He knows things about people.
“I’d like you to keep still,” he said in a doctor’s patient, disinterested tone. “Movement makes things very difficult for me. It will only delay matters. I’ve only got two questions. Answer them and you’re free to go.”
“Easier than Jeopardy!”
“This is no game show.”
Bolden took in the almost decent suit, the cheap necktie, the ease with which Guilfoyle launched into his interrogation. The guy had cop written all over him. He folded his hands. “So?”
“Surely you know what I’m curious about.”
“No clue.”
“Really? How could that be?”
Bolden shrugged and looked away. “This is crazy.”
Fingers like steel pinions grasped Bolden’s jaw and guided his face forward. “You will kindly remain still,” said Guilfoyle, relaxing his grip. “Now then, let’s begin again. Tell me about ‘Crown.’ ”
“Crown?” Bolden opened his hands. “Crown what? Crown Cola? Crown Books? Crown Cork and Seal? Give me something to go on.”
“I guess I should have expected that kind of answer from a man who earns his living on Wall Street. Try again.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t get it,” said Bolden earnestly.
The eyes flitted over Bolden’s face. Forehead, eyes, mouth. “Sure you do,” said Guilfoyle. “But let’s keep going. Play it fast and loose. How about Bobby Stillman? When did you see each other last?”
“Never. I don’t know anyone named Bobby Stillman.”
“Bob-by Still-man.” Guilfoyle spoke the name slowly, as if Bolden were deaf, as well as plain stupid. His gaze had acquired a weight. Bolden could feel it like a cold hand on his neck.
“Don’t know the name. Who is it?”
“You tell me.”
“I can’t. I don’t know a Bobby Stillman.”
Two questions. Two answers. He’d failed the test brilliantly. He remembered Irish reciting the facts of his life as if he were reading from a book. It was a mistake. All that work for naught. They had the wrong man. “Is that it?” he asked. “Is that why you brought me up here?”
Guilfoyle smiled briefly, showing dingy, crooked teeth. “There’s been no mistake,” he said, almost lightly. “We both know that. You’re very good, by the way. I’ll give you that.”
“Good?” Bolden sensed what he was driving at. “I’m not lying, if that’s what you mean. You said ‘two questions.’ I answered them the best I could. I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s not going to change anytime soon.”
Guilfoyle remained still, the unblinking eyes ever searching. Suddenly he shifted in his chair. “You can’t really think you’ll get out of this so easily. Not you… of all people. You know who we are; the resources at our disposal. What with all the digging you’ve done… Come now, Mr. Bolden.”
“It sounds like you’re the one who did the digging and it was for nothing. I’m sorry that you made a mistake, but I’d like to go. This bullshit has to end sometime and I think now’s the right moment.”
Guilfoyle exhaled and sat straighter, as if taking a new and harsher measure of the situation. “Mr. Bolden, I had you brought here for the express purpose of learning what you know about Crown. I won’t leave until I have my answer. I’d also like you to tell me how you came by the information-and by that, I mean a name. You see, we’re very much like an investment bank ourselves. We don’t like our people divulging inside information. Now then, I’d appreciate some answers.”
“I can’t help.”
“I think you can. Crown. Bobby Still-”
Suddenly, it was too much. The confined space. The questioning. The insistent eyes boring into him like ice picks. “Jesus, would you get off of it!” said Bolden, bolting from his chair, sending it tumbling. “How many times do I have to say it? I don’t know. Got it? I don’t know anything about your resources or who you work for. I haven’t been doing any digging. You’re the one who’s mistaken, not me. Look, I’ve tried to be patient, but I can’t give you what I don’t have. I don’t know who you are, Mr. Guilfoyle, or why you’re asking me these questions. And frankly, I don’t want to know. One last time: I have no idea what Crown is. As for Bobby Stillman, what do you want me to say? We met for tea at the Palm Court in the Plaza last Thursday? The name means nothing to me. It’s a blank. That’s the truth.”
“That would be impossible,” said Guilfoyle. He remained seated, his voice collected, untroubled.
“What would be impossible?”
“We know the two of you are working together.”
“On the same team,” Bolden suggested, throwing up his arms.
“I haven’t heard it put that way before, but yes… the same team. Crown,” repeated Guilfoyle. “Bobby Stillman. You will tell us, please.”
“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about!”
With surprising speed, Guilfoyle stood and pulled a snub-nosed.38 Police Special from his jacket pocket. Taking a step forward, he pressed the muzzle against Bolden’s forehead. “Wolf,” he called, without unscrewing his gaze from Bolden. “Some assistance.”
Massive hands clutched Bolden’s arms, pinning them to his sides. Guilfoyle opened a door at the far end of the room. Wind howled from the darkness beyond. “Looks like the storm’s on its way.”
“Walk,” said Wolf.
Digging his heels into the carpet didn’t help. Wolf lifted Bolden off his feet as if he were no heavier than a case of beer and carried him outside. He set Bolden down on a wood platform twenty feet by twenty, spread across two girders. The door flapped noisily against a metal wall and Bolden realized that he’d been in the construction foreman’s temporary office. Above him, the skyscraper’s unfinished exoskeleton rose another ten stories or so, the taut girders clutching at the sky like a drowning man’s hand. He was facing north, the view over Harlem and into the Bronx obscured by fast-moving clouds.
This was bad, he thought. This was definitely lousy.
“Now, listen…” Bolden turned his head to look behind him. A kidney punch dropped him to a knee.
“Stand up,” said Guilfoyle. He waved the pistol toward the opposite side of the wooden platform.
Bolden raised himself to his feet. Haltingly, he crossed the platform. A girder extended from beneath the wood, and beyond the skyscraper’s superstructure like a diving board. A heavy chain was anchored to its end. A pulley of some sort.
“As I said, you’re quite good, but my patience has worn thin. It’s your choice. Tell me about ‘Crown’ and your relationship with Bobby Stillman, and you’re free to come back inside. We’ll all go downstairs together and I’ll see to it that you get home safely. It’s a matter of security. I can’t leave here until I know for certain the full extent of your involvement.”
“And if I can’t?”
“You can’t or you won’t?” Guilfoyle shrugged, and his eyes dived over the platform to the ground, seventy floors below. “Even you must know the answer to that question.”
Glancing down, Bolden saw only a void, the building’s empty guts, and far below, the reflected white of the wooden fence surrounding the construction site. A street ran parallel to the building. Taillights sprinted from block to block, stopping at red lights. A gust lashed his face. The wind unsettled the platform, and Bolden’s knees buckled, before he regained his balance.
Wolf walked confidently across the platform, a lead pipe in his hand. “Now’s the time, Mr. Bolden. Talk. Tell Mr. Guilfoyle what he needs to know.”
Bolden took another step back, his heel dipping into air, then finding the wood. It came to him that Guilfoyle did not want to shoot him. A body that fell from the seventieth floor was a suicide. Add a bullet and you have murder.
“Crown. I want an answer. Three seconds.”