Текст книги "Brimstone"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston,Lincoln Child
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

Seeing this, Bullard stopped short. "You bastard." He almost spat the words at Pendergast. "You delayed deliberately, letting this build."

"Why hide your light under a bushel, Mr. Bullard?"

"Yeah," said D'Agosta. "And you're going to look great on the cover of the Daily News with your windbreaker draped over your head."

{ 24 }

 

Bryce Harriman headed back uptown behind the wheel of a Postpress vehicle. The scene at the lower Manhattan marina had been a disaster. Except for a few rubberneckers, it was New York City press at their finest-swearing, pushing, shoving. It reminded Harriman of the running of the bulls at Pamplona. What a waste of time. Nobody had answered questions, nobody knew anything, nothing but chaos and shouting. He should have gone straight back to his office to write up the scene of Cutforth's murder rather than wasting time chasing this radio call.

Ahead, the traffic coming in from West Street began to bunch up. He cursed, leaned on his horn. He should've taken the subway. At this rate, he wouldn't reach the office until after five, and he had to file by ten to make the morning edition.

He wrote and rewrote the lead, tearing it up again and again in his head. He thought back to the mob scene in front of Cutforth's apartment building earlier that afternoon. Those were the people he was writing for: people desperate for the story, hungry for it. And he had an open field, with Smithback gone and the Times treating the story as a kind of local embarrassment.

Cutforth's murder would be good for one headline, maybe two. But still, he was bound by the whim of the murderer, and there was no way of telling when-or if-the murderer would strike again. He had to have something new.

The traffic parted slightly and he switched lanes, flipping a bird at the blaring horn behind him, switched back, risking his life and those of half a dozen others to get one car length ahead. Flipped another bird. People were such assholes .

.     And then it came to him. The fresh angle. What he needed was an expert to explain, to put it all in perspective. But who? Just as quickly the answer, the second stroke of genius, came as well.

He picked up his cell, dialed his office. "Iris, what's up?"

"What's up yourself?" his assistant retorted. "I've been as busy as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest answering the phones around here."

Harriman winced at the jokey, familiar tone she had taken with him. He was supposed to be the boss, not the secretary in the next cubicle.

"You want your messages?" she asked.

"No. Listen, I want you to get a hold of somebody for me, that researcher into the paranormal, what's his name, Monk, or Munch, something German. He had that Discovery Channel special on exorcism, remember? Yes, that's the one. No, I don’t care how long it takes. Just get him for me."

He punched the call off and tossed the phone on the passenger seat, sat back, and smiled, letting the cacophony of honks, toots, and beeps that surrounded his car wash over him like a symphony.

{ 25 }

 

D'Agosta had to admire the genius that went into maintaining the interrogation section of One Police Plaza. It was perhaps the last place you could smoke in New York City without being arrested, and as a result, the painted cinder-block walls sported a tarry, brownish sheen. They made a point of keeping them grimy. The air was so dead and stale it felt like there must be a corpse hidden somewhere. And the linoleum floor was so old it could have been peeled up and put in a glass case in the Smithsonian.

D'Agosta felt a certain satisfaction in the surroundings. Locke Bullard, still dressed in blue warm-ups and deck shoes, sat in a chair at the greasy metal table, his eyes bloodshot with anger. Pendergast sat across from him, and D'Agosta stood behind, near the door. The civilian interrogations administrator-a mandatory presence these days-stood by the video camera, sucking in his belly and trying to look officious. They were all waiting on Bullard's lawyer, stuck somewhere in the traffic of their own making.

The door opened and Captain Hayward stepped in. As she did so, D'Agosta felt the temperature in the room go down by about twenty degrees. She fastened cold eyes on Pendergast, then on D'Agosta, and motioned them to follow her into the hall.

She led the way to a disused office, ushered them in, closed the door. "Whose idea was the media circus?" she demanded.

"Unfortunately it was the only way," Pendergast answered.

"Don't give me that. This was staged, and you were both producer and director. There must be fifty press outside, every last one following you over from the marina. This is exactly what I didn't want to happen, the kind of hullabaloo I warned you against creating."

Pendergast spoke calmly. "Captain, I can assure you that Bullard left us no choice. For a moment, I thought I would have to handcuff him."

