“Jesus. What does he need a boat like that for?”
“Perhaps he doesn’t care for flying. Or perhaps he likes to operate away from prying ears and eyes. A boat like that makes keeping to international waters easy indeed.”
“Funny, in the last interview with Bullard, I had the impression that he was anxious not to be detained in the country. That maybe he was planning an international trip.”
Pendergast looked at him sharply. “Indeed?” He eased the car toward the second layer of security: the gate into VIP parking, manned by a pugnacious little redheaded security guard with a jutting chin. D’Agosta immediately knew the type. He was the kind who made it a point not to be impressed by anyone or anything: not even a ’59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith.
“Yeah?”
Pendergast hung his shield out the window. “We’re here to see Mr. Locke Bullard.”
The man looked at the badge, looked back at Pendergast. His face was creased with suspicion. “And him?”
D’Agosta passed his own badge to the man.
“What’s it about?”
“Police business.”
“I gotta call.”
The man took the shields back into his cubicle, got on the horn, spoke for a few minutes, came back with the badges and a cordless phone.
“He wants to talk to somebody named D’Agosta.”
“That’s me.”
The man handed him the phone.
“D’Agosta here.”
Bullard’s deep voice filled the wire. “I figured you’d be back.”
At the sound of the voice, D’Agosta immediately felt himself bristle. This was the man who had tried to humiliate him at the Athletic Club; who, just perhaps, had very nearly gotten him shot. Nevertheless, he tried hard to check his temper. “We can either do this nicely,” he said as evenly as possible, “or it can get unpleasant. Up to you, Bullard.”
A burst of laughter sounded at the other end. “You tried that same stale line on me back at the club. Let me tell you something. Since we had that pleasant little chat, I’ve had my people check into you. And now I know all about you. I got every sordid detail of your existence. For example, I know all about that wife of yours in Canada, the one who’s been playing hide the salami behind your back these past six months. The guy’s name is Chester Dominic, and he sells Winnebagos out of Edgewater—and hey, maybe she’s doing him right now. Think about that, huh?”
D’Agosta’s hand tightened around the phone.
“I also got the sales figures on your novels. Last one sold 6,215 copies. Hardcover and paperback. And that’s counting all the copies your mother bought. Watch your back, Stephen King!” More harsh laughter. “Then I got your personnel files from your stint with the NYPD, including your disciplinary records. Interesting reading. And I got your medical and psychiatric records, too, even the ones from Canada. Too bad about those hard-on problems. Maybe that’s why your wife’s spreading her charms for old Chet. And depression, gee, that’s tough. Did you take your Zoloft this morning? Amazing what you can find out when you own an HMO, isn’t it? Reading all this over, a couple of phrases come to mind. Phrases like broken-down. Washed-up. Loser.”
A thin curtain of red seemed to drop before D’Agosta’s eyes. “You’ve just made the mistake of your life, Bullard.”
More laughter and the line went dead.
D’Agosta handed the phone back to the attendant. His face was on fire. The son of a bitch. The son of a bitch. It was illegal—wasn’t it? Digging up that kind of personal information. Bullard had been speaking loudly, and D’Agosta wondered if his voice had carried as far as Pendergast. He swallowed, fought hard to master his rising rage.
“You’re blocking the gate,” said the man in the booth. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Sir.”
“We’ll drive around the block,” Pendergast told the attendant, “and give Mr. Bullard time to change his mind.”
“He’s not going to change his mind.”
Pendergast gave the attendant a long, sympathetic look. “You’ll know when to step aside, I hope? For your own sake, of course.”
“What do you mean?”
Without waiting for an answer, Pendergast put the Rolls in reverse and hit the gas, leaving a satisfying patch of rubber. He turned around in the parking lot, then nosed out onto State Street. He glanced over at D’Agosta. “Are you all right, Vincent?”
“I’m fine,” D’Agosta said through gritted teeth.
Pendergast turned right and began circling the block. “Mr. Bullard, it seems, needs a firmer hand.”
“Yeah.”
Pendergast reached down with one hand and punched in a number on the in-dash cell phone.
A ring sounded over the speaker, then the phone was answered by a familiar voice. “Captain Hayward.”
“Captain? It’s Pendergast. We’re going to need that subpoena and warrant I called you about this morning.”
“On what grounds?”