{ 33 }
It was almost midnight, D'Agosta saw from his watch, and Hayward was still at her desk. The rest of the Homicide Division was quiet as a tomb: just the night crew, working in their cubicles on the floor below. Hayward was alone. The only light, the only sound, came from the open door of her office. Funny, considering most New York City murders happened at night. Like any other job, D'Agosta thought to himself. The average Joe doesn't want to log any more hours than necessary.
He crept up to Hayward's door and listened. He could hear the tapping of her computer keyboard. She had to be the most ambitious cop he'd ever met. It was a little scary.
D'Agosta knocked.
'Come in.'
The place was a disaster area: papers piled on every chair, the police-band radio squawking, a laser printer in a corner whining out some job. It was remarkably unlike the offices of most police captains, which were kept spotlessly clean and free of any real work.
She glanced up. 'What brings you to brasstown so late?'
D'Agosta cleared his throat. This was going to be difficult. Pendergast-after dropping off the face of the earth for more than an hour-had just shown up in his hotel room thirty minutes before. Although he'd revealed precious few details of what happened, he had seemed almost animated , if such a thing was possible. And then he'd promptly sent D'Agosta off on an assignment-this assignment-because he'd known he had no chance at succeeding himself.
'It's Bullard again,' he said.
Hayward sighed. 'Move those papers and take a seat.'
D'Agosta shifted a pile off one of the chairs and sat down. Hayward had unbuttoned her collar, taken off her hat, and let her hair down. It was surprisingly long, falling in big glossy waves below her shoulders. Despite the cluttered office, she looked cool somehow; fresh. She eyed him with a mixture of amusement and-what else? Affection? But no: that was his late-night imagination at work.
D'Agosta took out the folder and laid it on the desk. 'Pendergast got this, I don't know how.'
Hayward picked it up, glanced at it, dropped it like it was a piece of hot iron. 'Jesus, Vinnie. This is classified!'
'No shit it's classified.'
'No way am I going to read that. I never even saw it. Put it away.'
'Let me just summarize what's in there-'
'God, no.'
D'Agosta sat, wondering just how he was going to do this. Might as well get it over with.
'Pendergast wants you to put a tap on Bullard's phones.'
Hayward stared at him for at least ten seconds. 'Why doesn't he get it through the FBI?'
'He can't.'
'Can't Pendergast ever do any thing by the book?'
'Bullard's too powerful. The FBI's a political creature, and not even Pendergast can change that. But you could get the U.S. Attorney's Office to issue a Title 3, no problem.'
'I can't use a classified file to get Title 3 wiretap authority!' She was up from the desk, eyes flashing.
'No. But you could use the murder investigation as a hook.'
'Vincent, are you nuts ? There's no evidence against Bullard. No witness to put him at the scene of the crime. No motive, nothing to connect him with either the murders or the victims.'
'The phone calls.'
'Phone calls!' She paced behind the desk. 'A lot of people make phone calls.'
'His computer was stuffed with encrypted files. Hard encryption, virtually unbreakable.'
'I encrypt e-mails to my mother. Vincent, that is not evidence. This is just the kind of thing that hits the Times front page, makes us look like we're blowing off people's constitutional rights. Besides, you know what a pain in the ass it is to get a wiretap authority. You've got to prove it's your last resort.'
'You should read the file. It seems Bullard's been transferring military technology to the Chinese.'
'I told you not to tell me what's in the file.'
'He's got a company in Italy that's helping the Chinese develop a missile that can penetrate the U.S.'s planned missile shield.'
'That's as far out of my jurisdiction as a pickpocket in Outer Mongolia.'
'Bullard has big-time friends in Washington. He gives money to everyone's campaign. So neither the FBI nor the CIA wants to touch it.'
She was pacing the room, flushed, her jet hair swaying across her shoulders.
'Look, Laura, we're both Americans. Bullard's a bad guy. He's selling our country down the river, and no one's
