“I’m going to raise hell about this. You mark my words.”

D’Agosta spoke up. His dark mood had begun to lift. “Let’s see, Ingmar. What was it you said again? Be my guest. Thank you; we will. So get those files—and get them right now.”

14

CURRY DROPPED PENDERGAST off at the Dakota—the FBI agent had some vague excuse as for why he couldn’t accompany them to talk to the dead boy’s father in Piermont—while D’Agosta and Curry proceeded to the West Side Highway, over the George Washington Bridge, and up the Palisades Parkway. The town of Piermont, New York, sat beside Route 9W on the west side of the Hudson River, not far from the New Jersey line. Curry was the most taciturn of sergeants, for which D’Agosta was grateful. While Curry drove, D’Agosta glanced through the files they had copied from Sharps & Gund.

Two techs had installed the Cantucci system. One was still with the company and looked pretty straight; the other had left four months earlier. Been fired, actually. The guy’s name was Lasher and his personnel file had started out clean when he joined the firm five years back, but in the past year things seemed to have gone downhill. The file was peppered with warning letters regarding lateness; an occasional non-politically-correct observation; and two off-color comments made to female co-workers, both of which they’d reported. The file ended with a report documenting an outburst by Lasher, the specifics left unclear save to say it had been a “furious rant” that had resulted in his immediate dismissal.

Leaning back in the seat as Curry negotiated a traffic slowdown, D’Agosta’s mood improved still further. This guy Lasher looked like a prime suspect for the Cantucci murder. He seemed just the kind of disgruntled prick who’d retaliate against the company that fired him. Maybe Lasher killed Cantucci himself; or maybe he partnered with the killer, lending his necessary inside expertise. Either way, this was a damn good lead, and he would make sure the guy was interviewed as soon as possible.

D’Agosta was more than ever convinced the two murders were not at all connected and should be treated as separate cases. As proof of this, totally separate leads were developing nicely on both fronts. The father of the dead kid, Jory Baugh—whom they were on their way to see—was clearly a person of interest in the Ozmian killing. This could be a double win for him, clearing two big cases at the same time. If this didn’t earn him a promotion, nothing would.

He turned to Curry. “Let me fill you in on this guy in Piermont, Baugh. The dead kid was his only child. Grace Ozmian, the hit-and-run driver whose death we’re investigating, got off practically scot-free. After the boy’s death, the family fell apart. The mother became an alcoholic and eventually committed suicide. The father spent time in a mental clinic and lost his Beverly Hills landscaping business. He moved east six months ago. Works in a bar.”

“Why move east?” asked Curry. “He got family here?”

“Not that I know of.”

Curry nodded again. He was a big guy with a round head and a reddish crew cut. He didn’t look smart, and he didn’t talk smart, but D’Agosta had eventually figured out he was smart—damn smart. He just didn’t open his mouth until he had something to say.

They left the Palisades Parkway for 9W north. It was four o’clock and rush hour was not yet in full swing. In a few minutes they came into the town of Piermont. It was a charming little spot, nestled on the river, with a marina alongside a gigantic pier that gave the town its name, cute wooden houses perched on the hills above the Hudson, and a dramatic view of the Tappan Zee Bridge. D’Agosta pulled out his cell phone and called up Google Maps.

“The bar’s called The Fountainhead. Right on Piermont Avenue.” He gave Curry directions and moments later they were pulling up to an attractive watering hole. A blustery wind off the Hudson battered them as they exited the car and entered the bar. At quarter past four it was still almost deserted, with a lone bartender behind the bar. He was a big guy, built like a longshoreman, wearing a wifebeater, his muscled arms covered with tats.

D’Agosta went up to the bar, removed his shield, laid it down. “Lieutenant D’Agosta, NYPD homicide. This is Sergeant Curry. We’re looking for Jory Baugh.”

The big guy stared at them with cold blue eyes. “You’ve found him.”

