Bullard took the shot, rounded the table for another. "Then maybe what you need is a course in anger management." He eased the cue back and forth and then, with the softest little push, sent the ball all of three inches so that it kissed another.

That did it. "Bullard, one more shot and I'm cuffing you and leading you out the front door, past the porter and anyone else who happens to come by. I'm going to march you down along Central Park South to Columbus Circle where I parked my squad car. And then I'm going to radio for backup and keep you standing at the curb at Columbus Circle, hands cuffed behind your back, through the ass end of a Saturday afternoon, until that backup arrives."

Bullard's hand paused on the cue stick. Then he straightened up, jaw muscles tight. He slipped his hand into his suit coat and began punching a call on his cell. "I think I'll just tell the mayor how one of his finest has just threatened me with four-letter expletives."

"You do that. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm Southampton P.D. and could give a flying fuck about your mayor."

Bullard raised the phone to his ear and inserted the cigar in his mouth. "Then you're out of your jurisdiction, and threatening me with arrest is misrepresentation."

"I'm an assigned liaison with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Southern District of Manhattan Field Office." D'Agosta opened his wallet, pulled out one of the cards Pendergast had given him, tossed it onto the pool table. "If you want to complain to the supervisor, he's Special Agent Carlton and his number's right there."

That finally penetrated. Bullard slowly and deliberately snapped the phone shut. Then he dropped the cigar into a sand-filled spittoon in the corner, where it continued to smoke. "All right. You've managed to attract my attention."

D'Agosta flipped out his notebook. He wasn't going to waste any more time.

"On October 16, at 2:02A.M. , Jeremy Grove placed a call to your unlisted private number. On your yacht, I believe. The call lasted forty-two minutes. Is this correct?"

"I have no recollection of such a call."

"Yeah?" D'Agosta slipped a photocopy of the phone record out of his notebook and held it out. "Telephone company records say different."

"I don't need to see that."

"Who else was there at that time who might have taken the call? I'd like the names. Girlfriend, cook, babysitter, whatever." He poised his pen.

A long silence. "I was alone on my yacht at the time."

"So who picked up the phone? The cat?"

"I won't answer any more questions without my lawyer present."

The guy had a voice to match the face, deep and scarred, and when he spoke it was as if he was scratching a match along D'Agosta's spinal cord. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Bullard: you just lied to me. You lied to a police officer. That's obstruction of justice. You can call your lawyer if you like, but it'll be from downtown and I'll be escorting you out of here now. Is that how you want it? Or should we try it again?"

"This is a gentlemen's club, and I'll thank you not to raise your voice."

"I'm a little hard of hearing, see, and anyway, I'm not a gentleman."

He waited.

Bullard's white lips curled in what might have been a smile. "Now that you mention it, I do remember that call from Grove. We hadn't talked in a long time."

"What did you talk about?"

"This and that."

"This and that." D'Agosta wrote it down. This and that . "For forty-two minutes?"

"Catching up, that sort of thing."

"How well did you know Grove?"

"We'd run into each other a few times. We weren't friends."

"When did you first meet him?"

"Years ago. I don't remember."

"I ask again, what did you talk about?"

"He told me what he'd been up to lately-"

"Which was?"

"I can't remember specifically. Writing articles, dinner parties, that sort of thing."

It was just like Cutforth: the motherfucker was lying, llllllllllng. "And you? What did you talk about with him?"

"Much of the same. My work, my company."

"What was the reason for the phone call?"

"You'll have to ask him. We were just catching up."

"He called you after midnight just to catch up?"

"That's right."

"How did he happen to know your number? It's unlisted."

"I suppose I must've given it to him once."

"I thought he wasn't your friend."

Bullard shrugged. "Maybe he got it from someone else."

D'Agosta paused to look at Bullard. He was standing off to one side, half in shadow, half in light. He still couldn't see the man's eyes.

"Did Grove seem frightened or apprehensive to you?"

"Not that I could tell. I really can't remember."

"Do you know a Nigel Cutforth?"

There was a slight beat before Bullard's response. "No."

"What about a Ranier Beckmann?"

"No." No pause this time.

"A Count Isidor Fosco?"

"The name's familiar. I think I've seen it in the society pages once or twice."

"Lady Milbanke? Jonathan Frederick?"

"No and no."

This was hopeless. D'Agosta knew when he was beaten. He slapped the notebook shut. "We're not done with you, Mr. Bullard."

Bullard had already turned back to his pool table. "But I am most certainly done with you, Sergeant."

D'Agosta turned on his heel, and then paused. He turned back. "I hope you're not planning any trips out of the country, Mr. Bullard."

Silence. Encouraged, D'Agosta pursued the line. "I could get you declared a material witness, restrict your movements." D'Agosta knew he could do no such thing, but his sixth sense told him he had finally struck a vein. "How'd you like that?"

It seemed as if Bullard hadn't heard, but D'Agosta knew he had. He turned and walked toward the exit, past the huge green tables with their tiny little pockets. At the door he paused, glaring at the attendant. The smirk vanished, and his face became suddenly and completely neutral.

"What's this game here? Billiards?"

"Snooker, sir."

"Snooker?" D'Agosta stared at the man. Was he making fun of him? It sounded like something a prostitute might charge extra for. But the man's face betrayed nothing.

D'Agosta left the room, located the front elevator, and took it down. To hell with the porter and his rules.

The last of the evening light was slowly dying in the great billiard room of the New York Athletic Club. Locke Bullard stood over the table, cue in hand, no longer seeing the table or the balls. Sixty seconds passed. And then he placed the cue on the table, walked toward the bar, and picked up the phone. Something had to be done, and right now. He had important business to attend to in Italy, and nobody-especially this upstart sergeant-was going to cause him to miss it.

{ 12 }

D'Agosta paused on the steps of the New York Athletic Club and checked his watch. Only 6:30. Pendergast had asked him to come to what he called his "uptown residence" at nine so they could compare notes on the day's interviews. He checked his pocket, found the key Pendergast had given him. Nine. He had time to kill. If memory served, there was a dim little Irish pub called Mullin's on Broadway and 61st that served a decent burger. He could catch dinner and a cold one.