“Vinnie, it’s not just you. It’s everybody who’s on the case. I mean, it’s tearing apart the whole city. I can’t even imagine the pressure you’re under.”

“I’ve got a ton of detectives working on this—and they’re just going around and around in circles.” They’re probably spending miserable New Year’s Days, too, he thought. And it’s my fault. I haven’t moved the case forward.

He sat forward, realized he was a little drunk, sat back again. “It’s the goddamnedest thing. This Adeyemi. I’ve talked to anyone who might have an ax to grind with her. Nothing. Even her enemies say she’s a saint. I’ve had my people digging twenty-four seven. Christ, I’ve even thought of flying to Nigeria myself. I just know there’s some deep shit in her background!”

“Vinnie, don’t beat yourself up about it. Not today.”

And yet he couldn’t leave it alone. It was like a sore tooth that your tongue kept returning to, testing and probing despite the pain. The worst of it, he knew, was a feeling he couldn’t shake: that the whole case was unraveling, coming apart before his eyes. Like the rest of the NYPD and everyone else in the city, he was sure it was some crazy psycho targeting the worst of the one percenters. God knew when Harriman first published the idea, it made perfect sense to him and everyone else. But no matter what stone he looked under, he couldn’t make this latest killing fit the pattern.

Then there was Pendergast. More than once, he’d thought back on what the FBI agent had said: There is indeed a motive for these murders. But it is not the motive that you, the NYPD, and all of New York seem to believe. He felt bad that he’d blown his stack. But the man could be so damn infuriating—trashing your theories while withholding his own.

What he had to do, D’Agosta realized, was refocus. After all, Pendergast hadn’t come out and said he thought Adeyemi was a saint, exactly. He’d just implied they were looking at things the wrong way. Maybe instead of a history of hidden bad behavior, Adeyemi had done one truly horrific thing in her life. That would be a whole lot easier to cover up. Harder to find, admittedly—but once found, bingo.

He was woken from this reverie by the clatter of china; Laura was setting the dining room table. Leaving his beer unfinished, he rose and went over to help her. In the last few minutes, he’d found that his appetite had, in fact, sharpened. He’d forget about the case for a little while, enjoy his wife’s company and cooking…and then get back to headquarters and start making a fresh round of calls.

45

FROM HER CHAIR, Isabel Alves-Vettoretto watched her employer read over the three sheets of paper that Bryce Harriman had handed him, then read them over again.

She gave Harriman an appraising glance. Alves-Vettoretto was a dead shot at reading people. She could sense a mix of emotions warring within the reporter: anxiety, moral outrage, pride, defiance.

Now Ozmian finished his second reading and—leaning over his massive desk—handed Harriman’s proposed article to Alves-Vettoretto. She read it through with mild interest. So the reporter had done his homework, she thought. Alves-Vettoretto had studied accounts of the great conquerors of world history, and now a quotation of Julius Caesar’s came to mind: It’s only hubris if I fail.

She set the papers carefully on the edge of the desk. In the brief period between Pendergast’s walking out and Bryce Harriman’s being ushered in, Ozmian had been uncharacteristically still, poring over something on his computer, deep in thought. But now his gestures became quick and economical. After Alves-Vettoretto had put down the papers, she caught a silent glance from Ozmian. Understanding what the glance meant, she stood up and excused herself from the office.

What she had to do had been carefully set up and putting it in motion took five minutes. When she returned, Harriman was placing another piece of paper on Ozmian’s desk with an air of triumph—it appeared to be a copy of the affidavit Harriman had said he’d gotten from the eyewitness in Massachusetts.

Now Ozmian was talking and Harriman was listening.

“And so this ‘counter-blackmail,’ as you call it, consists of three parts,” Ozmian was saying, his voice calm, indicating the draft of the article. “You lay out, in detail, the events of thirty years ago, in which, before a crowd of churchgoers, I beat Father Anselm senseless at Our Lady of Mercy church. And you’ve got the affidavit to prove it.”

“That’s pretty much it.”

Ozmian leaned across the desk. “I couldn’t be less concerned with public opinion. However, I must confess—” and here he faltered for a moment. The anger seemed to drain away and a deflated look came over his features. “I must confess that the board of DigiFlood might not welcome this information getting out and casting a shadow over the company. I congratulate you on your investigative skills.”

Harriman accepted this compliment with dignity.

Ozmian swiveled in his chair, stared out the vast windows for a moment. Then he turned back to Harriman. “It seems like we’re at a Mexican standoff. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll take the frame off you, transfer the funds back into the account of the Shannon Croix Foundation, and make it look like a bank error. In exchange, you’ll leave me with the original of that affidavit when you leave—and you’ll agree not to publish anything on what happened at Our Lady of Mercy.”

As Ozmian spoke, Alves-Vettoretto noted that Harriman fairly glowed. He swelled in his chair like a peacock. “And what about my reporting on the murder?”

“I would ask you frankly, man-to-man, not to sully my daughter’s name any further than you’ve already done. There are plenty of murders after hers to occupy your pen.”

Harriman absorbed this gravely. When he spoke, his voice was freighted with gravitas. “I’ll try. But I have to tell you—if newsworthy information about your daughter comes to light, I’ll have to write about it. Surely you understand?”

Ozmian opened his mouth as if to protest, but ultimately said nothing. He slumped slightly in his chair, giving the faintest nod as he did so.

Harriman rose to his feet. “We have a deal. And I hope you’ve learned something from all this, Mr. Ozmian—despite your money and power, it’s never a good idea to take on the press. Especially in the form of a reporter as dedicated and experienced as myself. Truth will out, Mr. Ozmian.”

This miniature lecture on ethics accomplished, the reporter swiveled on one heel, and—without offering to shake hands—made for the double doors, trailing an air of injured virtue.

Ozmian waited until the doors had closed behind Harriman. Then he turned to look inquiringly at Alves-Vettoretto, who nodded in response. And as she did so, she noted that Ozmian’s equanimity—which had become rather discomposed in the wake of the meeting with Agent Pendergast—now appeared to be fully restored.

*

Harriman could barely restrain himself from leaping with triumph in the elevator as it shot downward toward the lobby. It had worked—just as he’d known it would work, during that dark night of the soul in his apartment, mere days before. All it had taken was the right kind of reportorial skill. And, truth be told, he had been a little modest just now, in his talk with Ozmian—there were few others who could have uncovered the man’s vicious little secrets as quickly and thoroughly as he’d done.

He had won. He had met the great and terrible Ozmian on the battlefield, with weapons of the entrepreneur’s own choosing—blackmail—and he had emerged victorious! The way he had caved so completely, even on the tender point about his daughter, spoke volumes.

The elevator doors whisked open and he strode through the lobby, out the revolving doors, and onto West Street. His cell phone—which had vibrated once or twice during the final minutes of his conference with Ozmian—now began to vibrate again. He took it out of his pocket.

“Harriman here.”

“Bryce? This is Rosalie Everett.”

Rosalie had been one of Shannon Croix’s best friends, and she was second in command on the foundation’s board of directors. She sounded unaccountably breathless.

“Yes, Rosie. What is it?”

“Bryce, I don’t quite know how to say this, and still less what to make of it…but I just now received, in a series of email attachments, a large number of documents—financial documents. It looks like they were sent by accident, not five minutes ago. I’m no accountant, but it appears that all the foundation’s assets—just shy of a million and a half dollars—have been transferred from our business account and placed in a private holding in the Cayman Islands, in your own name.”