This caused a renewed clamor.

"Is it the face of the devil? Horns? Did it have horns?" These questions were shouted simultaneously by a dozen people. The mikes boomed in closer, knocking against each other.

"Not having seen the devil," Hayward answered, "I can't say. There were no horns I'm aware of."

Harriman scribbled frantically in his notebook. A bunch of reporters were now asking if she thought it was the devil, but she was ignoring this. Oh my God, was that Geraldo shouting over there? He definitely should've been here last night.

"Was it the devil? What's your opinion?" was cried from several quarters at once.

She held up a hand. "I'd like to answer that question."

That really shut them up.

"We have enough flesh-and-blood devils in this town, thank you, that we don't need to conjure up any supernatural ones."

"So how did he die?" a reporter shouted. "What were the injuries caused by? Was he cooked, like the other one?"

"An autopsy is currently under way. We'll be able to tell you more when it's completed." She was talking calmly and rationally, but Harriman wasn't fooled. The NYPD didn't even begin to have a handle on the case-and he'd be saying as much in his story.

"Thank you," she was saying, "and good afternoon. Now, let's break it up, people."

More clamor. More police were arriving and working to control the crowd at last, pushing them back, setting up barricades, directing traffic.

Harriman turned away, already writing the lead in his head. This was one hell of a story. At last-at long, long last-he was going to get a run for his money.

{ 23 }

As the vintage Rolls-Royce approached the gates of the East Cove Yacht Harbor, D'Agosta shifted in the backseat, staring out the window, trying to forget just how stiff and sore he felt. What with Cutforth's murder and all the attendant crime-scene business, he couldn't have gotten more than two hours' sleep.

For this particular errand, Pendergast had left his chauffeur, Proctor, behind, preferring to drive the big car himself. It was a beautiful fall day, and the morning sun shimmered on the bay like silver coins tossed on the waves. The Staten Island ferry was lumbering out of its berth, churning the water behind, flags snapping, trailed by a screaming flock of seagulls. The blue hump of Staten Island rose on the horizon, grading imperceptibly into the low outline of New Jersey. The smell of salt air flowed in the open windows.

D'Agosta turned his gaze toward the marina. A wall kept the gaze of the vulgar from the ranks of gleaming yachts, but from the top of Coenties Slip you could still see them lined up in their berths, splendid and sparkling in the bright sun.

"You're never going to get in without a warrant," said D'Agosta. "I talked to Bullard. I know what the guy's like."

"We shall see," said Pendergast. "I always prefer to start with a gentle approach."

"And if the gentle approach doesn't work?"

"Firmer measures might be in order."

D'Agosta wondered what Pendergast's idea of "firmer" was.

Pendergast slowed the Rolls and, turning to a custom-built cherry wood bay beside the driver's seat, tapped on the keys of the laptop set within it. They were approaching the chain-link gate leading into the marina's general parking area, but the man in the guardhouse had seen the Rolls approaching and was already opening the gate. Pendergast stopped the car just inside the lot, where they had a good view of the Upper Bay. On the screen of the laptop, the image of a magnificent yacht had appeared.

It didn't take long to locate the real thing among the forest of masts and spars riding at anchor just beyond the lot.

D'Agosta whistled. "That's some boat."

"Indeed. A 2003 Feadship motor yacht with a de Voogt custom-designed hull. Fifty-two meters in length, with a displacement of seven hundred and forty metric tons. Twin Caterpillar 2,500-horsepower diesels, cruising speed thirty knots. It's got enormous range and it's extremely comfortable."

"How much?"

"Bullard paid forty-eight million for it."

"Jesus. What does he need a boat like that for?"

"Perhaps he doesn't care for flying. Or perhaps he likes to operate away from prying ears and eyes. A boat like that makes keeping to international waters easy indeed."

"Funny, in the last interview with Bullard, I had the impression that he was anxious not to be detained in the country. That maybe he was planning an international trip."

Pendergast looked at him sharply. "Indeed?" He eased the car toward the second layer of security: the gate into VIP parking, manned by a pugnacious little redheaded security guard with a jutting chin. D'Agosta immediately knew the type. He was the kind who made it a point not to be impressed by anyone or anything: not even a '59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith.

"Yeah?"

Pendergast hung his shield out the window. "We're here to see Mr. Locke Bullard."

The man looked at the badge, looked back at Pendergast. His face was creased with suspicion. "And him?"

D'Agosta passed his own badge to the man.

"What's it about?"

"Police business."

"I gotta call."

The man took the shields back into his cubicle, got on the horn, spoke for a few minutes, came back with the badges and a cordless phone.

"He wants to talk to somebody named D'Agosta."

"That's me."

The man handed him the phone.

"D'Agosta here."

Bullard's deep voice filled the wire. "I figured you'd be back."

At the sound of the voice, D'Agosta immediately felt himself bristle. This was the man who had tried to humiliate him at the Athletic Club; who, just perhaps, had very nearly gotten him shot. Nevertheless, he tried hard to check his temper. "We can either do this nicely," he said as evenly as possible, "or it can get unpleasant. Up to you, Bullard."

A burst of laughter sounded at the other end. "You tried that same stale line on me back at the club. Let me tell you something. Since we had that pleasant little chat, I've had my people check into you. And now I know all about you. I got every sordid detail of your existence. For example, I know all about that wife of yours in Canada, the one who's been playing hide the salami behind your back these past six months. The guy's name is Chester Dominic, and he sells Winnebagos out of Edgewater-and hey, maybe she's doing him right now. Think about that , huh?"

D'Agosta's hand tightened around the phone.

"I also got the sales figures on your novels. Last one sold 6,215 copies. Hardcover and paperback. And that's counting all the copies your mother bought. Watch your back, Stephen King!" More harsh laughter. "Then I got your personnel files from your stint with the NYPD, including your disciplinary records. Interesting reading. And I got your medical and psychiatric records, too, even the ones from Canada. Too bad about those hard-on problems. Maybe that's why your wife's spreading her charms for old Chet. And depression, gee, that's tough. Did you take your Zoloft this morning? Amazing what you can find out when you own an HMO, isn't it? Reading all this over, a couple of phrases come to mind. Phrases like broken-down. Washed-up. Loser."

A thin curtain of red seemed to drop before D'Agosta's eyes. "You've just made the mistake of your life, Bullard."