City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(22)
“What do you mean?”
“The leading theory of the crime is that the killer was employed by your company. Your company. That makes you a person of interest yourself. Don’t you love that phrase, a person of interest? So rich with dark suggestion, so full of murky hints—without actually saying anything at all.”
D’Agosta saw a most remarkable and satisfying change take place on the face of Jonathan Ingmar, the cool, arrogant look vanishing in a swelling of veins and a flushing of skin. “This is sheer defamation. I’ll sue you to within an inch of your life.”
“It’s only defamation if it isn’t true. And it is, in fact, true: you are indeed a person of interest in this case, especially after your petulant refusal to cooperate. Not to mention keeping us waiting for forty-five minutes in your reception area with only the Kardashians for company!”
“Are you threatening me?”
Pendergast chuckled in the most grating way. “How clever of you.”
“I’m calling my attorney.”
But before Ingmar could act, Pendergast had removed his cell phone and was punching in a number. “Is this the city desk? I should like to speak to Mr. Harriman, please.”
“Wait! That’s enough. Hang up.”
Pendergast clicked off the phone. “Now, Mr. Ingmar, do you think we could perhaps impose on you just a few minutes—or perhaps a few hours—longer? Let’s start with the employees who installed the Cantucci system. I’m so glad to hear about your CIA-level vetting process. Please fetch the vetting files for those individuals. Oh, and we’ll also need to have your own file, as well.”
“I’m going to raise hell about this. You mark my words.”
D’Agosta spoke up. His dark mood had begun to lift. “Let’s see, Ingmar. What was it you said again? Be my guest. Thank you; we will. So get those files—and get them right now.”
14
CURRY DROPPED PENDERGAST off at the Dakota—the FBI agent had some vague excuse as for why he couldn’t accompany them to talk to the dead boy’s father in Piermont—while D’Agosta and Curry proceeded to the West Side Highway, over the George Washington Bridge, and up the Palisades Parkway. The town of Piermont, New York, sat beside Route 9W on the west side of the Hudson River, not far from the New Jersey line. Curry was the most taciturn of sergeants, for which D’Agosta was grateful. While Curry drove, D’Agosta glanced through the files they had copied from Sharps & Gund.
Two techs had installed the Cantucci system. One was still with the company and looked pretty straight; the other had left four months earlier. Been fired, actually. The guy’s name was Lasher and his personnel file had started out clean when he joined the firm five years back, but in the past year things seemed to have gone downhill. The file was peppered with warning letters regarding lateness; an occasional non-politically-correct observation; and two off-color comments made to female co-workers, both of which they’d reported. The file ended with a report documenting an outburst by Lasher, the specifics left unclear save to say it had been a “furious rant” that had resulted in his immediate dismissal.
Leaning back in the seat as Curry negotiated a traffic slowdown, D’Agosta’s mood improved still further. This guy Lasher looked like a prime suspect for the Cantucci murder. He seemed just the kind of disgruntled prick who’d retaliate against the company that fired him. Maybe Lasher killed Cantucci himself; or maybe he partnered with the killer, lending his necessary inside expertise. Either way, this was a damn good lead, and he would make sure the guy was interviewed as soon as possible.
D’Agosta was more than ever convinced the two murders were not at all connected and should be treated as separate cases. As proof of this, totally separate leads were developing nicely on both fronts. The father of the dead kid, Jory Baugh—whom they were on their way to see—was clearly a person of interest in the Ozmian killing. This could be a double win for him, clearing two big cases at the same time. If this didn’t earn him a promotion, nothing would.
He turned to Curry. “Let me fill you in on this guy in Piermont, Baugh. The dead kid was his only child. Grace Ozmian, the hit-and-run driver whose death we’re investigating, got off practically scot-free. After the boy’s death, the family fell apart. The mother became an alcoholic and eventually committed suicide. The father spent time in a mental clinic and lost his Beverly Hills landscaping business. He moved east six months ago. Works in a bar.”
“Why move east?” asked Curry. “He got family here?”
“Not that I know of.”
Curry nodded again. He was a big guy with a round head and a reddish crew cut. He didn’t look smart, and he didn’t talk smart, but D’Agosta had eventually figured out he was smart—damn smart. He just didn’t open his mouth until he had something to say.
They left the Palisades Parkway for 9W north. It was four o’clock and rush hour was not yet in full swing. In a few minutes they came into the town of Piermont. It was a charming little spot, nestled on the river, with a marina alongside a gigantic pier that gave the town its name, cute wooden houses perched on the hills above the Hudson, and a dramatic view of the Tappan Zee Bridge. D’Agosta pulled out his cell phone and called up Google Maps.
“The bar’s called The Fountainhead. Right on Piermont Avenue.” He gave Curry directions and moments later they were pulling up to an attractive watering hole. A blustery wind off the Hudson battered them as they exited the car and entered the bar. At quarter past four it was still almost deserted, with a lone bartender behind the bar. He was a big guy, built like a longshoreman, wearing a wifebeater, his muscled arms covered with tats.