“Undoubtedly.” Pendergast raised the teacup to his lips and took a sip. “Was she involved in drugs?”

“Possible. So many of them are—rich as well as poor. No record, but she was picked up intoxicated and disorderly a couple of times, most recently six months ago. A blood test showed the presence of cocaine in her system. Never charged. We’re putting together a list of everyone she associated with—she had a pretty big crowd of hangers-on. Mostly Upper East Side trust-funders and Eurotrash. As soon as the father’s notified, we’ll be going after her ‘friends’ hammer and tongs. Of course, you’ll be in on all of it.”

Proctor brought in the cup of coffee.

“You mean he doesn’t know yet?” Pendergast asked.

“Ah, no…the ID came in only an hour ago. And that’s partly why I’m here.”

Pendergast’s eyebrows rose, and a look of displeasure gathered on his face. “Surely you don’t expect me to make a sympathy call.”

“It’s not a sympathy call. You’ve done this before, right? It’s part of the investigation.”

“To break the news to this billionaire that his daughter has been murdered and decapitated? No, thank you.”

“Look, it’s not optional. You’ve got to go. You’re FBI. We need to show him we’re all over this case and so is the Bureau. If you’re not there, believe me, this superior of yours is going to hear about it—and you don’t want that.”

“I can weather Howard Longstreet’s displeasure. I’m in no mood to leave my library at present on a bereavement mission.”

“You need to see his reaction.”

“You think he’s a suspect?”

“No, but it’s possible the murder could be something involving his business dealings. I mean, the guy is supposed to be a world-class prick. He’s ruined many a career, seized lots of companies in hostile takeovers. Maybe he pissed off the wrong people and they killed his daughter to get even.”

“My dear Vincent, this sort of thing is not my forte.”

D’Agosta felt exasperated. He could feel his face burning. Normally he let Pendergast have his way—but this time the man was dead wrong. He was usually so adept at sizing up situations—what the hell was up with him? “Look, Pendergast. If not for the case, do it for me. I’m asking you as a friend. Please. I can’t go in there alone; I just can’t.”

He felt Pendergast’s silvery gaze on him for a long moment. And then the agent picked up his teacup, drained it, and placed it back in its saucer with a sigh. “I can hardly say no to an appeal like that.”

“All right. Good.” D’Agosta stood up, coffee untouched. “But we’ve got to move. That frigging reporter Bryce Harriman is sniffing around like a hound dog. The news could break at any second. We can’t let Ozmian learn about his daughter from a tabloid headline.”

“Very well.” Pendergast turned and there, as if by magic, was Proctor once again, standing in the library doorway.

“Proctor?” Pendergast said. “Bring the car around, if you please.”

4

THE VINTAGE ROLLS-ROYCE Silver Wraith with Proctor at the wheel—so incongruous in the cramped, pedestrian-clogged labyrinth of Lower Manhattan—squeezed through a traffic jam on West Street and approached the headquarters of DigiFlood, in the heart of Silicon Alley. The DigiFlood campus comprised two large buildings occupying an entire city block among West, North Moore, and Greenwich. One was a massive former printing plant dating back to the nineteenth century, and the other a brand-new skyscraper rising fifty stories. Both, D’Agosta mused, must have killer views of the Hudson River and, in the other direction, the skyline of Lower Manhattan.

D’Agosta had called ahead to say they were coming to see Anton Ozmian, and that they had information about his daughter. Now, as they entered the underground parking garage below the DigiFlood tower, the parking attendant who spoke to Proctor indicated a space directly next to the booth, marked OZMIAN 1. Even before they were out of the car, a man in a dark-gray suit appeared.

“Gentlemen?” He came forward, not shaking hands, all business. “May I please see your credentials?”

Pendergast removed his shield and flipped it open, and D’Agosta did the same. The man scrutinized each one without touching them.

“My driver will stay with the car,” said Pendergast.

“Very well. This way, gentlemen.”

D’Agosta mused that, if the man was surprised to see a cop and an FBI agent arrive in a Rolls, he gave no sign of it.

