Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 37

New York City

LAURA HAYWARD CUT INTO THE RARE, juicy meat, separated it from the bone, and placed a forkful in her mouth. She closed her eyes. “Vinnie, it’s perfection.”

“I just threw it together, but thanks.” D’Agosta waved a dismissive hand, but he turned his attention to his own dinner to hide the pleased look he knew was settling over his face.

D’Agosta had always enjoyed cooking, in a casual, nondemanding bachelor way: meat loaf and barbecue and roast chicken, with the occasional Italian specialty of his grandmother’s thrown in. But since moving in with Laura Hayward, he’d become a much more serious chef. It had started out as a kind of guilt, a way to offset his living in her apartment while not being allowed to contribute to the rent. Later — when Hayward finally acquiesced about splitting the rent — his interest in cooking continued. Part of it was Hayward herself, no slouch when it came to preparing varied and interesting dishes. And part of it, no doubt, was the influence of Agent Pendergast’s unrelievedly gourmet tastes. But another part of it had to do with his relationship with Laura. There was something he found loving about the act and art of cooking, a way for him to express his feelings for her, something more meaningful than flowers or even jewelry. He’d branched out from southern Italy into French cuisine, which had taught him the basic techniques for many noble dishes as well as a fascination for the mother sauces and their countless variations. He’d grown interested in various regional American cuisines. Hayward tended to work longer hours than he did, allowing him time to unwind in the kitchen of an evening, cookbook propped open, working on some new dish, which he would present to her when she arrived, an offering. And the more he did it, the more accomplished he became: his knifework improved; dishes were assembled more quickly and more deftly; he grew increasingly confident in his own variations on master recipes. And so tonight, in which he’d served rack of lamb with a burgundy-pomegranate persillade, he could say, with more than a little truth, that it had been almost effortless.

For a few minutes they ate in silence, enjoying the time together. Then Hayward dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, took a sip of Pellegrino, and spoke with friendly irony. “So: what happened at the office today, dear?”

D’Agosta laughed. “Singleton’s launching yet another of his departmental morale campaigns.”

Hayward shook her head. “That Singleton. Always with the cop-psychology theory du jour.”

D’Agosta took a bite of épinards à la crème. “Corrie Swanson stopped by to see me. Again.”

“This is the third time she’s come to bug you.”

“At first she was a pain, but now we’ve sort of become friends. She keeps asking about Pendergast, what he’s up to, when he’s coming back.”

Hayward frowned. Almost any mention of Pendergast, it seemed, was sufficient to rub her the wrong way, even after their informal partnership earlier that year. “What do you tell her?”

“The truth. That I wish I knew myself.”

“You haven’t heard anything more from him?”

“Not since that call from Edinburgh. When he said he didn’t want my help.”

“Pendergast scares me,” said Hayward. “You know, he gives the impression of being in icy control. But underneath… he’s like a maniac.”

“A maniac who solves cases.”

“Vinnie, a case isn’t exactly solved if the suspect ends up dead. When was the last time Pendergast actually took a case to trial? And now this business about his wife being alive—”

D’Agosta laid down his fork, his appetite gone. “I’d rather you didn’t talk that way about Pendergast. Even if—”

“Even if I’m right?”

D’Agosta didn’t respond. She had touched a nerve; never had he been so worried about his friend.

There was a moment of silence. And then — with some surprise — D’Agosta felt Hayward’s hand close over his.

“I love your loyalty,” she said. “And your integrity. I want you to know I’ve come to respect Pendergast more than I used to, even if I abhor his methods. But you know what? He’s right to shut you out of this one. That man is poison to a career in law enforcement. Your career. So I’m glad you’re following his advice and leaving well enough alone.” She smiled, squeezed his hand. “Now come and help me wash up.”