“A Picnic Boat.”
Pendergast broke in. “Are you referring to the Hinckley Picnic Boat, the kind with the jet drive?”
“That’s right.”
“With the 350-horsepower Yanmar or the 420?”
“The 420.”
“With a top speed of over thirty knots, I believe?”
“That’s about right.”
“And a draft of eighteen inches.”
“So they claim.”
Pendergast settled back, ignoring Hayward’s look. He’d clearly snuck in some research while Bullard was being processed.
D’Agosta picked up the line of questioning. “So after receiving the phone call, you could have gotten into your Picnic Boat and headed uptown. You could’ve landed the boat just about anywhere along the Manhattan shoreline with a draft like that. And the jet drive would give you maneuverability to go sideways, reverse, whatever. Am I right?”
“My client has already said he was on his yacht that night,” the lawyer said, equally pleasantly. “Next question?”
“Were you alone all night, Mr. Bullard?”
This prompted another trip to the hall.
“Yes, I was alone,” Bullard said when they returned. “They keep track at the marina; they can verify I didn’t leave the yacht all night or take the Picnic Boat out of its berth.”
“We’ll check that,” said D’Agosta. “So you chitchatted with Cutforth about the weather for thirty minutes, just hours before he was murdered?”
“I don’t believe we talked about the weather, Sergeant.” There was a look of triumph in Bullard’s eyes. He was winning again.
Pendergast asked, “Mr. Bullard, are you about to leave the country?”
Bullard looked at Marchand. “Do I have to answer that?”
Another trip to the hall. When Bullard came back, he said, “Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
“That question falls outside the scope of the subpoena,” said the lawyer. “My client wants to cooperate, but he also asks you to respect his privacy. You have already stated he is not a suspect.”
Pendergast spoke to the lawyer. “Perhaps not a suspect. But your client may be a material witness, and it would not be beyond the bounds of probability he might be asked to surrender his passport—temporarily, of course.”
D’Agosta had his eyes on Bullard’s face and—even though he was expecting a change—he was startled by how dark it became. He seemed about to burst out again.
The lawyer smiled pleasantly. “An utterly absurd statement, Mr. Pendergast. Mr. Bullard will in no way be restrained in his movements. I am surprised and consider it most improper that you have even mentioned such a possibility, which might be construed as a threat.”
Hayward cast a dark glance at Pendergast. “Mr. Pendergast—”
Pendergast held up his hand. “Mr. Bullard, do you believe in the existence of the devil?”
Something flickered across Bullard’s face, some swift and powerful emotion, but it went by too fast for D’Agosta to get a sense of what it was. Bullard took his time leaning back in the chair, crossing his legs, smiling. “Of course not. Do you?”
The lawyer stood up. “It seems we’ve reached the end of our questions, gentlemen.”
There was no contradiction. The lawyer handed around his card with smiles and handshakes. “The next time you need to communicate with Mr. Bullard,” he said, “do so through me. Mr. Bullard is going abroad.” He gave Pendergast a pointed smile.
“That,” said Pendergast very quietly, “remains to be seen.”
{ 26 }
Bullard and his lawyer had left, shoving their way through a second throng of shouting reporters. Pendergast had disappeared, too, leaving D’Agosta alone with Hayward. They were now lingering in the mud-colored lobby of Police Plaza. He had something he wanted to say; and so, it seemed, did she.
“Did Bullard really threaten you, Sergeant?” she asked.
D’Agosta hesitated.
“Just for my own information, off the record. I’m not asking you to tell tales out of school.”
“In a way, yes.” They began walking side by side toward the building’s exit. Outside, the remaining news teams were grudgingly packing up. The sky in the west was smeared with red. As he walked, D’Agosta could almost feel waves of heat radiating from Hayward. She was clearly still pissed off.
“What kind of threat?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.” I know all about that wife of yours in Canada. The image of Chester Dominic’s smooth-shaven face came unbidden to his mind. It couldn’t be true. Well, on second thought, it could be true—they had been apart for a long time. The marriage was over—who was he fooling? But not Chester Dominic, with that cheesy shit-eating grin and the phony car-salesman cheer. And the polyester suits. Jesus. Anybody but him.