Brimstone

{ 25 }

D'Agosta had to admire the genius that went into maintaining the interrogation section of One Police Plaza. It was perhaps the last place you could smoke in New York City without being arrested, and as a result, the painted cinder-block walls sported a tarry, brownish sheen. They made a point of keeping them grimy. The air was so dead and stale it felt like there must be a corpse hidden somewhere. And the linoleum floor was so old it could have been peeled up and put in a glass case in the Smithsonian.

D'Agosta felt a certain satisfaction in the surroundings. Locke Bullard, still dressed in blue warm-ups and deck shoes, sat in a chair at the greasy metal table, his eyes bloodshot with anger. Pendergast sat across from him, and D'Agosta stood behind, near the door. The civilian interrogations administrator-a mandatory presence these days-stood by the video camera, sucking in his belly and trying to look officious. They were all waiting on Bullard's lawyer, stuck somewhere in the traffic of their own making.

The door opened and Captain Hayward stepped in. As she did so, D'Agosta felt the temperature in the room go down by about twenty degrees. She fastened cold eyes on Pendergast, then on D'Agosta, and motioned them to follow her into the hall.

She led the way to a disused office, ushered them in, closed the door. "Whose idea was the media circus?" she demanded.

"Unfortunately it was the only way," Pendergast answered.

"Don't give me that. This was staged, and you were both producer and director. There must be fifty press outside, every last one following you over from the marina. This is exactly what I didn't want to happen, the kind of hullabaloo I warned you against creating."

Pendergast spoke calmly. "Captain, I can assure you that Bullard left us no choice. For a moment, I thought I would have to handcuff him."

"You should've scheduled a meeting on the boat with his lawyer, so he wouldn't feel ambushed and defensive."

"There's a good chance that more advance warning would have caused him to flee the country."

Hayward expelled an irritated stream of air. "I'm a captain of detectives in the New York City police force. This is my case. Bullard's not a suspect and will not be treated as such." She swiveled to face D'Agosta. "You're going to manage the questioning, Sergeant. I want Special Agent Pendergast to remain well in the background with his mouth shut. He's caused enough trouble as it is."

"As you wish," Pendergast said politely to Hayward's turned back.

When they stepped back into the interrogation room, Bullard rose to his feet, pointing to Pendergast. "You're going to pay for this, both you and your fat fuck gofer here."

"Did you get that on videotape?" Hayward calmly asked the civilian administrator.

"Yes, ma'am. Tape's been rolling since he arrived."

She nodded. Bullard's pupils were pinpoints of hatred.

Silence fell, broken at last by a knock at the door.

"Come in," Hayward called.

The door opened, and a uniformed policeman admitted a man dressed in a charcoal suit. He had short-cropped gray hair, gray eyes, and a pleasant, friendly face. D'Agosta noticed the glint of a half-hidden cross beneath the officer's blue shirt as he turned and closed the door. Hayward may not believe in the devil , he thought, but not all her minions have gotten the message.

"Finally!" Bullard roared out, staring at the lawyer. "Jesus Christ, George, I called you forty minutes ago. Get me the hell out of here."

The lawyer, unruffled, greeted Bullard as if they were all at a cocktail party. Then he turned and shook Pendergast's hand. "George Marchand of Marchand & Quisling. I represent Mr. Bullard." His voice was almost musical in its pleasantness, but his eyes lingered first over Hayward's badge, then D'Agosta's.

"This is my colleague Sergeant D'Agosta."

"How do you do?"

There was a silence as Marchand turned his cool eyes around the room. "The subpoena?"

Pendergast slipped a copy from his black suit and handed it to the lawyer. The man scrutinized it.

"That's your copy," said Hayward. Her voice was deadpan, neutral.

"Thank you. May I ask why this questioning could not be done at Mr. Bullard's convenience in his offices or on his yacht?" He addressed the question in general, to all of them. Hayward nodded toward D'Agosta.

"On an earlier occasion at Mr. Bullard's club, he refused to answer questions. On this particular occasion, he threatened me with what I think a reasonable person might consider implied blackmail. He gave every sign of imminent departure from the country. His information is crucial in our investigation."

"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, 2:02A.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 7:54P.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?"

"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."