City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(23)

D’Agosta went up to the bar, removed his shield, laid it down. “Lieutenant D’Agosta, NYPD homicide. This is Sergeant Curry. We’re looking for Jory Baugh.”

The big guy stared at them with cold blue eyes. “You’ve found him.”

While this surprised D’Agosta, he didn’t show it. He had managed to get a couple of blurry pictures of Baugh from the Internet, but they didn’t look much like this pumped-up bastard. The guy was hard to read: his face was a blank.

“May we ask you a few questions, Mr. Baugh?”

“What about?”

“We’re investigating the murder of Grace Ozmian.”

Baugh laid down his bar towel, crossed his massive arms, and leaned on the bar. “Shoot.”

“I just want you to understand that you’re not at present a suspect and this interview is voluntary. If you do become a suspect, we’ll stop the interview and explain your rights to you and give you the opportunity to have a lawyer present. Do you understand?”

Baugh nodded.

“Can you recall your movements on Wednesday, December 14?”

The man reached under the bar, pulled out a calendar, glanced at it. “I was working here at the bar from three to midnight. I go to the gym every morning, eight to ten. In between I was at home.” He shoved the calendar back. “Okay?”

“Is there anyone who can verify your movements?”

“At the gym. And here at the bar. In between, no.”

The M.E. had narrowed the time of death to around 10 PM December 14, give or take four hours. To get into the city from here, kill someone, give the victim time to bleed out, shift the body to the garage in Queens, maybe come back a day later to cut off the head…D’Agosta would have to work this one out on paper.

“You satisfied?” Baugh asked, a note of belligerence creeping into his voice. D’Agosta looked at him. He could feel the man’s anger seething just beneath his skin. A muscle in one of his crossed arms was jumping.

“Mr. Baugh, why did you move east? Did you have friends or family here in Piermont?”

Baugh leaned forward on the counter and pushed his face toward D’Agosta. “I threw a dart at a fucking map of the United States.”

“And it hit Piermont?”

“Yeah.”

“Funny how close the dart landed to where your son’s killer was residing.”

“Hey, listen, pal—you said your name’s D’Agosta, right?”

“Right.”

“Listen, Officer D’Agosta. For over a year I’ve been fantasizing about killing the rich bitch who ran over my son and left him bleeding to death in the middle of the street. Oh yeah. I thought of killing her in so many ways you can’t even count them—setting her on fire, breaking every bone in her body with a baseball bat, whittling her into little pieces with a knife. So, yes, it’s funny how close the dart landed. Isn’t it? If you think I killed her, good for you. Arrest me. When my boy died, my life ended anyway. Arrest me and finish the job that you cops and lawyers and judges started last year—the job of destroying my family.”

This little speech was delivered in a low, menacing tone without the least trace of sarcasm. D’Agosta wondered if the guy had crossed over the line to being a suspect, and decided he had.

“Mr. Baugh, I’d like to inform you of your rights at this time. You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions, and anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present and may call one now, before we ask you anything further. If you decide to continue answering our questions, you can stop at any time and call an attorney. If you can’t afford one, an attorney will be provided to you. Now, Mr. Baugh, do you understand your rights as I’ve explained them to you?”

At this Baugh began to laugh: a low rumble that finally emerged as a deep dog-like bark. “Just like on TV.”

D’Agosta waited.

“You want to hear that I understand?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, here’s what I understand: when my kid was hit and left to die, and they found out the driver was Grace Ozmian, the concern of everyone shifted. Like that.” Baugh snapped his fingers so hard D’Agosta had to fight not to flinch. “The cops, the lawyers, the insurance people, their concern was suddenly for her and all the money, power, and influence her daddy began throwing around. Nothing for me and my family—oh, he’s just a fucking gardener. Ozmian gets sentenced to two months flipping pancakes and the records are deep-sixed, while I’m sentenced to losing my family forever. So you want to know what I understand? What I understand is that the criminal justice system in this country is fucked. It’s for the rich. The rest of us poor bastards get nothing. And so if you’re here to arrest me, then arrest me. Nothing I can do about it.”

D’Agosta asked calmly: “Did you kill Grace Ozmian?”

“I think I need that free lawyer you promised me now.”

D’Agosta stared at the guy. At this point he didn’t have enough evidence to take him into custody. “Mr. Baugh, you can call legal services—” he wrote down the number—“anytime. I’m going to verify your alibi for the evening of December fourteenth, which means we’ll be speaking to your employer, interviewing patrons of the bar, and consulting the tapes from that security camera up in the corner there.” He pointed. They had already put in a subpoena for the security tapes with the bar’s owner and he knew they were safe; D’Agosta hoped Baugh would do something stupid and try to destroy them.