He sprinted across the beach to the stone breakwater and ran along it to a small speedboat, sheltered between two big boulders in the lee of the breakwater, its quiet four-stroke engine still idling in neutral. He tossed his now-heavy backpack into the boat, jumped in after it, gently depressed the throttle, and headed into the black, heaving Atlantic Ocean. As he sped into the night, pleasant thoughts went through his head of the mise-en-scène the police were just now discovering as they entered the estate and began to search the grounds.
16
THIS TIME PENDERGAST insisted on taking Proctor and the Rolls, and D’Agosta was too weary to protest. It was December 22, Christmas was only three days away, and over the last week he had barely found time to catch a few hours of sleep, much less think about what he was going to buy his wife, Laura, for a present.
Proctor had driven them out to East Hampton on a morning that was gray and bitterly cold. D’Agosta found he was grateful for the extra space the rear compartment of the big vehicle provided, not to mention the fold-down desk of brilliantly polished wood that allowed him to catch up on his paperwork. As the car eased onto Further Lane, the estate and the activity surrounding it came into view. Police barricades had been set up across the road, there were ribbons of crime scene tape vibrating in a cold December wind, and the roadside was lined with parked CSU and M.E. vans. A bunch of uniforms were walking around, some with clipboards, trying to keep from freezing to death.
“Christ,” said D’Agosta. “Too many damn people on-site.”
As they pulled into the improvised parking area, outlined on a patch of grass with crime scene tape and signs, he saw everyone turn and gape at Pendergast’s Silver Wraith.
He got out one side and Pendergast got out the other. Pulling his coat tight against the frigid wind coming off the Atlantic, D’Agosta headed toward the command and control van, Pendergast following.
Inside the small space he found the East Hampton chief of police. D’Agosta had spoken to him on the phone earlier and was relieved at the man’s professional attitude, and now he was even more pleased to see him in person: a rugged older man with iron-gray hair and mustache, and an easygoing manner.
“You must be Lieutenant CDS D’Agosta,” he said, rising and grasping his hand firmly. “Chief Al Denton.”
A lot of small-town cops couldn’t stand working with the NYPD, maybe for good reason, but this time D’Agosta sensed he was going to get the cooperation he needed. He turned to give space for Pendergast to introduce himself and was surprised to see the agent had vanished.
“Show you around?” Denton asked.
“Uh, sure. Thanks.” Typical of Pendergast.
Denton threw on a coat, and D’Agosta followed the chief back out into the blustery morning. They crossed Further Lane and came to the main gates into the compound, a vast, partially gilded affair involving many tons of wrought iron. The gates stood open and were guarded by two cops, one holding a clipboard. There was a rack with Tyvek suits, masks, gloves, and booties, but the chief waved him past. “The CSU team’s completed the house,” he said, “and most of the grounds.”
“That was fast.”
“Out here, with the winter weather, we’ve got to move fast or the evidence will deteriorate. So we called in SOC assets from all across the East End. Say, where’s the FBI guy you said was coming with you?”
“He’s around here somewhere.”
The chief frowned, and D’Agosta didn’t blame him: it was considered rude not to liaise with local law enforcement. They passed between the gates, walked through a staging area set up under a tent, and headed down the graveled drive leading toward the mansion. It was a gigantic cement eyesore of a house, looking like a bunch of slabs piled together, propped up by glass, about as warm and cozy as the Kremlin.
“So this Russian guy, what’s his name—?”
“Bogachyov.”
“Bogachyov. How long’s he been in East Hampton?”
“He bought the land a few years ago, took a couple of years to build the house, moved in six months ago.”
“He give you any problems?”
