“He respects you, too.”
There was a silence.
“So how come you gave up writing?” Hayward asked, shifting the subject back to him. “I thought you had a pretty good career going.”
“Yeah, a career in bankruptcy court. I just couldn’t make it. After two novels, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Lydia—that’s my wife—she couldn’t take it anymore.”
“You’re married?” Her eyes rapidly glanced at his hand, but his wedding ring hadn’t fit for years.
“Yeah.”
“Why am I surprised? All the good guys are taken. Here’s to Lydia.”
She raised her pint. D’Agosta didn’t raise his glass; instead, he said, “We’re separated. She’s still living in Canada.”
“I’m sorry.” She lowered her pint, but she did not look very sorry. Or was it just his imagination?
“You know that threat Bullard made against me?” D’Agosta swallowed. He wasn’t sure why he was telling her this, but he suddenly felt he couldn’t go another minute without getting it off his chest. “He somehow found out my wife was having an affair and told me about it. Along with a lot of other compromising personal information he dug up and threatened to make public.”
“Bastard. In that case, I’m glad Pendergast stuck it to him.” She hesitated. “You want to talk about it?”
“We are talking about it.”
“I’m sorry, Vincent. That’s tough. Is the marriage worth saving?”
“It was over half a year ago. We’ve just been in denial stage.”
“Kids?”
“One. Lives with his mom. Going to college next year on scholarship. Great kid.”
“How long were you married?”
“Twenty-five years. Married right out of high school.”
“God. You sure there isn’t something there worth holding on to?”
“Some good memories. But nothing now. It’s over.”
“Well then, Bullard just did you a favor.” She extended her hand and laid it on his, comfortingly.
D’Agosta looked at her. She was right: in a way, Bullard had done him a favor. Maybe a really big favor.
{ 27 }
Midnight. The boat was still in its slip, the crew aboard, everything ready for a departure at first light. Bullard stood on deck, breathing the night air, looking across the bay toward Staten Island. There was one last thing he had to take care of before weighing anchor. He had made two serious mistakes, and they had to be corrected. The first was impulsively hiring those goons to cap D’Agosta. Damn stupid thing: he knew better than that. If you were going to kill a cop, you had to do it right. The bastard had mouthed off with a few empty threats, and in his nervous state he’d allowed himself to be spooked. Christ, he was jumpy these days. He wasn’t thinking clearly. The fact was, that fat fuck was not his real enemy. He was just a gumshoe. The real enemy was the FBI agent, Pendergast. That man was dangerous as an adder: coiled up, cool, smooth, ready to strike. Pendergast played for keeps, and he was the brains in that team. Kill the brain and the body will die. Get Pendergast and the investigation would go away.
The same rule about cops was even truer for FBI agents. You didn’t kill them unless there was no other way. It almost never made things better. But there were exceptions to every rule, and this was one of them. Bullard could allow nothing—nothing—to interfere with what he had to do.
He went belowdecks. All was quiet. He slipped into a soundproofed room, locked the door behind him, checked his watch. Still a few minutes. He pressed a few buttons, and a videoconferencing screen came to life. Pendergast had made off with one CPU and some of his files, but all his computers were networked, their business-related data folders encrypted. He used public encryption with 2,048-bit keys, unbreakable even by the most powerful computers in the world. He wasn’t worried about what Pendergast might find. He was worried about the man himself.
He pressed a few more keys, and a dim face appeared on the screen. It was a face as smooth and tight as a drum, so thin it looked as if the wet skin had been stretched over the bones and allowed to dry. His head was shaved so smooth there wasn’t even a five o’clock shadow on the scalp. It gave Bullard the creeps. But the man was good. More than good: he was the best there was. He called himself Vasquez.
The man said nothing, offered no greeting, just stared, hands folded, his face expressionless. Bullard eased back in his chair, smiled, although the smile made no difference. The image Vasquez was seeing on-screen was the computer-generated face of a nonexistent person.
Bullard spoke. “The target is Pendergast, first name unknown. Special Agent with the FBI. Lives at 891 Riverside Drive. I want two in the brainpan. I’ll give you a million per bullet.”
“I require full payment in advance,” Vasquez said.
“What if you fail?”
“I don’t.”
“Bullshit. Everyone fails.”