There was a brief but significant silence.
'How did you meet Grove?'
'I don't recall.'
'Was he a close friend?'
'No.'
'Did you have any business dealings with him?'
'No.'
'When was the last time you saw him?'
'I don't recall.'
'So why would he call you then?'
'You'll have to ask him.'
This was bullshit. It was the same runaround as before. D'Agosta moved on to the next call.
'On October 22, at 7:54P.M. , Nigel Cutforth placed a call to your home number. Did you take the call?'
Bullard glanced at the lawyer, who nodded.
'Yes.'
'What did you talk about?'
'It was also a social call. We talked about mutual friends, family, news, that sort of thing.'
'Dogs?' D'Agosta asked sarcastically.
'I don't remember if we talked about dogs.'
Pendergast suddenly broke in. 'Do you, in fact, have a dog, Mr. Bullard?'
There was a short silence. Hayward cast Pendergast a warning glance.
'I was speaking metaphorically. We talked about trivial social things, is what I meant.'
D'Agosta resumed. 'Cutforth was murdered just a few hours after you hung up the telephone. Did he seem nervous to you?'
'I don't recall.'
'Did he express any sense to you that he was afraid?'
'Not that I recall.'
'Did he ask for your help?'
'I don't recall.'
'What was your relationship to Mr. Cutforth?'
'Superficial.'
'When was the last time you saw him?'
A hesitation. 'I don't recall.'
'Did you ever have any business or other dealings with Mr. Cutforth?'
'No.'
'How did you first meet?'
'I don't recall.'
'When did you first meet?' Pendergast smoothly interjected.
'I don't remember.'
This was worse than bullshit. The lawyer, George Marchand, was looking more and more satisfied. D'Agosta wasn't going to let it go at this.
'After Cutforth's call, you spent the rest of the night on your yacht?'
'Yes.'
'Do you have a power launch?'
'Yes.'
'Was it stowed?'
'No. It was docked next to the yacht.'
'What kind of launch?'
'A Picnic Boat.'
Pendergast broke in. 'Are you referring to the Hinckley Picnic Boat, the kind with the jet drive?'
'That's right.'
