about the final straw.'
Madame Merle returned with Pendergast's order, and D'Agosta decided it was time to change the subject. 'What about you?' he asked almost aggressively. 'What have you been up to? New York keeping you busy?'
'Actually, I've recently returned from the Midwest. Kansas, to be precise, where I was handling a case-a small case, but not without its, ah, interesting features.'
'And Grove?'
'As you know, Vincent, I have an interest-some might call it an unhealthy interest-in unusual homicides. I've traveled to places far more distant than Long Island in pursuit of them. A bad habit, but very hard to break.' Pendergast pierced an egg with his knife, and yolk flooded out over the plate. More yellow.
'So, are you official?'
'My freelancing days are over. The FBI is a different place. Yes, I'm official.' And he patted the cell phone in his pocket.
'What's the hook? I mean, for the feds. Drugs? Terrorism?'
'Just what I told Lieutenant Braskie-possibility of interstate flight. It's weak, but it will have to serve.' Pendergast leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. 'I need your help, Vincent.'
D'Agosta looked over. Was he kidding?
'We made a good team once.'
'But I'm . ' He hesitated. 'You don't need my help.' He said it more angrily than he meant. He found those damn eyes on him again.
'Not as much as you need my help, perhaps.'
'What do you mean? I don't need anybody's help. I'm doing fine.'
'Forgive the liberty, but you are not doing fine.'
'What the hell are you talking about?'
'You're working far below your capacity. Not only is that a waste of your talents, but it's all too clear in your attitude. Lieutenant Braskie seems to be basically decent, and he may be somewhat intelligent, but you do not belong under his supervision. Once he's chief, your relationship will only grow worse.'
'You think that asshole is intelligent and decent? Christ, if you could spend a day working for him, you'd change your tune.'
'It's you, Vincent, who needs to change your tune. There are far worse policemen than Lieutenant Braskie, and we've worked with them.'
'So you're going to save me, is that it?'
'No, Vincent. It's the case that will save you. From yourself.'
D'Agosta stood up. 'I don't have to take this shit from you or anyone ' He pulled out his wallet, dropped a crumpled five on the table, and stalked out.
Ten minutes later D'Agosta found Pendergast in the same place he'd left him, the crumpled bill still sitting there. He pulled out the chair, sat down, and ordered another iced tea, his face burning. Pendergast merely nodded as he finished the last bite of his lunch. Then he removed a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and laid it gently on the table.
'This is a list of the four people who attended Jeremy Grove's last party, and the name and number of the priest who received his final phone call. It's as good a place to start as any. Considering how short the list is, there are some rather interesting names on it.' He pushed the paper across the table.
D'Agosta nodded. The burning sensation began to ebb as he looked at the names and addresses. Something began to stir in him: the old excitement of working a case. A good case.
'How's this going to work, with me being on the Southampton P.D. and all?'
'I will arrange with Lieutenant Braskie to get you assigned as the local FBI liaison officer.'
'He'll never go for it.'
'On the contrary, he will be only too happy to get rid of you. And in any case, it won't be presented as a request. Braskie, as you pointed out, is a political animal, and he will do as he is told.'
D'Agosta nodded.
Pendergast checked his watch. 'Almost two. Come on, Vincent, we've got a long drive ahead of us. Priests dine early, but we might just catch Father Cappi if we hurry.'
{ 6 }
D'Agosta felt like he'd been swallowed by Ahab's white whale, cushioned as he was in the white leather interior of a '59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith. Chauffeured, no less. Pendergast had certainly come up in the world since the bad old days of the museum murders, when he drove a late-model Buick from the Bureau pool. Maybe a relative died and left him a few billion. He glanced over. Or maybe the time for dissembling had simply passed.
The car was cruising up Route 9, along a beautiful stretch of the middle Hudson Valley north of Poughkeepsie. After months spent among low sand dunes and beach scrub, D'Agosta found the lush greenery and rolling hills a relief to the eyes. Here and there, old mansions could be seen: set far back from the road, overlooking the river or tucked in among copses of trees. Some had signs identifying them as monasteries or retreats; others still seemed
