Paine thought for a moment. “I’d guess around two hundred. Plus a monthly fee of two grand.”

D’Agosta shifted position, consulted his notes. He was now getting to the heart of his questions. “Would Ingmar have been capable—did he personally have the knowledge—to bypass the security system the way the killer did?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Who else at Sharps and Gund would have sufficient skills to do what the killer did, in circumventing the system?”

“My install partner, Lasher. Possibly the guy who heads the IT department, maybe the chief of programming and design. But I really don’t think either of them knew how the Cantucci system itself was laid out or had access to the technical lockbox.” He paused, considering. “Really, Ingmar and Lasher are probably the only two, other than me of course.”

This is good, D’Agosta thought. Really good. “You and Lasher were the techs who responded to and performed the repair that had apparently been rigged, staged for by the killer?”

“I was the guy, but Lasher had been fired by that time, so I went with another techie.”

“Which is?”

“Hallie Iyer. She still works for the company.”

“Would this Ms. Iyer have enough knowledge to circumvent the system?”

“No. No way. She’s pretty junior in the firm, hasn’t been with it more than a couple of months.”

“Tell us about your ex-partner, Lasher,” said D’Agosta. “The one who helped you with the original install. What kind of guy was he?”

“He was a strange one. Man, he gave me the creeps—not from day one, though. It came on kind of gradually. At first he was really closemouthed, didn’t say a word, but as we worked together more he sort of let down his guard. Oh, I can see why Ingmar hired him—he knew his stuff, no doubt about that—but he talked some strange shit.”

“Such as?”

“That the Apollo moon landings were faked, that the jet contrails you see in the sky are actually chemical trails the government is spraying on people to brainwash them, that global warming is a Chinese hoax. Unbelievable crap.”

Pendergast, who had been silent, broke in. “How did a fellow with these views pass Sharps and Gund’s allegedly CIA-level vetting system?”

Paine laughed. “CIA-level? Is that what Ingmar told you?” He shook his head. “Ingmar hires on the cheap, no benefits, long hours, no overtime, a ton of travel. The only vetting he does is to make sure you don’t have a criminal record, and even then he’d probably hire you because you’d come cheaper. Lasher seemed normal at first, but then he got weirder and weirder.”

“Anything in particular?” D’Agosta asked.

“It was mostly about women. A total creep. No social skills, asked them out on dates right in front of the whole office. Always angry, too, making disparaging comments, telling stupid jokes, bragging. Lot of talk about big tits—you know the kind.”

D’Agosta nodded. He knew the kind.

“He should’ve been fired the first time it happened. Ingmar tried to ignore it but eventually had to do something about it. He would have lost some of his valuable female employees otherwise. But it was probably Cantucci’s constant complaints that actually got Lasher the ax.”

This Lasher was looking better and better. And they still had a decent window before Singleton’s thirty-six-hour deadline passed.

“You know where Lasher lives?” asked D’Agosta.

“Yeah. West Fourteenth Street. At least, he lived there when he was fired.”

Time to wrap up this interview. “Agent Pendergast, you got any more questions?”

“No, thank you, Lieutenant.”

D’Agosta rose. “Thank you, Mr. Paine, a squad car will take you home.” He walked out of the room with Pendergast. Once the door was shut, D’Agosta said: “So what do you think? We’ve got two suspects, in my view: Lasher and Ingmar himself.”

Pendergast did not respond, and D’Agosta couldn’t read his face. “I mean, this guy Ingmar, he’s got the means, the motive, and the ability.”

“Oh, Ingmar was never a suspect.”

“What do you mean? You called him a ‘person of interest’ right to his face.”

“Only to intimidate him. He wasn’t behind the killing.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“For one thing, he would not have needed to break into the van to exchange the cell phone circuit board—he could have substituted the board in the office. Breaking into a van on a city street is a risky business, and there was no guarantee the two men would have both left it unguarded.”

