bar, removed his shield, laid it down. “Lieutenant D’Agosta, NYPD homicide. This is Sergeant Curry. We’re looking for Jory Baugh.”

  The big guy stared at them with cold blue eyes. “You’ve found him.”

  While this surprised D’Agosta, he didn’t show it. He had managed to get a couple of blurry pictures of Baugh from the Internet, but they didn’t look much like this pumped-up bastard. The guy was hard to read: his face was a blank.

  “May we ask you a few questions, Mr. Baugh?”

  “What about?”

  “We’re investigating the murder of Grace Ozmian.”

  Baugh laid down his bar towel, crossed his massive arms, and leaned on the bar. “Shoot.”

  “I just want you to understand that you’re not at present a suspect and this interview is voluntary. If you do become a suspect, we’ll stop the interview and explain your rights to you and give you the opportunity to have a lawyer present. Do you understand?”

  Baugh nodded.

  “Can you recall your movements on Wednesday, December 14?”

  The man reached under the bar, pulled out a calendar, glanced at it. “I was working here at the bar from three to midnight. I go to the gym every morning, eight to ten. In between I was at home.” He shoved the calendar back. “Okay?”

  “Is there anyone who can verify your movements?”

  “At the gym. And here at the bar. In between, no.”

  The M.E. had narrowed the time of death to around 10 PM December 14, give or take four hours. To get into the city from here, kill someone, give the victim time to bleed out, shift the body to the garage in Queens, maybe come back a day later to cut off the head…D’Agosta would have to work this one out on paper.

  “You satisfied?” Baugh asked, a note of belligerence creeping into his voice. D’Agosta looked at him. He could feel the man’s anger seething just beneath his skin. A muscle in one of his crossed arms was jumping.

&nb
sp; “Mr. Baugh, why did you move east? Did you have friends or family here in Piermont?”

  Baugh leaned forward on the counter and pushed his face toward D’Agosta. “I threw a dart at a fucking map of the United States.”

  “And it hit Piermont?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Funny how close the dart landed to where your son’s killer was residing.”

  “Hey, listen, pal—you said your name’s D’Agosta, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Listen, Officer D’Agosta. For over a year I’ve been fantasizing about killing the rich bitch who ran over my son and left him bleeding to death in the middle of the street. Oh yeah. I thought of killing her in so many ways you can’t even count them—setting her on fire, breaking every bone in her body with a baseball bat, whittling her into little pieces with a knife. So, yes, it’s funny how close the dart landed. Isn’t it? If you think I killed her, good for you. Arrest me. When my boy died, my life ended anyway. Arrest me and finish the job that you cops and lawyers and judges started last year—the job of destroying my family.”

  This little speech was delivered in a low, menacing tone without the least trace of sarcasm. D’Agosta wondered if the guy had crossed over the line to being a suspect, and decided he had.

  “Mr. Baugh, I’d like to inform you of your rights at this time. You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions, and anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present and may call one now, before we ask you anything further. If you decide to continue answering our questions, you can stop at any time and call an attorney. If you can’t afford one, an attorney will be provided to you. Now, Mr. Baugh, do you understand your rights as I’ve explained them to you?”