“Is he a suspect?”
“No. But he’s an important witness.”
“I see. And this implied threat of blackmail—what’s that all about?”
“It’s a goddamned—,” Bullard began.
The lawyer cut Bullard off with a wave of his hand.
“The threat was made in my presence,” Pendergast spoke up. “Mr. Bullard made a second threat, just before you arrived, for the benefit of the video recorder.”
“You’re a damned liar—”
“Not one more word, Mr. Bullard. I believe you’ve said more than enough as it is.”
“For Christ’s sake, George, these men are—”
“Quiet.” The lawyer spoke pleasantly, but there was a curious emphasis in his tone.
Bullard fell silent.
“My client,” the lawyer said, “is anxious to cooperate. Here’s how it will work. First, you will ask the question. Then, if necessary, I will confer privately with my client in the hall. And then he will give his response. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Hayward. “Swear him in.”
They went through the process, the civilian administrator presiding, Bullard grunting his responses. At the conclusion, he turned again to his lawyer. “Damn it, George, you’re supposed to be on my side!”
“My client and I need to confer privately.”
Marchand took Bullard out into the hallway. A minute later they were back.
“First question,” the lawyer said.
D’Agosta stepped forward, glanced down at his notes, and droned out, in his most stolid cop voice: “Mr. Bullard, on October 16, 2:02 A.M., Jeremy Grove called you. You spoke with him for forty-two minutes. What did you talk about? Start at the beginning and proceed through the call.”
“I already—” He stopped when Marchand laid a firm hand on his shoulder. They went out into the hall again.
“You’re not going to let him do this with every question, are you?” D’Agosta asked.
“Yes, I am,” said Hayward. “He has a right to a lawyer.”
The two men returned. “Grove called me to chat,” Bullard said. “A social call.”
“That late?”
Bullard looked at his lawyer and the lawyer nodded.
“Yes.”
“What did you chat about?”
“Just like I told you before. Pleasantries. How he was doing, how I was doing, how the family was doing, how the dog was doing, that sort of thing.”
“What else?”
“I don’t recall.”
Silence. “Mr. Bullard. You talked for forty-two minutes about your dogs, then within hours Grove is murdered.”
“That wasn’t a question,” said the lawyer crisply. “Next.”
D’Agosta found Hayward’s rather penetrating gaze on him. He turned the page.
“Where were you during this call?”
“On my yacht. Cruising the sound.”
“How many crew were on board with you?”
“I went out without a crew. The yacht’s computerized, I do it all the time.”
There was a brief but significant silence.
“How did you meet Grove?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Was he a close friend?”
“No.”
“Did you have any business dealings with him?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I don’t recall.”
“So why would he call you then?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
This was bullshit. It was the same runaround as before. D’Agosta moved on to the next call.
“On October 22, at 7:54 P.M., Nigel Cutforth placed a call to your home number. Did you take the call?”
Bullard glanced at the lawyer, who nodded.
“Yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
“It was also a social call. We talked about mutual friends, family, news, that sort of thing.”
“Dogs?” D’Agosta asked sarcastically.
“I don’t remember if we talked about dogs.”
Pendergast suddenly broke in. “Do you, in fact, have a dog, Mr. Bullard?”
There was a short silence. Hayward cast Pendergast a warning glance.
“I was speaking metaphorically. We talked about trivial social things, is what I meant.”
D’Agosta resumed. “Cutforth was murdered just a few hours after you hung up the telephone. Did he seem nervous to you?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Did he express any sense to you that he was afraid?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Did he ask for your help?”
“I don’t recall.”
“What was your relationship to Mr. Cutforth?”
“Superficial.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
A hesitation. “I don’t recall.”
“Did you ever have any business or other dealings with Mr. Cutforth?”
“No.”
“How did you first meet?”
“I don’t recall.”
“When did you first meet?” Pendergast smoothly interjected.
“I don’t remember.”
This was worse than bullshit. The lawyer, George Marchand, was looking more and more satisfied. D’Agosta wasn’t going to let it go at this.
“After Cutforth’s call, you spent the rest of the night on your yacht?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a power launch?”
“Yes.”
“Was it stowed?”
“No. It was docked next to the yacht.”
“What kind of launch?”