Pendergast dropped the fax on an ebony table. Then he pointed to a large lacquered panel in the far wall. "Sergeant, open that panel, please."

"Just one goddamn minute, you need a warrant-"

Pendergast pointed a slender finger at the fax. "Read."

"I want my lawyer."

"First, we will secure the premises and obtain the evidence outlined in the warrant. One misstep will mean cuffs and an obstruction-of-justice charge. Is there anyone else on the boat with you?"

"Fuck you."

D'Agosta went to the panel that Pendergast pointed to, pressed the lone button. The panel slid back to reveal a wall of electronics, a monitor, and a keyboard.

"Seize the CPU."

D'Agosta pushed the monitor to one side, followed its cabling, and found the box tucked into a niche beneath.

"Don't you touch my computer."

Pendergast nodded toward the table. "It's listed in the warrant, Mr. Bullard."

D'Agosta yanked the cabling free with a satisfying jerk and hauled out the CPU. He dug into his pocket, pasted evidence labels over the drive bays and the plugs for the mouse and keyboard, set down the box, crossed his arms.

"Are you armed?" Pendergast asked Bullard.

"Of course not."

Pendergast tucked his Les Baer back into his suit. "All right," he said, voice low and suddenly pleasant, the southern accent rising like cream. "In addition to the warrant, there's a subpoena, Mr. Bullard, which I suggest you read."

"I want my lawyer."

"Naturally. We're going to take you to One Police Plaza and question you under oath. You may have a lawyer present at that time."

"I'm calling my lawyer now."

"You will remain in the center of the room with your hands in view at all times. You do not have a right to call a lawyer just because you feel like it. When appropriate, you will be permitted to call."

"My ass. You have no jurisdiction. I'll pull your badge and eat you for lunch, you albino prick. You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"I am sure your lawyer would advise you to dispense with the small talk."

"I'm not going to One Police Plaza."

Pendergast unclipped his police radio. "Manhattan South? To whom am I speaking, please? Shirley? This is Special Agent Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm at the East Cove Yacht Harbor, on the yacht of Mr. Locke Bullard-"

"You shut that radio off right now."

Pendergast's smooth voice continued. "That's right, Locke Bullard, on his yacht, the Stormcloud . We're taking him in for questioning in the Grove and Cutforth murder investigations."

D'Agosta watched Bullard go white. No doubt he knew that every news organization in New York monitored the police frequencies.

"No, he's not a suspect. I repeat: not a suspect."

The very emphasis Pendergast placed on the word had the curious effect of giving precisely the opposite impression.

Bullard glowered at them from beneath his beetled, Cro-Magnon brow, swallowed, made an effort to seem reasonable. "Look, Pendergast, there's no reason to play tough cop."

"Shirley, we're going to need backup, crowd control, and a squad car with escort to take Mr. Bullard downtown. That's right. Three should do it. On second thought, make it four. We're dealing with a well-known personality. It's likely to get busy."

Pendergast slipped the radio back into his suit, removed his cell phone, and tossed it to Bullard. "Now you may call your lawyer. One Police Plaza, interrogation section, basement floor, in forty minutes. We'll supply the coffee."

"You prick." Bullard dialed, spoke in low tones. When he was done, he handed the phone back to Pendergast.

"I imagine he just told you what I already advised: to keep your mouth firmly closed." Pendergast smiled.

Bullard said nothing.

Now Pendergast began poking around the grand salon, in a desultory kind of way, peeking here and there, admiring the sporting prints on the walls. It was almost as if he was killing time.

"Are we going?" Bullard finally burst out.

"He's talking again," said D'Agosta.

Pendergast nodded absently. "It seems our Mr. Bullard is a man who doesn't listen to his minders."

Bullard fell silent, his body shaking with malevolence.

"I think we need more time in here, Sergeant. Just to check things over, you understand."

"Right." Though he was still steaming, D'Agosta found he had to conceal a smile. Now he realized what Pendergast was up to.

Pendergast continued strolling about the room, adjusting a newspaper here, looking at a framed lithograph there. Ten more minutes passed as Bullard grew increasingly restive. Now D'Agosta began to hear faint sirens, the distant squawk of a bullhorn. Pendergast picked up a copy of Fortune , flipped through it, laid it back down. He checked his watch. "Do you see anything of interest I might have missed, Sergeant D'Agosta?"

"Have you checked the photo album?"

"An excellent idea." Pendergast opened the album, flipped through it. At a couple of pages, his hand paused and an intent look came into his face. He seemed to be memorizing faces; at least, it seemed so to D'Agosta.

He shut it with a sigh. "Shall we, Mr. Bullard?"

The man turned and shrugged into a windbreaker, his face dark. Pendergast led the way, followed by Bullard. D'Agosta brought up the rear, battering ram over his shoulder. As they stepped out of the hatch onto the dock, the crowd noise increased dramatically. There was shouting, the whoops of police sirens, the megaphoned voice of an official. Beyond the gates, photographers were jockeying for position. The police were struggling to clear a lane for their vehicles to pass.

Seeing this, Bullard stopped short. "You bastard." He almost spat the words at Pendergast. "You delayed deliberately, letting this build."

"Why hide your light under a bushel, Mr. Bullard?"

"Yeah," said D'Agosta. "And you're going to look great on the cover of the Daily News with your windbreaker draped over your head."

{ 24 }

Bryce Harriman headed back uptown behind the wheel of a Postpress vehicle. The scene at the lower Manhattan marina had been a disaster. Except for a few rubberneckers, it was New York City press at their finest-swearing, pushing, shoving. It reminded Harriman of the running of the bulls at Pamplona. What a waste of time. Nobody had answered questions, nobody knew anything, nothing but chaos and shouting. He should have gone straight back to his office to write up the scene of Cutforth's murder rather than wasting time chasing this radio call.

Ahead, the traffic coming in from West Street began to bunch up. He cursed, leaned on his horn. He should've taken the subway. At this rate, he wouldn't reach the office until after five, and he had to file by ten to make the morning edition.

He wrote and rewrote the lead, tearing it up again and again in his head. He thought back to the mob scene in front of Cutforth's apartment building earlier that afternoon. Those were the people he was writing for: people desperate for the story, hungry for it. And he had an open field, with Smithback gone and the Times treating the story as a kind of local embarrassment.

Cutforth's murder would be good for one headline, maybe two. But still, he was bound by the whim of the murderer, and there was no way of telling when-or if-the murderer would strike again. He had to have something new.