“Quite by accident. It’s just a few blocks from where I’m staying. It may well be the only decent restaurant in the Hamptons undiscovered by the beautiful people. Sure you won’t change your mind about lunch? I really do recommend the eggs Benedict. Madame Merle makes the best hollandaise sauce I’ve tasted outside Paris: light yet silky, with the merest hint of tarragon.”
D’Agosta shook his head quickly. “You still haven’t told me why you’re out here.”
“As I mentioned, I’ve taken a house here for the week. I’m—what is that phrase?—location scouting.”
“Location scouting? For what?”
“For the, shall we say, convalescence of a friend. You’ll meet her in due course. And now I’d like to hear your story. The last I knew, you were in British Columbia, writing novels. I have to say, I found Angels of Purgatory to be readable.”
“Readable?”
Pendergast waved his hand. “I’m not much of a judge when it comes to police procedurals. My taste for sensational fiction ends with M. R. James.”
D’Agosta thought he probably meant P. D. James but let it pass. The last thing he wanted to do was have a “literary conversation.” He’d had more than enough of those the last few years.
The drinks arrived. D’Agosta took a big gulp of iced tea, found it was unsweetened, tore open a packet of sugar. “My story’s soon told, Pendergast. I couldn’t make a living at writing, so I came home. Couldn’t get my old place back on the NYPD. The new mayor’s downsizing the force, and besides, I’d made more than my share of enemies on the job. I was getting desperate. Heard about the opening in Southampton and took it.”
“I imagine there are worse places to work.”
“Yeah, you’d think so. But after spending a summer chasing people whose dogs have just left a steaming load on the beach, you’d think different. And the people out here—you give a guy a speeding ticket, and the next thing you know, some high-priced lawyer’s down at the station with writs and subpoenas, raising hell. You should see our legal bills.”
Pendergast took a sip of what appeared to be tea. “And how is working with Lieutenant Braskie?”
“He’s an asshole. Totally political. Gonna run for chief.”
“He seemed competent enough.”
“A competent asshole, then.”
He found Pendergast’s cool gaze on him, and he fidgeted. He’d forgotten about those eyes. They made you feel like you had just been stripped of your secrets.
“There’s a part of your story you left out. Back when we last worked together, you had a wife and son. Vincent Junior, I believe.”
D’Agosta nodded. “Still got a son. He’s back in Canada, living with my wife. Well, my wife on paper, anyway.”
Pendergast said nothing. After a moment, D’Agosta fetched a sigh.
“Lydia and I weren’t that close anymore. You know how it is: being on the force, working long hours. She didn’t want to move to Canada to begin with, especially a place as remote as Invermere. When we got there, having me in the house all day long, trying to write . . . well, we got on each other’s nerves. And that’s putting it mildly.” He shrugged, shook his head. “Funny thing was, she grew to like it up there. Seems my moving back here was just about the final straw.”
Madame Merle returned with Pendergast’s order, and D’Agosta decided it was time to change the subject. “What about you?” he asked almost aggressively. “What have you been up to? New York keeping you busy?”
“Actually, I’ve recently returned from the Midwest. Kansas, to be precise, where I was handling a case—a small case, but not without its, ah, interesting features.”
“And Grove?”
“As you know, Vincent, I have an interest—some might call it an unhealthy interest—in unusual homicides. I’ve traveled to places far more distant than Long Island in pursuit of them. A bad habit, but very hard to break.” Pendergast pierced an egg with his knife, and yolk flooded out over the plate. More yellow.
“So, are you official?”
“My freelancing days are over. The FBI is a different place. Yes, I’m official.” And he patted the cell phone in his pocket.
“What’s the hook? I mean, for the feds. Drugs? Terrorism?”
“Just what I told Lieutenant Braskie—possibility of interstate flight. It’s weak, but it will have to serve.” Pendergast leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. “I need your help, Vincent.”
D’Agosta looked over. Was he kidding?
“We made a good team once.”
“But I’m . . .” He hesitated. “You don’t need my help.” He said it more angrily than he meant. He found those damn eyes on him again.
“Not as much as you need my help, perhaps.”
“What do you mean? I don’t need anybody’s help. I’m doing fine.”
“Forgive the liberty, but you are not doing fine.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re working far below your capacity. Not only is that a waste of your talents, but it’s all too clear in your attitude. Lieutenant Braskie seems to be basically decent, and he may be somewhat intelligent, but you do not belong under his supervision. Once he’s chief, your relationship will only grow worse.”