"You should've scheduled a meeting on the boat with his lawyer, so he wouldn't feel ambushed and defensive."

"There's a good chance that more advance warning would have caused him to flee the country."

Hayward expelled an irritated stream of air. "I'm a captain of detectives in the New York City police force. This is my case. Bullard's not a suspect and will not be treated as such." She swiveled to face D'Agosta. "You're going to manage the questioning, Sergeant. I want Special Agent Pendergast to remain well in the background with his mouth shut. He's caused enough trouble as it is."

"As you wish," Pendergast said politely to Hayward's turned back.

When they stepped back into the interrogation room, Bullard rose to his feet, pointing to Pendergast. "You're going to pay for this, both you and your fat fuck gofer here."

"Did you get that on videotape?" Hayward calmly asked the civilian administrator.

"Yes, ma'am. Tape's been rolling since he arrived."

She nodded. Bullard's pupils were pinpoints of hatred.

Silence fell, broken at last by a knock at the door.

"Come in," Hayward called.

The door opened, and a uniformed policeman admitted a man dressed in a charcoal suit. He had short-cropped gray hair, gray eyes, and a pleasant, friendly face. D'Agosta noticed the glint of a half-hidden cross beneath the officer's blue shirt as he turned and closed the door. Hayward may not believe in the devil , he thought, but not all her minions have gotten the message.

"Finally!" Bullard roared out, staring at the lawyer. "Jesus Christ, George, I called you forty minutes ago. Get me the hell out of here."

The lawyer, unruffled, greeted Bullard as if they were all at a cocktail party. Then he turned and shook Pendergast's hand. "George Marchand of Marchand & Quisling. I represent Mr. Bullard." His voice was almost musical in its pleasantness, but his eyes lingered first over Hayward's badge, then D'Agosta's.

"This is my colleague Sergeant D'Agosta."

"How do you do?"

There was a silence as Marchand turned his cool eyes around the room. "The subpoena?"

Pendergast slipped a copy from his black suit and handed it to the lawyer. The man scrutinized it.

"That's your copy," said Hayward. Her voice was deadpan, neutral.

"Thank you. May I ask why this questioning could not be done at Mr. Bullard's convenience in his offices or on his yacht?" He addressed the question in general, to all of them. Hayward nodded toward D'Agosta.

"On an earlier occasion at Mr. Bullard's club, he refused to answer questions. On this particular occasion, he threatened me with what I think a reasonable person might consider implied blackmail. He gave every sign of imminent departure from the country. His information is crucial in our investigation."

"Is he a suspect?"

"No. But he's an important witness."

"I see. And this implied threat of blackmail-what's that all about?"

"It's a goddamned-," Bullard began.

The lawyer cut Bullard off with a wave of his hand.

"The threat was made in my presence," Pendergast spoke up. "Mr. Bullard made a second threat, just before you arrived, for the benefit of the video recorder."

"You're a damned liar-"

"Not one more word, Mr. Bullard. I believe you've said more than enough as it is."

"For Christ's sake, George, these men are-"

"Quiet.” The lawyer spoke pleasantly, but there was a curious emphasis in his tone.

Bullard fell silent.

"My client," the lawyer said, "is anxious to cooperate. Here's how it will work. First, you will ask the question. Then, if necessary, I will confer privately with my client in the hall. And then he will give his response. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Hayward. "Swear him in."

They went through the process, the civilian administrator presiding, Bullard grunting his responses. At the conclusion, he turned again to his lawyer. "Damn it, George, you're supposed to be on my side!"

"My client and I need to confer privately."

Marchand took Bullard out into the hallway. A minute later they were back.

"First question," the lawyer said.

D'Agosta stepped forward, glanced down at his notes, and droned out, in his most stolid cop voice: "Mr. Bullard, on October 16, 2:02A.M. , Jeremy Grove called you. You spoke with him for forty-two minutes. What did you talk about? Start at the beginning and proceed through the call."

"I already-" He stopped when Marchand laid a firm hand on his shoulder. They went out into the hall again.

"You're not going to let him do this with every question, are you?" D'Agosta asked.

"Yes, I am," said Hayward. "He has a right to a lawyer."

The two men returned. "Grove called me to chat," Bullard said. "A social call."

