“You prick.” Bullard dialed, spoke in low tones. When he was done, he handed the phone back to Pendergast.
“I imagine he just told you what I already advised: to keep your mouth firmly closed.” Pendergast smiled.
Bullard said nothing.
Now Pendergast began poking around the grand salon, in a desultory kind of way, peeking here and there, admiring the sporting prints on the walls. It was almost as if he was killing time.
“Are we going?” Bullard finally burst out.
“He’s talking again,” said D’Agosta.
Pendergast nodded absently. “It seems our Mr. Bullard is a man who doesn’t listen to his minders.”
Bullard fell silent, his body shaking with malevolence.
“I think we need more time in here, Sergeant. Just to check things over, you understand.”
“Right.” Though he was still steaming, D’Agosta found he had to conceal a smile. Now he realized what Pendergast was up to.
Pendergast continued strolling about the room, adjusting a newspaper here, looking at a framed lithograph there. Ten more minutes passed as Bullard grew increasingly restive. Now D’Agosta began to hear faint sirens, the distant squawk of a bullhorn. Pendergast picked up a copy of Fortune, flipped through it, laid it back down. He checked his watch. “Do you see anything of interest I might have missed, Sergeant D’Agosta?”
“Have you checked the photo album?”
“An excellent idea.” Pendergast opened the album, flipped through it. At a couple of pages, his hand paused and an intent look came into his face. He seemed to be memorizing faces; at least, it seemed so to D’Agosta.
He shut it with a sigh. “Shall we, Mr. Bullard?”
The man turned and shrugged into a windbreaker, his face dark. Pendergast led the way, followed by Bullard. D’Agosta brought up the rear, battering ram over his shoulder. As they stepped out of the hatch onto the dock, the crowd noise increased dramatically. There was shouting, the whoops of police sirens, the megaphoned voice of an official. Beyond the gates, photographers were jockeying for position. The police were struggling to clear a lane for their vehicles to pass.
Seeing this, Bullard stopped short. “You bastard.” He almost spat the words at Pendergast. “You delayed deliberately, letting this build.”
“Why hide your light under a bushel, Mr. Bullard?”
“Yeah,” said D’Agosta. “And you’re going to look great on the cover of the Daily News with your windbreaker draped over your head.”
{ 24 }
Bryce Harriman headed back uptown behind the wheel of a Post press vehicle. The scene at the lower Manhattan marina had been a disaster. Except for a few rubberneckers, it was New York City press at their finest—swearing, pushing, shoving. It reminded Harriman of the running of the bulls at Pamplona. What a waste of time. Nobody had answered questions, nobody knew anything, nothing but chaos and shouting. He should have gone straight back to his office to write up the scene of Cutforth’s murder rather than wasting time chasing this radio call.
Ahead, the traffic coming in from West Street began to bunch up. He cursed, leaned on his horn. He should’ve taken the subway. At this rate, he wouldn’t reach the office until after five, and he had to file by ten to make the morning edition.
He wrote and rewrote the lead, tearing it up again and again in his head. He thought back to the mob scene in front of Cutforth’s apartment building earlier that afternoon. Those were the people he was writing for: people desperate for the story, hungry for it. And he had an open field, with Smithback gone and the Times treating the story as a kind of local embarrassment.
Cutforth’s murder would be good for one headline, maybe two. But still, he was bound by the whim of the murderer, and there was no way of telling when—or if—the murderer would strike again. He had to have something new.
The traffic parted slightly and he switched lanes, flipping a bird at the blaring horn behind him, switched back, risking his life and those of half a dozen others to get one car length ahead. Flipped another bird. People were such assholes . . .
. . . And then it came to him. The fresh angle. What he needed was an expert to explain, to put it all in perspective. But who? Just as quickly the answer, the second stroke of genius, came as well.
He picked up his cell, dialed his office. “Iris, what’s up?”
“What’s up yourself?” his assistant retorted. “I’ve been as busy as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest answering the phones around here.”
Harriman winced at the jokey, familiar tone she had taken with him. He was supposed to be the boss, not the secretary in the next cubicle.
“You want your messages?” she asked.