City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(20)
He ate alone, in his large office overlooking the watery expanse of the Hudson River, rolling along in the reddish predawn light like a sheet of liquid steel. A soft knock came at the door, and an assistant carried in a stack of the morning’s newspapers, which he laid down on the granite desk, and then soundlessly vanished. Ozmian sorted through them, glancing over the headlines in the usual order: the Wall Street Journal, the Financial Times, the New York Times, and the New York Post.
The Post was the last on his list, and he read it not for its news value but as a matter of anthropological interest. As his eye fell on the cover page and its usual seventy-two-point headline, he froze.
ROAD KILL
Drunk Ozmian girl in past hit-and-run
By Bryce Harriman
Grace Ozmian, the recently murdered and decapitated daughter of dot-com mogul Anton Ozmian, struck an eight-year-old boy with her BMW X6 Typhoon in Beverly Hills in June of last year. She fled the scene of the accident, leaving the boy dying in the street. A witness obtained the license plate number, and local police stopped and arrested her two miles from the scene. A blood test determined she had a blood-alcohol content of .16, twice the legal limit.
Her father, billionaire CEO of DigiFlood, subsequently hired a team of lawyers from one of LA’s most expensive law firms, Crosbie, Whelan & Poole, to defend his daughter. She was sentenced to a mere 100 hours of community service, and the case records were sealed. Her community service consisted of buttering toast and serving pancakes at a homeless shelter in downtown Los Angeles two mornings a week…
Ozmian’s hands began to shake as he read the story, first word to last. Soon the shaking was so violent he had to lay the paper down on the desk and let go of it to finish. When he was done, he rose and, with a scream of inchoate rage, picked up the glass mug of tea and hurled it across the room, directly at a Jasper Johns painting of an American flag. The glass shattered, cutting through the canvas and leaving a brown splash across it.
An urgent knock came at the door. “Stay the fuck out!” he screamed, while at the same time casting about, snatching up a two-pound nickel-iron meteorite, and heaving it at the Johns, where it ripped through the image, splitting it in half and knocking the painting from the wall. Finally, he seized a small bronze Brancusi sculpture and gave the broken picture, now lying on the floor, a few shredding blows, thus completing its destruction.
He stopped, chest heaving, and let the Brancusi drop to the carpet. The obliteration of the painting he had bought for twenty-one million dollars at Christie’s had the effect of helping him master his anger. He stood motionless, controlling his breathing, letting the fight-or-flight hormones subside, waiting for his heart rate to come back down. When he felt he had returned to a physiologically stable state, he went back over to the granite desk and examined the Post article again. There was an essential detail he had overlooked on the first reading: the byline.
And there it was: Bryce Harriman. Bryce Harriman.
He punched the intercom button. “Joyce, I want Isabel in my office immediately.”
He went over to the Johns and looked down at it. A total loss. Twenty-one million dollars, and of course there was no way he could collect the insurance, having destroyed it himself. But he found a strange satisfaction in having done so. Twenty-one million dollars didn’t even begin to plumb the ocean of his anger. This Bryce Harriman was going to understand, very soon, just how deep that ocean was—because, if necessary, he would drown the bastard in it.
13
D’AGOSTA HAD CATEGORICALLY refused a ride in Pendergast’s Rolls-Royce while on duty—how would that look?—and as a result Pendergast rode with him in his squad car, silent and displeased. He hadn’t worked with Pendergast this closely in a while, and he’d forgotten what a pain in the ass the FBI agent could be.
As Sergeant Curry drove them through stop-and-go traffic on the Long Island Expressway, D’Agosta unrolled the copy of the Post he’d picked up that morning and looked at the screaming headline yet again. Singleton had reamed him out that morning for not getting to Izolda Ozmian before Harriman did and putting the fear of God into her about talking to the press. The story had been craftily designed to capture the public’s attention, raise the level of hysteria, and ensure Harriman a steady stream of “exclusive” stories to come. It had put D’Agosta in a ferocious mood that morning, which had only deepened as the day progressed. He told himself there was nothing he could do about the piece and that he should just move forward and solve the case as quickly as possible. They’d already tracked down the location where the dead boy’s father had settled—Piermont, New York, where he worked as a bartender. After they finished with this interview in Long Island, Piermont would be D’Agosta’s very next stop.
As they pulled into the half-empty mall in Jericho that contained the offices of Sharps & Gund, D’Agosta felt surprise that a big-time security outfit would have its headquarters in such a place. It seemed they had taken over the far end of the mall, occupying a space that was once an anchor store, and he could even see the faint SEARS outline on the now-blank exterior wall. There was nothing to indicate it was even occupied, save a row of reserved parking spaces full of cars—nice cars. Very nice cars. It appeared that not only was Sharps & Gund discreet—it was downright invisible.
Sergeant Curry pulled into a visitor space and they got out. It was a cold, gray day, and a bitter wind scraped an old plastic bag across the pavement before them as they approached the double glass doors. Here, finally, was a small Sharps & Gund logo. Discreet, tasteful.