While this surprised D’Agosta, he didn’t show it. He had managed to get a couple of blurry pictures of Baugh from the Internet, but they didn’t look much like this pumped-up bastard. The guy was hard to read: his face was a blank.

“May we ask you a few questions, Mr. Baugh?”

“What about?”

“We’re investigating the murder of Grace Ozmian.”

Baugh laid down his bar towel, crossed his massive arms, and leaned on the bar. “Shoot.”

“I just want you to understand that you’re not at present a suspect and this interview is voluntary. If you do become a suspect, we’ll stop the interview and explain your rights to you and give you the opportunity to have a lawyer present. Do you understand?”

Baugh nodded.

“Can you recall your movements on Wednesday, December 14?”

The man reached under the bar, pulled out a calendar, glanced at it. “I was working here at the bar from three to midnight. I go to the gym every morning, eight to ten. In between I was at home.” He shoved the calendar back. “Okay?”

“Is there anyone who can verify your movements?”

“At the gym. And here at the bar. In between, no.”

The M.E. had narrowed the time of death to around 10 PM December 14, give or take four hours. To get into the city from here, kill someone, give the victim time to bleed out, shift the body to the garage in Queens, maybe come back a day later to cut off the head…D’Agosta would have to work this one out on paper.

“You satisfied?” Baugh asked, a note of belligerence creeping into his voice. D’Agosta looked at him. He could feel the man’s anger seething just beneath his skin. A muscle in one of his crossed arms was jumping.

“Mr. Baugh, why did you move east? Did you have friends or family here in Piermont?”

Baugh leaned forward on the counter and pushed his face toward D’Agosta. “I threw a dart at a fucking map of the United States.”

“And it hit Piermont?”

“Yeah.”

“Funny how close the dart landed to where your son’s killer was residing.”

“Hey, listen, pal—you said your name’s D’Agosta, right?”

“Right.”

“Listen, Officer D’Agosta. For over a year I’ve been fantasizing about killing the rich bitch who ran over my son and left him bleeding to death in the middle of the street. Oh yeah. I thought of killing her in so many ways you can’t even count them—setting her on fire, breaking every bone in her body with a baseball bat, whittling her into little pieces with a knife. So, yes, it’s funny how close the dart landed. Isn’t it? If you think I killed her, good for you. Arrest me. When my boy died, my life ended anyway. Arrest me and finish the job that you cops and lawyers and judges started last year—the job of destroying my family.”

This little speech was delivered in a low, menacing tone without the least trace of sarcasm. D’Agosta wondered if the guy had crossed over the line to being a suspect, and decided he had.

“Mr. Baugh, I’d like to inform you of your rights at this time. You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions, and anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present and may call one now, before we ask you anything further. If you decide to continue answering our questions, you can stop at any time and call an attorney. If you can’t afford one, an attorney will be provided to you. Now, Mr. Baugh, do you understand your rights as I’ve explained them to you?”

At this Baugh began to laugh: a low rumble that finally emerged as a deep dog-like bark. “Just like on TV.”

D’Agosta waited.

“You want to hear that I understand?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, here’s what I understand: when my kid was hit and left to die, and they found out the driver was Grace Ozmian, the concern of everyone shifted. Like that.” Baugh snapped his fingers so hard D’Agosta had to fight not to flinch. “The cops, the lawyers, the insurance people, their concern was suddenly for her and all the money, power, and influence her daddy began throwing around. Nothing for me and my family—oh, he’s just a fucking gardener. Ozmian gets sentenced to two months flipping pancakes and the records are deep-sixed, while I’m sentenced to losing my family forever. So you want to know what I understand? What I understand is that the criminal justice system in this country is fucked. It’s for the rich. The rest of us poor bastards get nothing. And so if you’re here to arrest me, then arrest me. Nothing I can do about it.”

D’Agosta asked calmly: “Did you kill Grace Ozmian?”