Denton shook his head. “Nothing but problems. Right from the beginning. When he bought the place, the seller said he was cheated and sued. That case is still in court. In the middle of the night, Bogachyov tore down a historic shingle house. Claimed he didn’t know it was landmarked. Lawsuit over that. Then he built this monstrosity, which violated a whole bunch of town ordinances, all without the right permits. More lawsuits over that. And then he stiffed the contractors; stiffed his help; even stiffed the guys who mow his lawn. Lawsuits up the wazoo. He’s the kind of jackass who just does whatever the hell he wants. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he’s maybe the most hated man in this town. Was, I should say.”
“Where’d he get his money?”
“He’s one of these Russian oligarchs. International arms broker or something equally unpleasant. The house, the land, all owned by a shell company, or at least that’s what’s on the tax rolls.”
“So there are plenty of people who’d want to see him dead.”
“Hell, yes. Half the town. And that’s not even counting the people he’s stepped on, or killed, in his own business dealings.”
As they came up to the house, D’Agosta spied Pendergast, walking rapidly around the far corner.
Denton saw him, too. “Hey, that guy shouldn’t be in here.”
“He’s—”
“Hey, you!” Denton called out, breaking into a jog, D’Agosta following. Pendergast stopped and pivoted. His long black coat and gaunt, ivory face made him look uncannily like the Grim Reaper.
“Mister—!”
“Ah, Chief Denton,” said Pendergast, striding forward, slipping a black leather glove off a pale hand, grasping the chief’s hand with a quick bow. “Special Agent Pendergast.” He then swiveled back around and continued on his way, striding at high speed across the lawn toward the tall hedge at the ocean end of the property.
“Um, if there’s anything you need—?” called the chief at his retreating back.
Pendergast waved a hand behind him. “I need Vincent. Are you coming?”
D’Agosta set off after him, struggling to keep up, the chief right behind. “Don’t you want to examine the house?” D’Agosta managed to ask.
“No.” Pendergast quickened his pace still further, coat flapping behind him, bent slightly forward as if bracing himself against the stiff wind.
“Where are you going?” D’Agosta asked, not receiving an answer.
They finally reached the hedge, which D’Agosta could see hid a tall stone wall. Here Pendergast whirled. “Chief Denton, has your CSU team gone over this area yet?”
“Not yet. There’s a lot of ground to cover, and this is pretty far from the scene of the crime—” But before he finished his sentence Pendergast had turned away and was walking alongside the hedge, looking this way and that, placing his feet carefully, like a cat. Suddenly he halted, dropped to his knees.
“Blood,” he said.
“Okay,” said Denton. “Nice catch. We should back away from here, get the CSU team out before we disturb anything—”
But Pendergast was up and moving again, head bowed, following the stains, which led into the hedge—and that was when D’Agosta saw something white inside the tangle of green. They peered into the depths, where D’Agosta could make out a gruesome sight.
“Two bodies and a dead dog,” said Pendergast, turning to Denton and slowly backing away. “Yes, please do get your CSU team out here. In the meantime, I’m going over the wall.”
“But—”
“I’ll move a little farther down so as not to disturb this area. Vincent, come with me, please. I’ll need a hand.”
Chief Denton stood near the scene of carnage, calling for the CSU team on his radio, while D’Agosta followed Pendergast down the hedge line for a hundred feet.
“This looks like a good spot.” Pendergast pushed into the hedge, D’
Agosta following. They emerged into the gap between hedge and wall.
Pendergast pressed against the wall, as if testing it. “In this bulky coat, I’ll need a hand up.”
D’Agosta didn’t argue; he helped him up.
The agent scrambled like a spider to the top, slipped over the short iron spikes, then stood up and looked around with a pair of binoculars. Then he called down to D’Agosta.
“Go back to the car, have Proctor drive around and out on the beach. I’ll meet you there.”
“Right.”
Pendergast disappeared over the wall and D’Agosta turned away. As he emerged from the hedge, he could see a team of CSU guys running across the lawn, all dressed, masked, and bootied up, with Denton pointing to the area where the bodies had been found. Denton joined him as he was walking back across the lawn.
