On top of that, Pendergast had pulled another one of his disappearing acts, not answering texts, emails, or phone calls.
“Let’s go over this again,” said D’Agosta. “You say that on December eighteenth, you spent the day in the apartment, online, and that your Internet records will prove that.”
“I told you, man, I—”
Overriding him, D’Agosta said: “Well, we looked at your Internet records for that day and the computer was scrubbed clean. Now, why would you erase those records?”
Lasher coughed, grimaced. “I go to great lengths to keep my browsing history secret, because you government people—”
“But you said the Internet records would, quote, ‘prove I was online all day and night.’”
“And they would! They would, if I wasn’t forced by government drones, digital wiretaps, and brain-wave transmitters to take extreme measures for my own protection—”
“Lieutenant,” the nurse said, “I warned you about exciting this man. He’s still very weak. If you press him, I’ll be forced to end the interrogation.”
D’Agosta heard some murmuring behind him and turned to see Pendergast at the door, being logged in to enter. Finally. Ignoring the nurse, he turned back to Lasher. “So your proof is no proof at all. Now, is there anyone in the building who could confirm you were there all day?”
“Of course.”
Pendergast had now entered the room.
“Who?”
“You people.”
“How’s that?”
“You’ve been shadowing me for months, monitoring my every move. You know I didn’t kill Cantucci!”
D’Agosta shook his head and turned to Pendergast. “You got anything you want to ask this asshole?”
“Not directly. But allow me to ask you, Vincent: did you get the results of the blood work on Mr. Lasher?”
“Sure.”
“And did he test positive for methamphetamine hydrochloride?”
“Hell, yes. High as a kite.”
“I thought so. Shall we step out into the hall?”
D’Agosta followed him out of the room.
“I don’t need to ask any questions,” Pendergast said, “because I know this fellow is innocent in the matter of the Cantucci killing.”
“And how would you know that?”
“I found a sample of methamphetamine in his apartment. The large, yellowish salt-like grains I recognized immediately as a special ‘brand,’ if you will, of meth, known by its crystal shape, color, and consistency. A quick bit of research revealed the DEA had the meth cook of this particular variety under observation, in preparation for making an arrest, and that the product was sold out of a particular nightclub. So a certain colleague of mine arranged for me to view the surveillance videos the DEA had been taking of the nightclub’s entrances and exits. And sure enough: Lasher was seen entering the nightclub, and then exiting it forty-five minutes later, no doubt making a buy…precisely during the period when Cantucci was killed.”
D’Agosta stared at him, then finally laughed and shook his head. “Fucking A. It isn’t Baugh, it isn’t Ingmar, it isn’t Lasher — every single decent lead has gone to hell. I feel like I’m rolling a ball of shit up an endless mountain.”
“My dear Vincent, Sisyphus would be proud.”
As they left Bellevue, a big New York Post truck making an early morning delivery had parked in the crosswalk, and as they went around it, the driver dropped a fat bundle of papers on the sidewalk beside them. The headline screamed:
THE DECAPITATOR REVEALED!!
28
This is a first,” said Singleton, as D’Agosta and the captain emerged from the Municipal Building for the short walk from One Police Plaza to City Hall. It was a sunny, brutally cold morning, with the temperature hovering at ten degrees. As yet there had been no snow, and the streets were like halls of frosty sunlight.
D’Agosta was filled with dread. He had never been called to the mayor’s office before, let alone with his captain. “Any idea what we’re going to face?” he asked.
Singleton said, “Look, it’s not good. It’s not even bad. It’s horrendous. Normally, the mayor makes his views known through the commissioner. As I said, this is a first. Did you see that look he gave after the press conference?”
Without further discussion they turned into City Hall Park and entered the opulent neoclassical rotunda of City Hall itself. A gray-suited lackey, waiting for their arrival, routed them around security and took them up the stairs, down a vast and intimidating marble hall lined with dark paintings, to a set of double doors. They were ushered through an outer office and directly into the mayor’s private office. No waiting.
No waiting. To D’Agosta, that seemed the worst omen of all.
The mayor stood behind his desk. Lying upon it were two neatly squared copies of the Post: yesterday’s, with the big Harriman story, and beside it that morning’s edition, with a follow-up piece by Harriman.
The mayor did not offer them a seat or sit down himself, nor did he offer his hand.
“All right,” he said, his deep voice booming, “I’m getting pressure from all sides. You said you were developing leads. I need to know where we’re at. I want to know the latest details.”
Singleton had previously made it clear that D’Agosta, as the CDS on the case, was going to do the talking. All the talking. Unless the mayor directly addressed Singleton.
“Mayor DeLillo, thank you for your concern—” D’Agosta began.
“Cut the bullshit and tell me what I need to know.”
D’Agosta took a deep breath. “It’s…” He decided not to spin it. “Honestly, it’s not good. We had a number of leads in the beginning, several of which seemed promising, but none of them panned out. It’s been frustrating.”
“Finally some straight talk. Keep going.”
“In the first killing, we had reasons to suspect the father of the child the victim had killed in a hit-and-run. But he has an ironclad alibi. In the second killing, we were certain it was someone connected with the victim’s security system. In fact, we’re still sure of it — but the three most likely suspects did not pan out.”
“What about that guy, Lasher, who shot one of your cops?”
“He has an alibi.”
“Which is?”
“Caught on videotape by the DEA in a drug deal at the exact time of the killing.”
“Christ. And the third killing?”
“The labs are still developing the evidence. We found the boat that the killer used — stolen, of course. But it looks like a dead end. There was no evidence in the boat and no evidence at the marina from which it was taken. We did, however, get a clear footprint of the killer. Size thirteen.”
“What else?”
D’Agosta hesitated. “As for solid leads, that’s it so far.”
“That’s it? One bloody footprint? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the FBI? Have they got anything? Are they holding out on you?”
“No. We have excellent rapport with the FBI. They would appear to be as stumped as we are.”
“What about the FBI Behavioral Science Unit, the shrinks that are supposed to look into motivation and provide a profile. Any results?”
“Not yet. We’ve routed all relevant material to them, of course, but normally it takes a couple of weeks to get results. We’ve escalated our request, however, and we hope to have something in two days.”