“Lasher could have done it in the office, too.”

“No. Lasher had been fired prior to the service call.”

“Right, right, but I still think Ingmar is a suspect.”

“My dear Vincent, if Ingmar wanted to kill Cantucci, why would he do it in a way that would damage his own company? If Ingmar wanted Cantucci dead, he would have done it outside his home.”

D’Agosta grunted. He had to admit that made sense. “So that leaves Lasher as the only suspect? Is that what you think?”

“I think nothing. And I would advise you to think nothing, either—at least, not until we have more evidence.”

D’Agosta didn’t agree, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to argue with Pendergast. In the ensuing silence Curry, looking up from his phone, said: “Lasher still lives on West Fourteenth Street.”

“Good, let’s send a team over there right away for a voluntary prelim. Nothing in-depth, just see if he’s a viable suspect, if he has an alibi.” He turned to Pendergast. “You want to go? I can’t, got a ton of paperwork.”

“I, unfortunately, have a previous engagement.”

D’Agosta watched his black-clad frame leave the office. He hoped to God his guys would come back with just enough to get the media break that Singleton and the mayor so desperately wanted by the end of the day—otherwise he’d never hear the end of it.

20

WHEN PENDERGAST ENTERED the office this time, Howard Longstreet—who was sitting in a cracked and comfortable leather wing chair, reading a report with a red-stamped classified jacket—motioned him wordlessly to the sister chair. Pendergast took the proffered seat.

Longstreet spent another minute or two looking over the document, then slipped the papers into an open safe by his desk, closed and turned the lock. He looked up. “I understand you’ve become more active in investigating these decapitation killings.”

Pendergast nodded.

“Perhaps you can fill me in on the most recent one.”

“The third killing was, like the second, carefully planned and executed. The security assets were neutralized in what appears to have been a precise and orderly sequence. The challenge of the victim’s having a safe room was dealt with in a most clever manner. It would appear the entire sequence was choreographed down to the last step.”

“You make it sound like a ballet.”

“It was.”

“Any fresh evidence?”

“We have the make and model of the getaway boat, along with the engine VIN. However, those were not illuminating. The boat was reported stolen that night from a nearby marina in Amagansett, and no physical evidence remained. We did, however, manage to retrieve a single, remarkably clear footprint near the scene—size thirteen.”

Longstreet grunted. “Planted?”

A smile. “Perhaps.”

“The police still cooperating?”

“The East Hampton chief was unhappy about a certain drive I took along their beach. But he and the NYPD are officially grateful for our assistance.”

Longstreet took a sip from his Arnold Palmer, sitting on a coaster on the nearby table. “The last time we spoke, Aloysius, we were dealing with two murders in which both victims were beheaded. I asked you to determine whether there was a connection between the homicides; if both were the work of a single killer. Now we have three such murders, in addition to six others that could best be described as collateral damage, and the question is even more pressing. Are we dealing with a serial killer?” He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

“I take it you’re aware of the NYPD’s theory?”

“You mean, that one individual killed Grace Ozmian, and that killing in turn inspired a second and third killing by somebody else. Is that what you think, too?”

Pendergast paused a moment before speaking. “The similarities in the M.O. between victims two and three are striking. In both cases the killer was methodical, calm, deliberate, and exceptionally well prepared. It’s likely they were the work of a single individual.”

“And the first one?”

“Highly anomalous.”

“What about motive?”

“Unclear. We focused on two suspects with strong motives in the first two killings. The suspect in the Ozmian killing was cleared. The second suspect, an ex-employee of Sharps and Gund, will soon be questioned. He looks promising, so far.”

Longstreet shook his head. “That’s the strangest thing. The victims seem so unconnected that it’s hard to imagine a linking motive. What does a mob lawyer have to do with a Russian arms dealer with an irresponsible socialite?”

“I would submit to you that the apparent lack of motive might, in fact, be motive itself.”

“There you go again, Aloysius, talking riddles.”