{ 26 }

Bullard and his lawyer had left, shoving their way through a second throng of shouting reporters. Pendergast had disappeared, too, leaving D'Agosta alone with Hayward. They were now lingering in the mud-colored lobby of Police Plaza. He had something he wanted to say; and so, it seemed, did she.

"Did Bullard really threaten you, Sergeant?" she asked.

D'Agosta hesitated.

"Just for my own information, off the record. I'm not asking you to tell tales out of school."

"In a way, yes." They began walking side by side toward the building's exit. Outside, the remaining news teams were grudgingly packing up. The sky in the west was smeared with red. As he walked, D'Agosta could almost feel waves of heat radiating from Hayward. She was clearly still pissed off.

"What kind of threat?"

"I'd rather not talk about it.” I know all about that wife of yours in Canada. The image of Chester Dominic's smooth-shaven face came unbidden to his mind. It couldn't be true. Well, on second thought, it could be true-they had been apart for a long time. The marriage was over-who was he fooling? But not Chester Dominic, with that cheesy shit-eating grin and the phony car-salesman cheer. And the polyester suits. Jesus. Anybody but him.

D'Agosta glanced over to see Hayward looking back at him. Her face showed concern mingled with skepticism. This wasn't easy for her, he thought. Pendergast was one hell of a good FBI agent, but he was no good at teamwork. It was his way or the highway-no compromise.

"You might have to talk about it if charges are brought."

"Fine. But not now." He took a deep breath. "Captain Hayward, Pendergast really did have to get tough with Bullard."

"I don't believe it. He could've gotten a subpoena, scheduled the interview on the boat, and probably gotten more information out of the guy in the process. As it is, we didn't get jack out of that interrogation."

"We went to the boat to ask questions. I was threatened. I don't see why you think scheduling it would have been more successful."

"Okay, you've got a point, but it turned into a pissing contest, and that's never successful."

They passed through the doors and paused on the broad marble steps. Hayward was still mad. More fence-mending was in order.

"You doing anything?" D'Agosta asked.

Hayward looked at him. "I was planning on going home."

"How about a drink? Strictly professional. I know-or at least I used to know-a place over on Church Street."

She gazed at him for a moment, her pale face framed by glossy black hair, her eyes still flashing with residual irritation. "All right."

D'Agosta descended the steps, Hayward by his side.

"Pendergast's got his own methods," said D'Agosta.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of. Look, Sergeant-"

"How about calling me Vinnie?"

"Call me Laura, then. Here's what worries me: how many times has Pendergast had to testify against a perp in court?"

"I don't know."

"I'll tell you. Very few times. You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because most of his perps wind up dead. That's why."

"That's not his fault."

"I didn't say it was. It's just an observation. Let's say Bullard does become a suspect. This little shenanigan is going to look bad."

They made a left at Park Row, then a right at Vesey. Ahead, D'Agosta saw the little place still there, apparently unchanged. A couple of dying ferns hung from macramé in the basement window, just the right touch to keep out other cops. He liked it for that-and for the Guinness on tap.

"I never knew this place existed," said Hayward as they descended the steps and D'Agosta held open the door. He followed her into the cool, brew-fragrant interior. She took a table in the back and a man came up immediately.

"Guinness," she said.

"Two."

D'Agosta couldn't shake the image of Dominic with his wife. It was going to drive him crazy, he realized, until he did something about it. He got up. "Back in a moment."

He found the phone tucked into a nook in the back of the bar. It had been a long time since he used a pay phone, but this was one call he didn't want to make with his cell. He called information, got the Canadian operator, got the number, made the call. It took two trips to the bar and twenty quarters. Jesus.

"Kootenay RV," came a nasal voice.

"Chet Dominic there?"

"He's gone."

"Damn, I was supposed to meet him for an appointment, and I'm late. You got his cell?"

"Who's this?"

"Jack Torrance. I'm the one interested in the Itasca Sunflyer, you know, the one with the slide-out bedroom and Corian countertops? Chet's a friend from the club."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Torrance, of course," came the suddenly fake-friendly voice. "Just a moment." She gave him the number.

D'Agosta glanced at his watch, collected more quarters from the bar, dialed.

"Hello?"

It was Chester.

"This is Dr. Morgan at the hospital. There's been a terrible accident."

"What? Who?" The voice was instantly full of panic. D'Agosta wondered if Dominic had a wife and kids. Probably did, the scumbag.

"I must speak to a Mrs. Lydia D'Agosta immediately."

"Well, ah, wait-yes, yes, of course." There was a fumbling sound, a muffled voice, and then his wife's voice came on. "Yes? What is it? What's happened?"

D'Agosta carefully depressed the hang-up bar, took a couple of deep breaths, and made his way back toward the table. Even before he got there, his cell phone was ringing. He answered.

"Vinnie? It's Lydia. Are you all right?"

"Sure. Why do you ask? You sound upset."

"No, no, I'm fine. I just heard .     I don't know, something about the hospital. I was worried." She was all flustered and confused.

"Wasn't me."

"You know how it is, being out here like this, hearing everything secondhand .    "

"You still at work?"

"I'm in the parking lot. Just pulling out now."

"Right. See you." D'Agosta snapped the phone shut and reseated himself. You mean Chester Dominic was just pulling out, don't you? He felt a horrible prickly heat crawling over his skin. The Guinness had arrived, in a real imperial pint, with two inches of cream on the top. He raised it and took a long pull, then another, feeling the cool liquid loosening the tightness in his throat. He put the pint down to find Laura Hayward looking at him intently.

"You were thirsty," she said.

"Yeah." To hide his face, he took another pull. Who was he kidding? They'd been separated half a year now. He couldn't really blame her for that-not too much, anyway. And Vinnie Junior, his son, didn't want to move, either. Lydia wasn't a bad person at heart, but this was a low blow. A really low blow. He wondered if little Vinnie knew about it.

"Bad news?"

D'Agosta glanced at Hayward. "Sort of."

"Anything I can do?"

"No, thanks." He sat up. "I'm sorry. I'm lousy company tonight."

"Don't worry. It's not a date."

There was a silence, then Hayward said, "I read your two novels."

D'Agosta felt himself reddening. This was the last conversation he wanted to have.

"They were great. I just wanted to tell you that."