"You're not going to let him do this with every question, are you?" D'Agosta asked.
"Yes, I am," said Hayward. "He has a right to a lawyer."
The two men returned. "Grove called me to chat," Bullard said. "A social call."
"That late?"
Bullard looked at his lawyer and the lawyer nodded.
"Yes."
"What did you chat about?"
"Just like I told you before. Pleasantries. How he was doing, how I was doing, how the family was doing, how the dog was doing, that sort of thing."
"What else?"
"I don't recall."
Silence. "Mr. Bullard. You talked for forty-two minutes about your dogs, then within hours Grove is murdered."
"That wasn't a question," said the lawyer crisply. "Next."
D'Agosta found Hayward's rather penetrating gaze on him. He turned the page.
"Where were you during this call?"
"On my yacht. Cruising the sound."
"How many crew were on board with you?"
"I went out without a crew. The yacht's computerized, I do it all the time."
There was a brief but significant silence.
"How did you meet Grove?"
"I don't recall."
"Was he a close friend?"
"No."
"Did you have any business dealings with him?"
"No."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"I don't recall."
"So why would he call you then?"
"You'll have to ask him."
This was bullshit. It was the same runaround as before. D'Agosta moved on to the next call.
"On October 22, at 7:54P.M. , Nigel Cutforth placed a call to your home number. Did you take the call?"
Bullard glanced at the lawyer, who nodded.
"Yes."
"What did you talk about?"
"It was also a social call. We talked about mutual friends, family, news, that sort of thing."
"Dogs?" D'Agosta asked sarcastically.
"I don't remember if we talked about dogs."
Pendergast suddenly broke in. "Do you, in fact, have a dog, Mr. Bullard?"
There was a short silence. Hayward cast Pendergast a warning glance.
"I was speaking metaphorically. We talked about trivial social things, is what I meant."
D'Agosta resumed. "Cutforth was murdered just a few hours after you hung up the telephone. Did he seem nervous to you?"
"I don't recall."
"Did he express any sense to you that he was afraid?"
"Not that I recall."
"Did he ask for your help?"
"I don't recall."
"What was your relationship to Mr. Cutforth?"
"Superficial."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
A hesitation. "I don't recall."
"Did you ever have any business or other dealings with Mr. Cutforth?"
"No."
"How did you first meet?"
"I don't recall."
"When did you first meet?" Pendergast smoothly interjected.
"I don't remember."
This was worse than bullshit. The lawyer, George Marchand, was looking more and more satisfied. D'Agosta wasn't going to let it go at this.
"After Cutforth's call, you spent the rest of the night on your yacht?"
"Yes."
"Do you have a power launch?"
"Yes."
"Was it stowed?"
"No. It was docked next to the yacht."
"What kind of launch?"
"A Picnic Boat."
Pendergast broke in. "Are you referring to the Hinckley Picnic Boat, the kind with the jet drive?"
"That's right."
"With the 350-horsepower Yanmar or the 420?"
"The 420."
"With a top speed of over thirty knots, I believe?"
"That's about right."
"And a draft of eighteen inches."
"So they claim."
Pendergast settled back, ignoring Hayward's look. He'd clearly snuck in some research while Bullard was being processed.
D'Agosta picked up the line of questioning. "So after receiving the phone call, you could have gotten into your Picnic Boat and headed uptown. You could've landed the boat just about anywhere along the Manhattan shoreline with a draft like that. And the jet drive would give you maneuverability to go sideways, reverse, whatever. Am I right?"
"My client has already said he was on his yacht that night," the lawyer said, equally pleasantly. "Next question?"
"Were you alone all night, Mr. Bullard?"
This prompted another trip to the hall.
"Yes, I was alone," Bullard said when they returned. "They keep track at the marina; they can verify I didn't leave the yacht all night or take the Picnic Boat out of its berth."
"We'll check that," said D'Agosta. "So you chitchatted with Cutforth about the weather for thirty minutes, just hours before he was murdered?"
"I don't believe we talked about the weather, Sergeant." There was a look of triumph in Bullard's eyes. He was winning again.
Pendergast asked, "Mr. Bullard, are you about to leave the country?"
Bullard looked at Marchand. "Do I have to answer that?"
Another trip to the hall. When Bullard came back, he said, "Yes."
"Where are you going?"
"That question falls outside the scope of the subpoena," said the lawyer. "My client wants to cooperate, but he also asks you to respect his privacy. You have already stated he is not a suspect."
Pendergast spoke to the lawyer. "Perhaps not a suspect. But your client may be a material witness, and it would not be beyond the bounds of probability he might be asked to surrender his passport-temporarily, of course."
D'Agosta had his eyes on Bullard's face and-even though he was expecting a change-he was startled by how dark it became. He seemed about to burst out again.
The lawyer smiled pleasantly. "An utterly absurd statement, Mr. Pendergast. Mr. Bullard will in no way be restrained in his movements. I am surprised and consider it most improper that you have even mentioned such a possibility, which might be construed as a threat."
Hayward cast a dark glance at Pendergast. "Mr. Pendergast-"
Pendergast held up his hand. "Mr. Bullard, do you believe in the existence of the devil?"
Something flickered across Bullard's face, some swift and powerful emotion, but it went by too fast for D'Agosta to get a sense of what it was. Bullard took his time leaning back in the chair, crossing his legs, smiling. "Of course not. Do you?"
The lawyer stood up. "It seems we've reached the end of our questions, gentlemen."
There was no contradiction. The lawyer handed around his card with smiles and handshakes. "The next time you need to communicate with Mr. Bullard," he said, "do so through me. Mr. Bullard is going abroad." He gave Pendergast a pointed smile.
"That," said Pendergast very quietly, "remains to be seen."
{ 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.