39
This time, when Pendergast arrived for a visit to the DigiFlood campus, his Rolls-Royce was not ushered into Anton Ozmian’s personal parking space, or even into the corporate garage at all; rather, Proctor was forced to double-park in the maze of streets of Lower Manhattan. Nor was Pendergast whisked heavenward in a private elevator; rather, he was obliged to slip in with the rest of the masses at the building’s main entrance and present himself at security. His FBI credentials were sufficient to get him past the three guards at the checkpoint and onto an elevator to the top floor, but there, at the entrance to the Zen-like executive suite, he was met by two hulking men, squeezed into dark suits, who both appeared able to crack Brazil nuts between their knuckles.
“Special Agent Pendergast?” said one in a gruff voice, looking at a text message on his cell phone as he spoke.
“Indeed.”
“You don’t have an appointment to see Mr. Ozmian.”
“I have tried several times to make just such an appointment, but, alas, without success. I thought perhaps appearing here in person might precipitate a more favorable result.”
This volley, delivered in a buttery drawl, bounced off the two men without perceptible effect. “Mr. Ozmian doesn’t see visitors without an appointment.”
Pendergast hesitated a moment for effect. Then, once again, he slipped a pale white hand into his black suit and removed the wallet containing his FBI shield and ID. Letting it drop open, he showed it to first one, then the other, allowing it to remain before each face a good ten seconds. As he did so, he made a show of examining their nameplates and, apparently, committing them to memory.
“An appointment was merely a courtesy,” he said, allowing a little iron to mingle with the butter. “As a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, looking into an active homicide, I go where I please, when I please, as long as I have reasonable suspicion to do so. Now, I suggest you speak to your minders and arrange an audience with Mr. Ozmian without delay. Otherwise, there might be unpleasantness in store for each of you, personally.”
The two men absorbed this a moment, then looked at each other with uncertainty. “Wait here,” one of them said, and he turned and walked across the large waiting area, disappearing through the pair of birchwood doors, while the other stood guard.
It was fifteen minutes before he returned. “Follow us, please.”
They passed through the set of doors into the complex of offices that lay beyond. But instead of making their way through the labyrinth to the final, massive doors that led into Ozmian’s private office, the men steered Pendergast in another direction, toward a side corridor, with every door closed. Stopping at one, the men knocked.
“Come in,” came a voice.
The men opened the door and motioned Pendergast inside, and then, without entering themselves, closed the door behind him. Pendergast found himself inside a well-appointed office with a view of the Woolworth Building and one wall covered floor-to-ceiling with legal tomes. Behind the neat desk sat a thin, balding man with round glasses who looked very much like an owl. He gazed back at Pendergast with a neutral expression. Something like a smile passed briefly across his thin lips before disappearing again.
“Special Agent Pendergast,” the man said in a high, reedy voice. He indicated a few chairs arranged on the far side of the desk. “Please sit down.”
Pendergast did so. From three security staffers, to two bodyguards, to one lawyer — an interesting progression.
“My name is Weilman,” the man said from across the desk. “Counsel to Mr. Ozmian.”
Pendergast inclined his head.
“I’m told you informed Mr. Ozmian’s, ah, staffers that, in pursuing your job as a special agent of the FBI, you have the right to come and go as you please and to interview whoever you are in the mood to speak with. Mr. Pendergast, you and I both know that is not the case. I have no doubt that Mr. Ozmian would be happy to speak to you — assuming that you have a court order on your person.”
“I do not.”
“I’m so sorry, then.”
“Given the fact that I am investigating the death of his daughter, I would have thought that Mr. Ozmian would be eager to help further that investigation.”
“And he is! But it’s my understanding, Mr. Pendergast, that you have already spoken with Mr. Ozmian. He agreed to an interview — an exceedingly painful one. He further aided your investigation by identifying his daughter’s body — an even more painful undertaking. In turn, he has been repaid for this cooperation by a total lack of progress, and a shocking silence from investigators. As a result, he sees no reason why he should subject himself to additional painful interviews — especially when he has no faith in you or the NYPD to solve this case. Mr. Ozmian has given you all possible relevant information on his daughter already. I would advise you to stop going over old ground and instead focus on solving the case.”
“Cases,” Pendergast corrected. “A total of fourteen people are dead.”
“Mr. Ozmian could not care less about the other thirteen, except insofar as those deaths might help solve his daughter’s.”
Pendergast sank back slowly into his chair. “It occurs to me that the public might be interested to learn that Mr. Ozmian is not cooperating with the investigation.”
Now it was Weilman’s turn to sink back into his chair, and a bloodless smile curdled on his pale face. “Mr. Ozmian’s name has for years been put before the public in, shall we say, a less-than-flattering light.” The lawyer paused. “Let me put it to you directly, and forgive the vulgarity: Mr. Ozmian does not give a rat’s turd what the public thinks. At present, he has only two concerns: running his company and bringing the murderer of his daughter to justice.”
As Pendergast considered this, he realized it was true: like King Mithridates, who had taken increasing doses of poison until he was no longer susceptible to its effects, Ozmian no longer cared a whit about his reputation. This rendered his usual method of threats and implied blackmail ineffective.
Pity.
But he was not going to let it go just yet. He tapped the breast of his suit coat — whose inner pocket contained nothing — with a look of complacency. “As it happens, we’ve recently made a not inconsiderable breakthrough — one that the FBI wanted to share with Mr. Ozmian. Not only will he find it interesting, but he may be able to supply information of his own that will help us pursue it further. This discovery is confidential for the time being, which was why I did not mention it before. I would thus ask you to keep any mention of its existence to yourself when you now ask Mr. Ozmian to give me a private audience.”
For a moment, the two men simply looked at each other. And then the faint smile appeared once again on the lawyer’s face. “A promising development indeed, Agent Pendergast! If you’ll just give me a summary of what you have hidden in your pocket, I’ll convey it to Mr. Ozmian right away. And I have no doubt that, if it is really as big a breakthrough as you suggest, he’ll be delighted to see you.”
“Protocol requires that I hand him the information personally,” Pendergast said.
“Of course, of course — after I give him the summary.”
A silence fell over the room. After a moment, Pendergast let his hand fall away from the breast of his jacket. He stood up. “I’m sorry, but this information is restricted to Mr. Ozmian himself.”
At this, the lawyer’s smile — or was it a smirk? — grew a little wider. “Of course,” he said, rising as well. “When you have the subpoena, you may show it to him. And now, may I escort you to the elevator?”