“How the hell did he do that so quickly?” he asked. “I mean, we would have found it eventually, but he just walked straight out there like it was attached to a neon sign.”
D’Agosta shook his head. “I don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell.”
Sitting once again in the back of the Rolls, D’Agosta watched as Proctor drove into a public parking area adjacent to the beach about half a mile south of the victim’s house. The man got out, released a precise amount of air from the tires, then got back in, gunning the engine and shooting down a sandy lane that provided vehicle access to the beach. Soon the Rolls was flying north along the strand, the booming Atlantic on their right, the mansions of the rich on their left. In a moment D’Agosta could see Pendergast’s slender figure standing on the end of a rocky breakwater. As Proctor slewed to a stop, Pendergast came back along the breakwater, strode up the beach, and slid into the backseat.
“He came and went by small craft, which he hid next to that breakwater,” Pendergast said, pointing. Then he pulled open his own folding desk, which held a slim MacBook, which he opened and used to call up Google Earth. “The assassin, leaving the scene of the crime, was extremely vulnerable and exposed out on the water, even at night. He would have disposed of his boat at the earliest opportunity. And it all would have been planned ahead of time.”
He peered at the Google Earth image, moving it around their current location. “Vincent, look—there’s an inlet right here, just six miles away, leading into Sagaponack Pond. And just inside the inlet is a marshland with a public parking area immediately adjacent.” He leaned toward the front seat. “Proctor, please drive there posthaste. Sagaponack Pond. Don’t bother with the road—take the beach.”
“Yes, sir.”
D’Agosta gripped his seat as the Rolls accelerated, performed a slewing U-turn in a fountain of sand, and then roared down the beach at high speed, just within the high-tide area where the sand was harder. As they picked up speed, rocking from side to side, the car was buffeted by wind and sea spray from the ocean and occasionally plowed through a skimming of water from a retreating wave, throwing up a curtain of spray. They passed an elderly couple walking hand in hand, who stared at them slack-jawed as the 1959 Silver Wraith boomed past at close to sixty miles an hour.
In less than ten minutes they had arrived at the inlet, where the beach stopped and another breakwater led out into the gray and foaming Atlantic. Proctor brought the Rolls to a shuddering halt, fishtailing in another great spray of sand. Before it had even come to rest, Pendergast was out the door and striding up the beach, D’Agosta once again running to keep up. He was astonished at Pendergast’s energy after the previous days of apathy and apparent sloth. It seemed this set of murders had finally hooked him.
They hopped over a beach fence, crossed an area of scrubby dunes, and soon a sheet of slate-colored water came into view, surrounded by a broad marshland. Pendergast plunged into the marsh grass, his handmade John Lobb shoes sinking into the mucky ground. With little enthusiasm D’Agosta followed, feeling the icy mud and water invade his own Bostonians. A few times Pendergast paused to look around, his nose in the air almost like a bloodhound’s, before moving ahead in a different direction, following soggy and almost invisible animal pathways.
Suddenly they reached the edge of the marsh—and there, not twenty feet along the verge, just emerging from the brown water, was the prow of a sunken skiff.
Pendergast glanced back, his silver eyes glittering. “And now, my dear Vincent, I think we have found our first actual piece of evidence left by the killer.”
D’Agosta edged over and looked at the boat. “I’ll say.”
“No, Vincent.” Pendergast was pointing at something on the ground. “This: a clear foot impression from the killer.”
“Not the boat?”
Pendergast waved his hand impatiently. “I have no doubt it was stolen and has been thoroughly scrubbed of evidence.” He crouched in the marsh grass. “But this! A size thirteen shoe, at least.”
17
THE CONFERENCE ROOM at One Police Plaza was a big blond space on the third floor. D’Agosta had arrived early with Singleton, the deputy commissioner for public information, Mayor DeLillo, and a row of uniformed officers, so that when the press arrived they would see an impressive, solid wall of blue and gold, backed by suits and the mayor himself. The idea was to create a reassuring visual for the evening news. In his years at the NYPD, D’Agosta had seen the department move from inept, ad hoc responses to the press to this: professional, well staged, and quick to react to the latest events.
