“And you saw him then?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the Brazilian jungle.”
“And since then?”
“I have neither seen nor communicated with him.”
“Why not? Why haven’t you sought him out?”
“I told you: we are — were — estranged.”
“Why, exactly, were you estranged?”
“Our personalities were incompatible.”
“Can you say anything about his character?”
“I hardly knew him. He took delight in malicious games; he was an expert at taunting and mortification.”
Angler took a deep breath. These non-answers were getting under his skin. “And his mother?”
“In my statement you will see that she died shortly after his birth, in Africa.”
“Right. The hunting accident.” There was something odd about that as well, but Angler could only deal with one absurdity at a time. “Might your son have been in some kind of trouble?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I have no idea. He was eminently capable of managing even the worst trouble.”
“How can you know he was in trouble without knowing what sort?”
“Because he had strong criminal tendencies.”
They were just going around and around. Angler had the strong feeling Pendergast was not only uninterested in helping the NYPD catch his son’s killer, but was probably withholding information, as well. Why would he do that? There was no guarantee the body was even that of his son. True, there was a remarkable resemblance. But the only identification was Pendergast’s own. It would be interesting to see if the victim’s DNA returned any hits in the database. And it would be simple to compare his DNA with Pendergast’s — which, since he was an FBI agent, was already on file.
“Agent Pendergast,” he said coldly. “I must ask you again: Do you have any idea, any suspicion, any clue, as to who killed your son? Any information about the circumstances that might have led to his death? Any hint of why his body would be deposited on your doorstep?”
“There is nothing in my statement that I am able to expand upon.”
Angler pushed the report away. This was only the first round. In no way was he finished with this man. “I don’t know what’s stranger here — the specifics of this killing, your non-reaction to it, or the non-background of your son.”
Pendergast’s expression remained absolutely blank. “O brave new world,” he said, “that has such people in’t.”
“ ’Tis new to thee,” Angler shot back.
At this, Pendergast showed the first sign of interest of the entire interview. His eyes widened ever so slightly, and he looked at the detective with something like curiosity.
Angler leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk. “I think we’re done for the present, Agent Pendergast. So let me close by saying simply this: You may not want this case solved. But it will be solved, and I’m the man who’s going to do it. I will take it as far as it leads, if necessary to the doorstep of a certain uncooperative FBI agent. Is that understood?”
“I would expect no less.” Pendergast rose, stood, and — nodding to Slade as he opened the door — exited the office without saying another word.
Back at the Riverside Drive mansion, Pendergast strode purposefully through the reception hall and into the library. Moving toward one of the tall bookcases full of leather-bound volumes, he pulled aside a wooden panel, exposing a laptop computer. Typing quickly, using passwords when necessary, he first accessed the NYPD file servers, then the database of open homicide cases. Jotting down certain reference numbers, he moved next to the force’s DNA database, where he quickly located the forensic test results for DNA samples collected from the supposed Hotel Killer, who had traumatized the city with brutal murders in upscale Manhattan hotels a year and a half earlier.
Even though he was logged in as an authorized user, the data was locked and would not allow for alteration or deletion.
Pendergast stared at the screen for a moment. Then, plucking his cell phone from his pocket, he dialed a long-distance number in River Pointe, Ohio. It was answered on the first ring.
“Well,” came the soft, breathless voice. “If it isn’t my favorite Secret Agent Man.”
“Hello, Mime,” Pendergast replied.
“How can I be of assistance today?”
“I need some records removed from an NYPD database. Quietly, and without a trace.”
“Always happy to do what I can to subvert our boys in blue. Tell me: does this have anything to do with — what was that name again — Operation Wildfire?”
Pendergast paused. “It does. But please, Mime: no further questions.”
“You can’t blame me for being curious. But never mind. Do you have the necessary reference numbers?”
“Let me know when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
Slowly and distinctly, eyes on the screen, fingers on the laptop’s trackpad, Pendergast began reciting the numbers.
4
It was six thirty that evening when Pendergast’s cell phone rang. The screen registered UNKNOWN NUMBER.
“Special Agent Pendergast?” The voice was anonymous, monotonal — and yet familiar.
“Yes.”
“I am your friend in need.”
“I’m listening.”
A dry chuckle. “We met once before. I came to your house. We drove beneath the George Washington Bridge. I gave you a file.”
“Of course. Regarding Locke Bullard. You’re the gentleman from—” Pendergast stopped himself before mentioning the man’s place of employment.
“Yes. And you are wise to leave those pesky government acronyms out of unprotected cell phone conversations.”
“What can I do for you?” Pendergast asked.
“You should ask instead: What can I do for you?”
“What makes you think I need help?”
“Two words. Operation Wildfire.”
“I see. Where shall we meet?”
“Do you know the FBI firing range on West Twenty-Second Street?”
“Of course.”
“Half an hour. Firing bay sixteen.” The connection went dead.
Pendergast entered through the double doors of the long, low building at the corner of Twenty-Second Street and Eighth Avenue, showed his FBI shield to the woman at the security barrier, descended a short flight of stairs, showed his shield again to the range master, picked up several paper targets and a pair of ear protectors, and entered the range proper. He walked along the forward section, past agents, trainees, and firearms instructors, to firing bay 16. There were protective sound baffles between every two firing bays, and he noticed that both bay 16 and the one beside it, 17, were empty. The report of gunfire from the other bays was only partially muffled by the baffles, and — always sensitive to sound — Pendergast fitted the hearing protection over his ears.
As he was laying out four empty magazines and a box of ammunition on the little shelf before him, he sensed a presence enter the bay. A tall, thin, middle-aged man in a gray suit, with deep-set eyes and a face rather lined for his age, had entered it. Pendergast recognized him immediately. His hair was perhaps a little thinner than the only other time Pendergast had seen him — some four years before — but in every other way he looked unchanged, bland, still surrounded with an air of mild anonymity. He was the sort of person that, if you passed him on the street, you would be unable to furnish a description even moments later.
The man did not return Pendergast’s glance, instead pulling a Sig Sauer P229 from his jacket and placing it on the shelf of bay 17. He did not don hearing protection, and with a discreet motion — still not looking Pendergast’s way — he made a motion for the agent to remove his own.
“Interesting choice of venue,” Pendergast said, looking downrange. “Rather less private than a car under the approach to the George Washington Bridge.”