Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(49)

“After you, Vincent,” he said.

D’Agosta reached deep down in his memory. What had they taught him at the Academy? Don’t run at the door, swing it into the door. He took a deep breath, gripped the handles as tightly as he could, and heaved the ram forward. The door flew inward with a satisfying smack. Pendergast ducked inside, gun ready, and D’Agosta clambered in behind.

They were in a narrow corridor, with painted bulkheads along one side and smoked-glass windows along the other. Pendergast threw open a door set into the bulkheads, and suddenly they were in the grand salon of the boat, cocooned in plush cream carpeting with black lacquered tables piped in gold trim.

“FBI!” Pendergast barked. “Freeze!”

Bullard stood in the center of the room, wearing a pale blue warm-up suit, cigar in hand, with a look of complete astonishment and—it seemed to D’Agosta—momentary terror.

“Don’t move!”

Bullard recovered immediately, his face reddening, the veins pulsing in his neck. Surprise gave way to ill-concealed rage. He raised the cigar to his thick lips, sucked in a lungful, exhaled. “So. The sorry f*ck brought backup.”

“Keep your hands in view,” Pendergast warned as he advanced, gun aimed.

Bullard spread his hands. “Here’s a scene for your next novel, D’Agosta. Bet you never saw anything like this boat in that slum you grew up in on Carmine Street, with a cheap, poolroom-hustling cop for a father and a mother who—”

D’Agosta rushed at the man but Pendergast was even quicker, interposing himself with lightning speed. “Sergeant, don’t give him what he wants.”

D’Agosta took a strangled breath. He could hardly breathe.

“Come on,” Bullard sneered. “Let’s see if there’s anything at all hanging under that belly of yours. I’m sixty, and I could take your fat ass with one hand.”

Pendergast held D’Agosta’s gaze, shaking his head slowly. D’Agosta swallowed, stepped back.

Pendergast turned and fastened his silvery eyes on Bullard.

“And look at this, an undertaker playing FBI. White trash from the Deep South. Very white, it seems.”

“At your service,” Pendergast said quietly.

Bullard laughed and swelled like a black mamba, stretching the fabric of the warm-up suit. He still had his cigar tucked between two huge spatulate fingers, and now he stoppered the laugh by inserting it between his lips again and blowing a cloud of smoke in their direction.

Pendergast dropped the fax on an ebony table. Then he pointed to a large lacquered panel in the far wall. “Sergeant, open that panel, please.”

“Just one goddamn minute, you need a warrant—”

Pendergast pointed a slender finger at the fax. “Read.”

“I want my lawyer.”

“First, we will secure the premises and obtain the evidence outlined in the warrant. One misstep will mean cuffs and an obstruction-of-justice charge. Is there anyone else on the boat with you?”

“Fuck you.”

D’Agosta went to the panel that Pendergast pointed to, pressed the lone button. The panel slid back to reveal a wall of electronics, a monitor, and a keyboard.

“Seize the CPU.”

D’Agosta pushed the monitor to one side, followed its cabling, and found the box tucked into a niche beneath.

“Don’t you touch my computer.”

Pendergast nodded toward the table. “It’s listed in the warrant, Mr. Bullard.”

D’Agosta yanked the cabling free with a satisfying jerk and hauled out the CPU. He dug into his pocket, pasted evidence labels over the drive bays and the plugs for the mouse and keyboard, set down the box, crossed his arms.

“Are you armed?” Pendergast asked Bullard.

“Of course not.”

Pendergast tucked his Les Baer back into his suit. “All right,” he said, voice low and suddenly pleasant, the southern accent rising like cream. “In addition to the warrant, there’s a subpoena, Mr. Bullard, which I suggest you read.”

“I want my lawyer.”

“Naturally. We’re going to take you to One Police Plaza and question you under oath. You may have a lawyer present at that time.”

“I’m calling my lawyer now.”

“You will remain in the center of the room with your hands in view at all times. You do not have a right to call a lawyer just because you feel like it. When appropriate, you will be permitted to call.”

“My ass. You have no jurisdiction. I’ll pull your badge and eat you for lunch, you albino prick. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“I am sure your lawyer would advise you to dispense with the small talk.”

“I’m not going to One Police Plaza.”

Pendergast unclipped his police radio. “Manhattan South? To whom am I speaking, please? Shirley? This is Special Agent Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m at the East Cove Yacht Harbor, on the yacht of Mr. Locke Bullard—”

“You shut that radio off right now.”

Pendergast’s smooth voice continued. “That’s right, Locke Bullard, on his yacht, the Stormcloud. We’re taking him in for questioning in the Grove and Cutforth murder investigations.”

D’Agosta watched Bullard go white. No doubt he knew that every news organization in New York monitored the police frequencies.