Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(85)

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?”

“Whenever he stepped out of the building, he had Proctor train the telescope on the peephole. At one point, he had me shoot out a bulb on the street at a critical moment. That’s when he tagged the man’s weapon, knew the killer had missed his opportunity for the day. Figured he’d therefore act the next. So last night we had the dummy all ready for him. Proctor handled it perfectly, wheeled it out so just the upper part was visible.”

“But why not just go in and take the guy out beforehand? Why run the risk?”

“No proof, for one thing. On top of that, the guy was barricaded in there—he might have slipped through our fingers. As you said, he was a real pro. And for sure he would have put up resistance. His vulnerable moment was while he was escaping. We just waited for him to run into our trap.”

Hayward nodded. “That explains a lot.”

“Too bad the guy took the suicide route.”

Their first courses arrived, whisked to their table by no less than three waiters, with the sommelier hard on their heels to fill their wineglasses and another functionary to top off their water glasses.

“Now I’ve got a question for you,” said D’Agosta. “How’d you make captain? So fast, I mean.”

“There’s no great mystery. I saw how things were going, so I went and got my M.S. from NYU in forensic psychology. A degree really helps these days—and, of course, it didn’t hurt that I’m a woman.”

“Affirmative action?”

“More like belated action. Once the lid of oppression was lifted off the force by Commissioner Rocker, naturally some of us rose to the surface. They looked around in a panic and realized there weren’t any high-level women on the force—because they’d been discriminating against us forever—and began promoting. I was in the right place at the right time, with the right test scores and credentials.”

“Ambition and talent had nothing to do with it?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She smiled.

“Neither would I.” Vincent sipped his wine. “Where’d you grow up?”

“Macon, Georgia. My dad was a welder, my mom a homemaker. I had an older brother, killed in Vietnam. Friendly fire. I was eight.”

“I’m sorry.”

Hayward shook her head. “My parents never recovered. Dad died a year later, Mom the year after that. Cancer, both of them, but I think it was more from grief. He was their pride and joy.”