City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(43)
“Not yet. We’ve routed all relevant material to them, of course, but normally it takes a couple of weeks to get results. We’ve escalated our request, however, and we hope to have something in two days.”
“Two days? Jesus.”
“I’ll do everything I can to hurry it up.”
The mayor swept up yesterday’s copy of the Post and waved it at them. “What about this? This Harriman story? Why didn’t you see this possibility yourselves? Why does it take a goddamn reporter to come up with a viable theory?”
“We’re absolutely looking into it.”
“Looking into it. Looking into it! I got three bodies. Three headless bodies. Three rich, notorious, headless bodies. And I have a cop on life support. I don’t need to tell you the kind of heat I’m getting.”
“Mr. Mayor, there isn’t any hard evidence yet backing up Harriman’s idea it’s a vigilante, but we’re investigating that possibility—just as we’re looking at many others.”
The mayor dropped the paper back on the desk in disgust. “This theory that we’ve got some kind of crusading psycho out there, raining down judgment on the wicked, has really struck a chord. You know that, right? A lot of people in this town—important people—are getting nervous. And there are others cheering the killer on like some kind of serial-killer Robin Hood. We can’t have this threat to the social fabric. This is not Keokuk or Pocatello: this is New York, where we have everyone under the sun finally living in harmony, enjoying the lowest crime rate of any big city in America. I am not going let that come apart on my watch. You got that? Not on my watch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s a joke. Forty detectives, hundreds of beat cops—one footprint! If I don’t see immediate progress, there will be hell to pay, Lieutenant. And Captain.” He thumped the desk with a massive, veined hand, looking from one to the other. “Hell to pay.”
“Mr. Mayor, we’re pulling out all the stops, I promise you.”
The mayor took a deep breath, his massive frame swelling, and then exhaled with a dramatic rush of air. “Now get out there and bring me something better than a damned footprint.”
29
WHEN ALVES-VETTORETTO entered her boss’s eyrie on the top floor of the DigiFlood tower, Anton Ozmian was sitting behind his desk, typing furiously at a laptop computer. He glanced up without stopping, eyed her through his steel-rimmed glasses, and nodded almost imperceptibly. She took a seat in one of the chrome-and-leather chairs and settled in to wait. The typing went on—sometimes fast, sometimes slow—for another five minutes. Then Ozmian pushed the laptop away, put his elbows on the black granite, and stared at his aide-de-camp.
“The SecureSQL takeover?” Alves-Vettoretto asked.
Ozmian nodded, massaging the graying hair at his temples. “Just had to make sure the poison pill was in place.”
She nodded. Ozmian enjoyed hostile takeovers almost as much as he enjoyed firing his own employees.
Now Ozmian came out from behind the desk and took a seat in one of the other chrome-and-leather chairs. His tall, thin frame seemed strung tight as a bowstring, and she could guess why.
Ozmian gestured at a tabloid that sat on the table between them: a copy of the Christmas edition of the Post. “I assume you saw this,” he said.
“I did.”
The entrepreneur picked it up, face contorting into a grimace as if he were handling dogshit, and turned to page three. “‘Grace Ozmian,’” he quoted, his voice full of barely controlled rage. “‘Twenty-three-year-old party girl with no greater aspiration in life than to spend Daddy’s cash, indulge in illegal drug use, and lead a parasitic lifestyle when she’s not in court getting slapped on the wrist for the hit-and-run killing of an eight-year-old boy while driving drunk.’” With a sudden violent gesture, he tore the tabloid in two, then into four, and then threw it dismissively on the floor. “That Harriman just won’t let it rest. I gave him a chance to shut up and move on. But the shit-eating bastard keeps rubbing my face in it, tarnishing my daughter’s good name. Well, his chance has come and gone.”
“Very good.”
“You know what I’m saying, right? The time has come to swat him—swat him flat as a mosquito. I want this to be the last filth the scumbag will ever write about my daughter.”
“Understood.”
Ozmian eyed his deputy. “Do you? I’m not just talking about putting a scare into him. I want him neutralized.”
“I will make sure of that.”
A twitch of the lips that might have been a smile passed quickly across Ozmian’s narrow face. “I presume that, since we last talked about this issue, you’ve been considering an appropriate response.”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“I have something rather exquisite. Not only will it accomplish the desired task, but it will do so with an irony I think you’ll appreciate.”
“I knew I could count on you, Isabel. Tell me about it.”
Alves-Vettoretto began to explain, Ozmian leaned back in his chair, listening to her cool, precise voice lay out the most delicious plan. As she continued, the smile returned to his face; only this time it was genuine, and it lingered for a long time.