City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(58)

“But that can’t be! It knocks the hell out of our motive.”

“Ah, but it is not ‘our’ motive.”

“You don’t buy it?”

Pendergast hesitated. “There is indeed a motive for these murders. But it is not the motive that you, the NYPD, and all of New York seem to believe.”

“I…” D’Agosta began, then stopped. He felt deflated, manipulated, kept in the dark. It was typical Pendergast, but in this instance he felt dissed—and it made him irritated. More than irritated. “Oh, I get it—you’ve got a better theory. One that you’ve been keeping, as usual, from everyone.”

“I am never arbitrary. There is always a method to my mystifications.”

“So let’s hear this dazzling theory of yours.”

“I didn’t say I had a theory; I only said yours was wrong.”

At this D’Agosta laughed harshly. “Well, shit, then go knock yourself out chasing your theories. I know what I’ve got to do!”

If Pendergast was surprised by this outburst, it manifested itself only in a slight widening of his pale eyes. He said nothing, but after a second or two merely nodded, turned silently on his handmade English shoes, and began making his way down Second Avenue.





39

THIS TIME, WHEN Pendergast arrived for a visit to the DigiFlood campus, his Rolls-Royce was not ushered into Anton Ozmian’s personal parking space, or even into the corporate garage at all; rather, Proctor was forced to double-park in the maze of streets of Lower Manhattan. Nor was Pendergast whisked heavenward in a private elevator; rather, he was obliged to slip in with the rest of the masses at the building’s main entrance and present himself at security. His FBI credentials were sufficient to get him past the three guards at the checkpoint and onto an elevator to the top floor, but there, at the entrance to the Zen-like executive suite, he was met by two hulking men, squeezed into dark suits, who both appeared able to crack Brazil nuts between their knuckles.

“Special Agent Pendergast?” said one in a gruff voice, looking at a text message on his cell phone as he spoke.

“Indeed.”

“You don’t have an appointment to see Mr. Ozmian.”

“I have tried several times to make just such an appointment, but, alas, without success. I thought perhaps appearing here in person might precipitate a more favorable result.”

This volley, delivered in a buttery drawl, bounced off the two men without perceptible effect. “Mr. Ozmian doesn’t see visitors without an appointment.”

Pendergast hesitated a moment for effect. Then, once again, he slipped a pale white hand into his black suit and removed the wallet containing his FBI shield and ID. Letting it drop open, he showed it to first one, then the other, allowing it to remain before each face a good ten seconds. As he did so, he made a show of examining their nameplates and, apparently, committing them to memory.

“An appointment was merely a courtesy,” he said, allowing a little iron to mingle with the butter. “As a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, looking into an active homicide, I go where I please, when I please, as long as I have reasonable suspicion to do so. Now, I suggest you speak to your minders and arrange an audience with Mr. Ozmian without delay. Otherwise, there might be unpleasantness in store for each of you, personally.”

The two men absorbed this a moment, then looked at each other with uncertainty. “Wait here,” one of them said, and he turned and walked across the large waiting area, disappearing through the pair of birchwood doors, while the other stood guard.

It was fifteen minutes before he returned. “Follow us, please.”

They passed through the set of doors into the complex of offices that lay beyond. But instead of making their way through the labyrinth to the final, massive doors that led into Ozmian’s private office, the men steered Pendergast in another direction, toward a side corridor, with every door closed. Stopping at one, the men knocked.

“Come in,” came a voice.

The men opened the door and motioned Pendergast inside, and then, without entering themselves, closed the door behind him. Pendergast found himself inside a well-appointed office with a view of the Woolworth Building and one wall covered floor-to-ceiling with legal tomes. Behind the neat desk sat a thin, balding man with round glasses who looked very much like an owl. He gazed back at Pendergast with a neutral expression. Something like a smile passed briefly across his thin lips before disappearing again.

“Special Agent Pendergast,” the man said in a high, reedy voice. He indicated a few chairs arranged on the far side of the desk. “Please sit down.”

Pendergast did so. From three security staffers, to two bodyguards, to one lawyer—an interesting progression.

“My name is Weilman,” the man said from across the desk. “Counsel to Mr. Ozmian.”

Pendergast inclined his head.

“I’m told you informed Mr. Ozmian’s, ah, staffers that, in pursuing your job as a special agent of the FBI, you have the right to come and go as you please and to interview whoever you are in the mood to speak with. Mr. Pendergast, you and I both know that is not the case. I have no doubt that Mr. Ozmian would be happy to speak to you—assuming that you have a court order on your person.”

“I do not.”

“I’m so sorry, then.”