They followed him into a private elevator adjacent to the parking space, which their escort operated with a key. With a whoosh of cushioned air the elevator rose precipitously, and within a minute it had reached the top floor. The doors whispered open, and they stepped into what was obviously the executive suite. The decorating scheme, D’Agosta saw, was frosted glass, honed black granite, and brushed titanium. The space was Zen-like in its emptiness. The man walked briskly and they followed him across a large waiting area, curved like the bridge of a spaceship, that led to a central pair of birchwood doors that slipped open noiselessly as they approached. Beyond lay a set of outer offices, staffed by men and women dressed in what D’Agosta took to be Silicon Valley casual chic—the black T-shirts and linen jackets with skinny jeans and those Spanish shoes that were all the rage—what were they called? Pikolinos.

Finally they arrived at what D’Agosta guessed was the entrepreneur’s lair itself: another pair of soaring birchwood doors, these so large that a smaller door had been set into one of them for normal comings and goings.

“Gentlemen, please wait here a moment.” The man slipped through the smaller door and closed it behind him.

D’Agosta glanced at Pendergast. They could hear, beyond the door, a muffled voice raised in controlled anger. D’Agosta couldn’t catch the words but the meaning was pretty clear—some poor bastard was getting his ass reamed out. The voice rose and fell, as if cataloging a list of grievances. Then there was a sudden silence.

A moment later the door opened. A man emerged—silver-haired, tall, handsome, impeccably dressed—blubbering like a baby, his face wet with tears.

“Remember, I’m holding you responsible!” a voice called after him from the office beyond. “We’re bleeding proprietary code all over the Internet, thanks to this goddamned insider leak. You find the bastard responsible, or it’s your ass!”

The man stumbled blindly past and disappeared into the waiting area.

D’Agosta gave another glance at Pendergast to see his reaction, but there was none; his face was as blank as usual. He was glad to see the agent back in form, at least superficially, his finely chiseled face so pale that it might have been crafted from marble, his eyes especially bright in the cool wash of natural light that filled the space. He was, however, as thin as a damn scarecrow.

The sight of a man reduced to such misery made D’Agosta a little nervous, and he gave himself a quick mental once-over. Since his marriage, his wife, Laura Hayward, had made sure he bought double-breasted suits from only the better Italian clothiers—Brioni, Ravazzolo, Zegna—along with shirts of cotton lawn from Brooks Brothers. The only nod to a uniform was a single lieutenant’s bar pinned to his lapel. Laura, it had to be said, had really straightened up his act regarding clothing, throwing out all his brown polyester suits. He found that dressing like a million bucks made him feel secure, even if his colleagues joked with him that the double-breasted look gave him the air of a Mafioso. That sort of pleased him, actually. He just had to be careful not to show up his boss, Captain Glen Singleton, who was known throughout the NYPD as a natty dresser.

Their escort reappeared. “Mr. Ozmian will see you now.”

They followed him through the door into a large—yet not cavernous—corner office, looking south and west. The cool, elegant flanks of the Freedom Tower filled one of the windows, seemingly so close D’Agosta could almost touch it. A man came around from behind a black granite desk, which looked like slabs of stone stacked as if for a tomb. He was thin, tall, and ascetic, very handsome, with black hair graying at the temples, a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard, and steel-rimmed glasses. He wore a white cable-knit turtleneck of thick cashmere, black jeans, and black shoes. The monochromatic effect was dramatic. He didn’t look like a man who had just handed someone his ass on a platter. But he didn’t look all that friendly, either.

“About time,” he said, pointing to a sitting area to one side of the desk, not as a gesture of offering but as an order. “My daughter has been gone for four days. And finally I’m graced with a visit from the authorities. Sit down and tell me what’s going on.”

D’Agosta glanced at Pendergast and saw he was not going to sit down.

“Mr. Ozmian,” Pendergast said. “When did you last see your daughter?”

“I’m not going over all this yet again. I’ve told the story over the phone half a dozen—”