She felt relieved he hadn’t said what she expected. They clinked glasses. She sipped, looking at him while he studied the menu the waiter had left. It seemed he’d slimmed down a bit since she first ran into him at Cutforth’s apartment. He’d mentioned something about working out every day, and it was pretty evident he wasn’t kidding. Working out and shooting at the 27th Precinct range. She took in his hard, clean jawline, jet-black hair, soft brown eyes. He had a nice face, a really nice face. He seemed to be that rarest of finds in New York: a genuinely decent guy. With strong, old-fashioned values, solid, kind, steady—but no wimp, as proved by his surprise performance three nights before in her office . . .
She found herself blushing and tingling at the same time, and she covered it by raising her own menu. She glanced over the list of main courses and was horrified to see that the cheapest, the paupiette of black sea bass, was thirty-nine dollars. The cheapest appetizer was twenty-three dollars, for the braised pigs’ feet and cheeks (no, thank you). Her eye looked in vain for anything under twenty dollars, finally coming to rest on the dessert menu, where the first item that caught her eye—a donut!—was ten dollars. Well, there was no help for it. She swallowed and began picking out her dishes, trying to avoid adding up the sums in her head.
Vincent was looking over the wine list, and she had to admit he hadn’t lost any color, at least not yet. In fact, he seemed positively expansive.
“Red or white?” he asked.
“I think I’m going to have fish.”
“White, then. The Cakebread Chardonnay.” He shut the menu and smiled at her. “This is fun, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never been in a restaurant like this in my life.”
“Me neither, to tell you the truth.”
By the time their table was ready, fifteen minutes later, the bottle of champagne was half gone and Hayward was feeling no pain. The ma?tre d’ seated them in the first dining room, a spacious chamber done in opulent Second Empire style with gilded moldings, high windows with silk brocade draperies, and crystal chandeliers, the effect curiously enhanced by suspended neon lighting and several floral arrangements as large as small elephants. The only drawback was the large party next to them, a table of loud people from one of the outer boroughs—Queens, by the accent. Well, you can’t bar people at the door because they have the wrong accent, she thought.
D’Agosta ordered for them, and Hayward was once again impressed with his self-assurance, which she hadn’t expected, especially in a place like this.
“Where’d you learn so much about haute cuisine?” she asked.
“Are you kidding?” D’Agosta grinned. “I recognized about half the words on the menu. I was just winging it.”
“Well, you could have fooled me.”
“Maybe it’s all the time I’m spending with Pendergast. He’s rubbing off on me.”
She nudged him. “Isn’t that Michael Douglas in the corner?”
He turned. “So it is.” Turned back, unimpressed.
She nodded. “And look who’s over there.” A woman sat in a quiet corner by herself, eating a plate of french fries, dipping each one in a large dish of ketchup and pushing them into her mouth with evident satisfaction.
D’Agosta stared. “She kinda looks familiar. Who is she?”
“You been living under a rock? Madonna.”
“Really? Must’ve dyed her hair or something.”
“This would make a great scene in a novel. Maybe your next.”
“There won’t be a next.”
“Why not? I loved those two books you wrote. You’ve got real talent.”
He shook his head. “Talent—maybe. My problem is, I don’t have the touch.”
“What touch?”
He rubbed his fingers together. “The money touch.”
“A lot of people never get one novel published. You got two. And they were good. You can’t give it up totally, Vinnie.”
He shook his head. “Did I ever tell you this isn’t my favorite subject?”
“I’ll drop it if you want. For now. I actually wanted to ask you a question. I know we shouldn’t be talking shop, but how in the world did Pendergast know that guy—what’s his name, Vasquez—was gunning for him? Interpol’s been chasing that killer for ten years, and he’s a pro if ever there was one.”
“I could hardly believe it myself. But when he explained, it made perfect sense. Bullard—who was no doubt behind it—felt threatened enough to set two goons on me after our first interview. Pendergast figured Bullard was desperate to leave the country and wouldn’t let anybody stand in his way. He also figured Bullard would try again, this time against him. So he asked himself how a professional killer would do it. The answer was obvious: set yourself up in the vacant building across the street from his house. So right after we took Bullard downtown, Pendergast began watching the boarded-up windows of that building with a telescope. Soon enough, he noticed a fresh hole cut in the plywood. Bingo! That’s when he let me in on it, told me what he was planning to do. Next, Pendergast established a routine so he could control when the man would strike.”
“But how did he have the guts to walk in and out of his house, leaving himself exposed?”