City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(21)

The doors weren’t locked. D’Agosta pushed through, Pendergast and Curry following, and he found himself in an elegant, understated reception area, done up in polished hardwoods, with a reception counter twenty feet long, occupied by three receptionists who seemed to be doing nothing but waiting with their hands folded.

“NYPD and FBI here to see Jonathan Ingmar,” said D’Agosta, leaning on the counter and removing his shield. “We have an appointment.”

“Of course, gentlemen,” said one of the receptionists. “Please have a seat.”

D’Agosta didn’t sit and neither did Pendergast or Curry. They waited at the counter as the receptionist made a call.

“Someone will be out shortly,” she said, with a bright-red lipstick smile. “It might be a few minutes.”

On hearing this, Pendergast wandered over to the seating area, sat down, crossed his legs, picked up a magazine, and began flipping the pages. Somehow the nonchalance of it irritated D’Agosta. He stood at the counter for a few minutes, then finally took a seat opposite the agent. “He’d better not keep us waiting.”

“Of course he will. I predict thirty minutes at the very least.”

“Bullshit. I’m just going to go in there, then.”

“You won’t get past the layers of locked doors and pit-bull assistants.”

“Then we’ll get a subpoena and drag his ass down to the station and question him there.”

“A man like the Sharps and Gund CEO will have lawyers who will make that proposition lengthy and difficult.” Pendergast flipped another page of the only magazine in the waiting area. D’Agosta noted it was People, and he seemed to be looking through an article on the Kardashians.

With a sigh, D’Agosta rolled the Post back up and shoved it into his pocket, crossed his arms, and sat back. Sergeant Curry remained standing, impassive.

It wasn’t thirty minutes; it was forty-five. Finally a small, skinny Brooklyn type with a beard, hipster hat, and black silk shirt came to get them. They wound through several layers of ever more elegant and understated offices before being ushered into the presence of Jonathan Ingmar. His office was white and spare, and did not seem to contain any electronic devices beyond an old-fashioned phone sitting on a hectare-size desk. Ingmar was a slender man of about fifty with a boyish face and an untidy mess of blond hair. He had an offensively cheerful look on his face.

By this time, D’Agosta was fighting mad and making a serious effort to control it. It annoyed him that Pendergast seemed so nonchalant, so unbothered, by the extended wait.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” said the Sharps & Gund CEO, waving about a beautifully manicured hand, “but it’s been a busy day.” He glanced at his watch. “I can give you five minutes.”

D’Agosta turned on a handheld recorder and set it on the table, then took out his notebook, flipped it open. “We need a list of all past and present employees who worked on or had anything to do with the Cantucci account.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but our personnel records are confidential.”

“Then we’ll get a court order.”

Ingmar spread his hands. “If you can get such an order, naturally we’ll obey the law.”

“Look, Mr. Ingmar, it’s clear that the Cantucci murder was an inside job—planned and executed by someone who worked for your company and had access to your source code. We’re not going to be happy if you obstruct us.”

“That’s pure speculation, Lieutenant. I run a tight ship here. My employees are vetted as much as any CIA recruit, if not more. I can assure you you’re barking up the wrong tree. Surely you understand that a security company such as ours must be careful with our employee information?”

D’Agosta didn’t like the tone of this man’s voice at all. “Okay, Ingmar, you want to do this the hard way? If you don’t cooperate right now, we’re going to get a court order, we’re going to subpoena your personnel records going back to the birth of George Washington—and we’re going to haul your ass down to One Police Plaza for questioning.”

He halted, breathing hard. Ingmar returned a cool gaze. “Be my guest. Your five minutes are up, gentlemen. Mr. Blount will show you out.”

The eager hipster reappeared but now Pendergast, who had said nothing and hadn’t even shown any interest in the conversation, turned to D’Agosta. “May I see that copy of the Post?”

D’Agosta handed it to him, wondering what the hell Pendergast was up to. The FBI agent unrolled the newspaper before Ingmar and held it up in front of his face. “Surely you read the Post today?”

Ingmar snatched the paper with disdain, glanced at it, tossed it aside.

“But you didn’t read Bryce Harriman’s front-page article!”

“Not interested. Blount, show them out.”

“You should, because tomorrow’s front page will feature your company—and you.”

There was a chill silence. After a moment, Ingmar spoke. “Are you threatening to leak information to the press?”

“Leak? Not at all. The word is release. The public is clamoring for information on the Cantucci murder. Mayor DeLillo is concerned. Law enforcement has a responsibility to the public to keep them abreast of our progress. You and your company will be the poster boys of that progress.”