He wished he felt the same confidence in himself. The fact was that, with the rise of bloggers and digital bloviators, there was far more media now in a typical press conference, and they were less well behaved. Most of them were outright pricks, truth be told, especially among the social media crowd, and these were the people whose questions D’Agosta had to answer—with a self-assurance he didn’t feel.
As the press crowded in, the television cameras rising in the back like black insects, NBC and ABC and CNN and the rest of the alphabet soup, the print press along the front, and the digital jackasses just about everywhere, it looked like this was going to be a doozy. He was glad Singleton was leading off the briefing, but even so, D’Agosta began to sweat when he thought of his turn at the podium.
Minor arguments broke out as everyone jockeyed for the best seats. The room had been warm before the crowd arrived and it was fast heating up. In the wintertime, a crazy New York City regulation forbade them from turning on the A/C despite the fact that the ventilation in the room was abysmal.
As the sweep of the second hand on the big wall clock moved toward the hour, the mayor stepped to the podium. The television lights were on and the photographers crowded forward, elbowing each other and muttering expletives, the fluttering sound of their shutters like countless locust wings.
Mayor DeLillo gripped the sides of the podium with his big bony hands and gave the room a sweeping look of competence, resolve, and gravitas. He was a large man in every way—tall, broad, with a head of thick white hair, enormous hands, a jowly face, and large eyes glittering under bushy brows.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press and the people of the great city of New York,” he boomed out in his legendary deep voice. “It is the policy of our police department to keep the community informed on matters of public interest. That is why we are here today. I can assure you that the entire resources of the city have been put in service of this investigation. And now Captain Singleton will speak to you about the particulars of the case.”
He yielded the podium. There was no shaking of hands; this was all serious business.
Singleton took his place at the podium, waiting for the sound level to drop toward a rustling silence.
“At two fourteen this morning,” he began, “East Hampton police responded to multiple alarms at a residence on Further Lane. They arrived to find seven bodies on the grounds and in the house of a large estate. These were the victims of a multiple homicide—six security guards and the owner of the estate, a Russian national by the name of Viktor Bogachyov. In addition, Mr. Bogachyov was foun
d decapitated, the head gone.”
This occasioned a flurry of activity in the audience. Singleton plowed ahead. “The East Hampton police requested the assistance of the NYPD in determining whether this homicide was connected to the recent killing and decapitation of Mr. Marc Cantucci on the Upper East Side…”
Singleton droned on about the case in general terms, consulting a binder of notes that D’Agosta had put together for him. In contrast with the mayor, Singleton spoke in a monotonous, police-jargony deadpan voice—a just-the-facts-ma’am sort of tone—turning each page with a deliberate movement. He spoke for about ten minutes, outlining the bare facts of the three killings, starting with the latest and working back to the girl. As he reeled off information that almost everyone already knew, D’Agosta could feel the impatience of the crowd begin to rise. He knew his turn would be next.
Finally, Singleton halted. “I will now turn the briefing over to Lieutenant D’Agosta, Commander Detective Squad, who will speak more specifically and answer questions about the homicides, the possible connections among them, and some of the leads his team has been developing.”
He stepped away and D’Agosta took to the podium, trying to project the same gravitas that the mayor and Singleton had. He glanced over the assembled press, his eyes watering in the bright lights. He looked down at his notes, but they were a wavering mass of gray. He knew, from prior experience, that he was not very good at this. He had tried to tell Singleton as much and beg off, but the captain hadn’t been sympathetic. “Get out there and do it. If you want my advice, strive to be as boring as possible. Give them only the information you have to. And for God’s sake don’t let any of the bastards take control of the room. You’re the alpha male in there—don’t forget it.” This retrograde advice was delivered with a manly slap on the back.
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