"Thanks."

"I loved the deadpan style. Gritty. Those books really captured what it's like to be on the job. Not like most of the phony police fiction around."

D'Agosta nodded. "So where'd you find them? On a remainder table?"

"I bought them when they were first published. As it happens, I've been sort of following your career."

"Really?" D'Agosta was surprised. When they'd worked together on the subway murders years ago, he hadn't thought he'd made much of an impression on her. Not a good impression, anyway. Then again, she'd always played her cards close.

"Really  I-" She hesitated. "I was still finishing up my master's at NYU when we worked together. That was my first big case. I was ambitious as hell, and to me, just starting, you looked like just the kind of cop I wanted to be. So I was really curious when you went off to Canada to write novels. I wondered why a cop as good as you would give it up."

"I had a lot I wanted to say-about crime, criminals, the justice system. And about people in general."

"You said it well."

"Not well enough."

Her pint was empty and so was his.

"Another round?" he asked.

"Sure. Vinnie, I've got to tell you, I couldn't believe it when I saw you in sergeant's stripes with a Southampton P.D. badge. I thought maybe I was dealing with a twin brother."

D'Agosta tried to muster a laugh. "Life."

"That was some case we worked on, those subway murders."

"Sure was. You remember the riot?"

She shook her head. "What a sight. Like something in a movie. I still have nightmares about it sometimes."

"I missed it. I was about half a mile underground, finishing what Captain Waxie started."

"Old Waxie. You know, he was sucked down so deep into those tunnels they never did find his body. Probably got eaten by an alligator."

"Or worse."

She paused. "The force is different now, really different. Thank God-what a cast of characters we had to deal with back then, when I was just a new jack."

"You remember McCarroll at the T.A.? They called him McCarrion because of his breath?" He chuckled.

"Do I. I had to work for that bastard for six months. It was tough to be a woman on the T.A. force back then. I had two strikes against me: not only was I female, but I was in graduate school. Make that three strikes: I wouldn't sleep with McCarrion."

"He made a pass at you?"

"His idea of a pass was to get real close, breathe all over me, tell me I had a nice body, and pucker his lips."

D'Agosta made a face. "Oh, my God. You report him?"

"And kiss my career good-bye? He was just a harmless cretin, anyway, not worth reporting. Now the NYPD is like a different planet-totally professional. And anyway, nobody would dare pull a stunt like that on a captain."

The second round came, and D'Agosta buried his mug in it and listened to her reminisce, telling funny stories about McCarroll and another long-gone captain, Al "Crisco" DuPrisco. It brought back a lot of memories.

He shook his head. "Jesus, there's no better place to be a cop than in the Big Apple."

"You said it."

"I gotta get back on the job, Laura. I'm rotting out there in Southampton."

She said nothing. D'Agosta looked up, his eyes meeting hers and seeing what-pity? "Sorry." He looked away. Funny how life had reversed everything. Now here she was, probably the youngest captain on the force. And he .     Well, if anyone deserved success, she did .

"Look," he said, suddenly professional again. "I really asked you for a drink because I wanted to make sure you were okay with Pendergast. I've worked with him on not just one big case, but two. Believe me, his methods may be unorthodox, but they work. You couldn't ask for a better fed on your side."

"I appreciate your loyalty. But the fact is, he's got a cooperation problem. I went out on a limb to have that subpoena and warrant ready to go, and he embarrassed me. I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt this time, but please, Vinnie, keep the guy in line. He obviously respects you."

"He respects you, too."

There was a silence.

"So how come you gave up writing?" Hayward asked, shifting the subject back to him. "I thought you had a pretty good career going."

"Yeah, a career in bankruptcy court. I just couldn't make it. After two novels, I didn't have two nickels to rub together. Lydia-that's my wife-she couldn't take it anymore."

"You're married?" Her eyes rapidly glanced at his hand, but his wedding ring hadn't fit for years.

"Yeah."

"Why am I surprised? All the good guys are taken. Here's to Lydia."

She raised her pint. D'Agosta didn't raise his glass; instead, he said, "We're separated. She's still living in Canada."

"I'm sorry." She lowered her pint, but she did not look very sorry. Or was it just his imagination?

"You know that threat Bullard made against me?" D'Agosta swallowed. He wasn't sure why he was telling her this, but he suddenly felt he couldn't go another minute without getting it off his chest. "He somehow found out my wife was having an affair and told me about it. Along with a lot of other compromising personal information he dug up and threatened to make public."

"Bastard. In that case, I'm glad Pendergast stuck it to him." She hesitated. "You want to talk about it?"

"We are talking about it."

"I'm sorry, Vincent. That's tough. Is the marriage worth saving?"

"It was over half a year ago. We've just been in denial stage."

"Kids?"

"One. Lives with his mom. Going to college next year on scholarship. Great kid."

"How long were you married?"

"Twenty-five years. Married right out of high school."

"God. You sure there isn't something there worth holding on to?"

"Some good memories. But nothing now. It's over."

"Well then, Bullard just did you a favor." She extended her hand and laid it on his, comfortingly.

D'Agosta looked at her. She was right: in a way, Bullard had done him a favor. Maybe a really big favor.

{ 27 }

Midnight. The boat was still in its slip, the crew aboard, everything ready for a departure at first light. Bullard stood on deck, breathing the night air, looking across the bay toward Staten Island. There was one last thing he had to take care of before weighing anchor. He had made two serious mistakes, and they had to be corrected. The first was impulsively hiring those goons to cap D'Agosta. Damn stupid thing: he knew better than that. If you were going to kill a cop, you had to do it right. The bastard had mouthed off with a few empty threats, and in his nervous state he'd allowed himself to be spooked. Christ, he was jumpy these days. He wasn't thinking clearly. The fact was, that fat fuck was not his real enemy. He was just a gumshoe. The real enemy was the FBI agent, Pendergast. That man was dangerous as an adder: coiled up, cool, smooth, ready to strike. Pendergast played for keeps, and he was the brains in that team. Kill the brain and the body will die. Get Pendergast and the investigation would go away.

The same rule about cops was even truer for FBI agents. You didn't kill them unless there was no other way. It almost never made things better. But there were exceptions to every rule, and this was one of them. Bullard could allow nothing-nothing-to interfere with what he had to do.