City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(36)

“Go ahead,” Ozmian said, turning his gaze away from her intense face to stare out the window as she spoke.

“Our private investigators have submitted a preliminary report on Harriman.”

“Give me the short version.”

“All reporters are of questionable character, so I’ll leave out the minor sins and peccadillos. Aside from being a muckraking, ambulance-chasing, rumormongering, backstabbing journalist, the man is a straight arrow. A preparatory school product who comes from old, old money—money that is petering out with his generation. The bottom line is that he’s clean. No prior convictions. No drugs. He used to be a reporter for the Times, but then—for reasons that aren’t relevant—he made a lateral move to the Post. While that might seem like a career killer, he did very well for himself at the Post. There isn’t anything in there that will give us traction.” A pause. “But…there is one piece of information worthy of special note.”

“Go on.”

“His girlfriend—they had been dating since college—died of cancer about three years ago. He was very active in trying to help her fight it. And after her death, it became a crusade for him. He wrote articles about cancer awareness and possible new cures, and he gave a lot of visibility to various nonprofit cancer prevention groups. Also, even though he doesn’t make much money as a reporter, he made a variety of donations to various cancer causes, some of his own money and some from family trusts, over the years: especially the American Cancer Society. He also set up a small charitable foundation himself in the name of his deceased girlfriend.”

Ozmian waved his hand dismissively. Harriman’s good works held no interest for him. “Why do you say of special note?”

“Only that this interest suggests a point of entry for…extreme leverage. Should the need arise.”

“Has he written anything else about my daughter?”

“No. All his most recent articles have focused on the subsequent killings. He’s milking them for all they’re worth.”

There was a pause while Ozmian contemplated the cityscape beyond his windows.

“How would you like me to proceed?” Alves-Vettoretto asked.

For a long moment, Ozmian remained silent. Then he fetched a deep sigh.

“Nothing yet,” he said. “If these new murders are working him into a lather, maybe he won’t publish any more shit about my Grace. That’s my concern. Fighting this rogue release of our proprietary code is consuming all my time—if he’s no longer a problem, I’d rather not get distracted if I don’t have to.”

“Understood.”

And now, for the first time, Ozmian wheeled around in his chair. “But keep an eye on him—and on what he writes. If necessary, we’ll squash him like the roach that he is: but only if necessary.”

Alves-Vettoretto nodded. “Of course.”

Ozmian turned back around, giving another wave with one hand as he did so. The door opened softly; closed again. But Ozmian barely heard it. He was looking out over the harbor, his mind already far away.





22

EDDY LOPEZ DOUBLE-PARKED the squad car on Fourteenth Street, reported their arrival to the dispatcher, then got out with his partner, Jared Hammer. The two homicide detectives took a moment to check their surroundings. The place, 355 West Fourteenth Street, was an unremarkable five-story brick apartment building next to a funeral home. It was one of those neighborhoods that had suddenly gotten expensive with the rise of the Meatpacking District, but was still dotted here and there with crappy old buildings and rent-controlled apartments filled with sad-sack tenants.

As Lopez contemplated the fa?ade, a cold wind scraped an old piece of newspaper along the street in front of them. The sun had already set, and not even a trace of afterglow stained the western sky. He shivered.

“Getting colder by the minute,” said Hammer.

“Let’s get this over with.” Lopez patted the pocket of his suit jacket, checking for his shield, his weapon, and his cuffs. Then he glanced at his watch and said, out loud: “Arrival five forty-six PM.”

“Copy.”

Lopez knew that D’Agosta was a stickler for paperwork and got pissed off when times were rounded off and details left out. He wanted their report on his desk by seven thirty—less than two hours from now. When Lopez worked backward from seven thirty to the present moment, and figured out what it would take, timewise, to get that report on D’Agosta’s desk, he figured it left them about twenty minutes for the interview. Barely enough to get someone talking.

Maybe the guy, Lasher, wouldn’t be home. At five forty-six on December 23, two days before Christmas, he might be out shopping. He hoped that was the case, because it meant he could get home on time for once, and maybe even do a little Christmas shopping himself.

He went over to the intercom. The apartments were labeled and, sure enough, the one next to 5B said LASHER.

He pressed the buzzer and they waited.

“Who is it?” came a faint voice.

So he was home. Too bad. “Mr. Terence Lasher?”

“Yes?”

“Detectives Lopez and Hammer of the New York City Police Department. We’d like to come up and ask you a few questions.”

Without a response, the door buzzed open. Lopez looked at Hammer and shrugged. This was unusual: normally, there would be a whole bunch of questions after they identified themselves.