City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(8)

Again, the man’s lips moved. “Murdered?” came the single strangled word.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“She was shot through the heart. Death was instantaneous.”

“Shot? Shot?” The color was starting to come back into his face.

“We will know more in a few days. I’m afraid you have the task of identifying the body. We will of course be glad to escort you there.”

The man’s face was full of confusion and horror. “But…murdered? Why?”

“The investigation is only a few hours old. It appears she was killed four days ago and her body left in the garage.”

Now Ozmian grasped the sides of his chair and rose again to his feet. His face had gone from white to pink and was now turning a fiery red. He stood there for a moment, looking from Pendergast to D’Agosta and back again. D’Agosta could see he was recovering his wits; he sensed the guy was about to explode.

“You,” he began. “You bastards.”

Silence.

“Where was the FBI these past four days? This was your fault—your fault!” His voice, starting out in a whisper, crescendoed by the end into a roar, spittle flecking his lips.

Pendergast interrupted him very quietly. “Mr. Ozmian, she was probably already dead when you reported her missing. But I can assure you that everything was done to find her. Everything.”

“Oh, you bungling dickheads always say that, you lying sons of—” His voice choked up, and it was almost as if he’d swallowed too large a piece of food; he coughed and spluttered, face turning purple. With a roar of fury he took a step forward, seized a heavy sculpture from a nearby glass table, raised it, and slammed it onto the floor. Swaying, he shambled to a whiteboard and knocked it aside, kicked over a lamp, and grabbed some kind of award made of ceramic from his own desk and heaved it down on the glass table; both shattered with a terrific crash, sending up a spray of glass splinters and clay chips that fell back like rain onto the granite floor.

At this, their escort in the dark-gray suit came running in. “What’s going on?” he asked wildly, stunned to see the ruin strewn across the office and his boss so unmanned. He looked frantically at Ozmian, then at Pendergast and D’Agosta.

His entrance seemed to trigger something in Ozmian and he halted his rampage, standing in the middle of the room, breathing hard. His forehead had been nicked by a piece of flying glass, and a dot of blood oozed from the wound.

“Mr. Ozmian—?”

Ozmian turned to the man and spoke, his voice hoarse but calm. “Get out. Lock the door. Find Isabel. Nobody comes in but her.”

“Yes, sir.” He almost ran out.

Ozmian suddenly burst into tears, racked by hysterical sobs. D’Agosta, after hesitating, finally stepped forward and grasped his arm, again helping him to sit down in the chair, where he crumpled up, hugging himself and rocking back and forth, sobbing and gasping.

A minute or two later, he began to pull out of it. He jerked a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully wiped his face, and collected himself for a long moment, sitting in silence.

In a flat voice, he spoke. “Tell me everything.”

D’Agosta cleared his throat and took over. He explained how two kids had found the body in the garage, hidden in leaves, and how the homicide division jumped on it. He had put on a full CSU team, headed by the best in the business, and he described how more than forty detectives were now working the case. The entire homicide division was giving this its highest priority, with the full cooperation of the FBI. He laid it on as thick as he dared as the man listened, face bowed.

“Do you have any theories about who did it?” he asked when D’Agosta was done.

“Not yet, but we will. We’re going to find the person who did this; you have my word.” He faltered, wondering how he was going to tell him about the decapitation. He couldn’t quite seem to work in that detail, but before this meeting was over he knew that he had to; the newspapers would be full of it. And, most awful of all, the man would be asked to identify a headless body—the body of his daughter. They knew it was her from the fingerprints, but the physical ID process was still the law, even if, in this case, it seemed unnecessary and cruel.

“After you identify the body,” D’Agosta went on, “if you feel able, we would like to interview you—the sooner the better. We’ll need to learn about her acquaintances that you know of, names and contact info; we’ll want to hear about any difficulties in her life, or in your business or personal life—anything that might possibly connect to the killing. As unpleasant as all these questions will be, I’m sure you understand why we have to ask them. The more we know, the sooner we’ll catch the person or persons responsible. Naturally you may have an attorney present if you wish, but it’s not necessary.”

Ozmian hesitated. “Now?”

“We’d prefer to interview you up at Police Plaza, if you don’t mind. After you’ve…made the identification. Perhaps later this afternoon, if you feel capable?”

“Look, I…I’m ready to help. Murdered…Oh, God help me…”

“There’s one other thing,” said Pendergast in a low voice that instantly caused Ozmian to pause. The tycoon raised his face from his hands and looked at Pendergast, fear in his eyes.