They hopped over a beach fence, crossed an area of scrubby dunes, and soon a sheet of slate-colored water came into view, surrounded by a broad marshland. Pendergast plunged into the marsh grass, his handmade John Lobb shoes sinking into the mucky ground. With little enthusiasm D’Agosta followed, feeling the icy mud and water invade his own Bostonians. A few times Pendergast paused to look around, his nose in the air almost like a bloodhound’s, before moving ahead in a different direction, following soggy and almost invisible animal pathways.
Suddenly they reached the edge of the marsh — and there, not twenty feet along the verge, just emerging from the brown water, was the prow of a sunken skiff.
Pendergast glanced back, his silver eyes glittering. “And now, my dear Vincent, I think we have found our first actual piece of evidence left by the killer.”
D’Agosta edged over and looked at the boat. “I’ll say.”
“No, Vincent.” Pendergast was pointing at something on the ground. “This: a clear foot impression from the killer.”
“Not the boat?”
Pendergast waved his hand impatiently. “I have no doubt it was stolen and has been thoroughly scrubbed of evidence.” He crouched in the marsh grass. “But this! A size thirteen shoe, at least.”
17
The conference room at One Police Plaza was a big blond space on the third floor. D’Agosta had arrived early with Singleton, the deputy commissioner for public information, Mayor DeLillo, and a row of uniformed officers, so that when the press arrived they would see an impressive, solid wall of blue and gold, backed by suits and the mayor himself. The idea was to create a reassuring visual for the evening news. In his years at the NYPD, D’Agosta had seen the department move from inept, ad hoc responses to the press to this: professional, well staged, and quick to react to the latest events.
He wished he felt the same confidence in himself. The fact was that, with the rise of bloggers and digital bloviators, there was far more media now in a typical press conference, and they were less well behaved. Most of them were outright pricks, truth be told, especially among the social media crowd, and these were the people whose questions D’Agosta had to answer — with a self-assurance he didn’t feel.
As the press crowded in, the television cameras rising in the back like black insects, NBC and ABC and CNN and the rest of the alphabet soup, the print press along the front, and the digital jackasses just about everywhere, it looked like this was going to be a doozy. He was glad Singleton was leading off the briefing, but even so, D’Agosta began to sweat when he thought of his turn at the podium.
Minor arguments broke out as everyone jockeyed for the best seats. The room had been warm before the crowd arrived and it was fast heating up. In the wintertime, a crazy New York City regulation forbade them from turning on the A/C despite the fact that the ventilation in the room was abysmal.
As the sweep of the second hand on the big wall clock moved toward the hour, the mayor stepped to the podium. The television lights were on and the photographers crowded forward, elbowing each other and muttering expletives, the fluttering sound of their shutters like countless locust wings.
Mayor DeLillo gripped the sides of the podium with his big bony hands and gave the room a sweeping look of competence, resolve, and gravitas. He was a large man in every way — tall, broad, with a head of thick white hair, enormous hands, a jowly face, and large eyes glittering under bushy brows.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press and the people of the great city of New York,” he boomed out in his legendary deep voice. “It is the policy of our police department to keep the community informed on matters of public interest. That is why we are here today. I can assure you that the entire resources of the city have been put in service of this investigation. And now Captain Singleton will speak to you about the particulars of the case.”
He yielded the podium. There was no shaking of hands; this was all serious business.
Singleton took his place at the podium, waiting for the sound level to drop toward a rustling silence.
“At two fourteen this morning,” he began, “East Hampton police responded to multiple alarms at a residence on Further Lane. They arrived to find seven bodies on the grounds and in the house of a large estate. These were the victims of a multiple homicide — six security guards and the owner of the estate, a Russian national by the name of Viktor Bogachyov. In addition, Mr. Bogachyov was found decapitated, the head gone.”
This occasioned a flurry of activity in the audience. Singleton plowed ahead. “The East Hampton police requested the assistance of the NYPD in determining whether this homicide was connected to the recent killing and decapitation of Mr. Marc Cantucci on the Upper East Side…”
Singleton droned on about the case in general terms, consulting a binder of notes that D’Agosta had put together for him. In contrast with the mayor, Singleton spoke in a monotonous, police-jargony deadpan voice — a just-the-facts-ma’am sort of tone — turning each page with a deliberate movement. He spoke for about ten minutes, outlining the bare facts of the three killings, starting with the latest and working back to the girl. As he reeled off information that almost everyone already knew, D’Agosta could feel the impatience of the crowd begin to rise. He knew his turn would be next.
Finally, Singleton halted. “I will now turn the briefing over to Lieutenant D’Agosta, Commander Detective Squad, who will speak more specifically and answer questions about the homicides, the possible connections among them, and some of the leads his team has been developing.”
He stepped away and D’Agosta took to the podium, trying to project the same gravitas that the mayor and Singleton had. He glanced over the assembled press, his eyes watering in the bright lights. He looked down at his notes, but they were a wavering mass of gray. He knew, from prior experience, that he was not very good at this. He had tried to tell Singleton as much and beg off, but the captain hadn’t been sympathetic. “Get out there and do it. If you want my advice, strive to be as boring as possible. Give them only the information you have to. And for God’s sake don’t let any of the bastards take control of the room. You’re the alpha male in there — don’t forget it.” This retrograde advice was delivered with a manly slap on the back.
And here he was. “Thank you, Captain Singleton. And thank you, Mayor DeLillo. The homicide division is following up on several promising investigative threads.” He allowed for a pause. “I wish I could go into detail, but most of what we have so far falls into the category of ‘non-releasable information,’ which the department defines as: One: Information posing an undue risk to the personal safety of members of the department, victims, or others. Two: Information that may interfere with police operations. And three: Information that adversely affects the rights of an accused or the investigation or prosecution of a crime.”
He paused and heard what sounded like a collective groan from the crowd. Well, Singleton had told him to be boring.
“Since you have most of the details of the first two homicides, I will focus on what we’ve learned so far about last night’s homicide in East Hampton.” D’Agosta went on, describing the third killing in much more detail than Singleton. He spoke of the six dead bodyguards, the discovery of the boat and other evidence, but he held back mention of the size thirteen foot — that crucial detail he wanted to keep in reserve. He spoke of Bogachyov’s many lawsuits and shady business dealings. It was alleged, for example, that Bogachyov had been brokering decommissioned nuclear equipment and missile parts through Chinese shell companies connected to the North Korean regime.