"That late?"

Bullard looked at his lawyer and the lawyer nodded.

"Yes."

"What did you chat about?"

"Just like I told you before. Pleasantries. How he was doing, how I was doing, how the family was doing, how the dog was doing, that sort of thing."

"What else?"

"I don't recall."

Silence. "Mr. Bullard. You talked for forty-two minutes about your dogs, then within hours Grove is murdered."

"That wasn't a question," said the lawyer crisply. "Next."

D'Agosta found Hayward's rather penetrating gaze on him. He turned the page.

"Where were you during this call?"

"On my yacht. Cruising the sound."

"How many crew were on board with you?"

"I went out without a crew. The yacht's computerized, I do it all the time."

There was a brief but significant silence.

"How did you meet Grove?"

"I don't recall."

"Was he a close friend?"

"No."

"Did you have any business dealings with him?"

"No."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"I don't recall."

"So why would he call you then?"

"You'll have to ask him."

This was bullshit. It was the same runaround as before. D'Agosta moved on to the next call.

"On October 22, at 7:54P.M. , Nigel Cutforth placed a call to your home number. Did you take the call?"

Bullard glanced at the lawyer, who nodded.

"Yes."

"What did you talk about?"

"It was also a social call. We talked about mutual friends, family, news, that sort of thing."

"Dogs?" D'Agosta asked sarcastically.

"I don't remember if we talked about dogs."

Pendergast suddenly broke in. "Do you, in fact, have a dog, Mr. Bullard?"

There was a short silence. Hayward cast Pendergast a warning glance.

"I was speaking metaphorically. We talked about trivial social things, is what I meant."

D'Agosta resumed. "Cutforth was murdered just a few hours after you hung up the telephone. Did he seem nervous to you?"

"I don't recall."

"Did he express any sense to you that he was afraid?"

"Not that I recall."

"Did he ask for your help?"

"I don't recall."

"What was your relationship to Mr. Cutforth?"

"Superficial."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

A hesitation. "I don't recall."

"Did you ever have any business or other dealings with Mr. Cutforth?"

"No."

"How did you first meet?"

"I don't recall."

"When did you first meet?" Pendergast smoothly interjected.

"I don't remember."

This was worse than bullshit. The lawyer, George Marchand, was looking more and more satisfied. D'Agosta wasn't going to let it go at this.

"After Cutforth's call, you spent the rest of the night on your yacht?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a power launch?"

"Yes."

"Was it stowed?"

"No. It was docked next to the yacht."

"What kind of launch?"

"A Picnic Boat."

Pendergast broke in. "Are you referring to the Hinckley Picnic Boat, the kind with the jet drive?"

"That's right."

"With the 350-horsepower Yanmar or the 420?"

"The 420."

"With a top speed of over thirty knots, I believe?"

"That's about right."

"And a draft of eighteen inches."

"So they claim."

Pendergast settled back, ignoring Hayward's look. He'd clearly snuck in some research while Bullard was being processed.

D'Agosta picked up the line of questioning. "So after receiving the phone call, you could have gotten into your Picnic Boat and headed uptown. You could've landed the boat just about anywhere along the Manhattan shoreline with a draft like that. And the jet drive would give you maneuverability to go sideways, reverse, whatever. Am I right?"

"My client has already said he was on his yacht that night," the lawyer said, equally pleasantly. "Next question?"

"Were you alone all night, Mr. Bullard?"

This prompted another trip to the hall.

"Yes, I was alone," Bullard said when they returned. "They keep track at the marina; they can verify I didn't leave the yacht all night or take the Picnic Boat out of its berth."

"We'll check that," said D'Agosta. "So you chitchatted with Cutforth about the weather for thirty minutes, just hours before he was murdered?"

"I don't believe we talked about the weather, Sergeant." There was a look of triumph in Bullard's eyes. He was winning again.

Pendergast asked, "Mr. Bullard, are you about to leave the country?"

Bullard looked at Marchand. "Do I have to answer that?"

Another trip to the hall. When Bullard came back, he said, "Yes."

"Where are you going?"

"That question falls outside the scope of the subpoena," said the lawyer. "My client wants to cooperate, but he also asks you to respect his privacy. You have already stated he is not a suspect."

Pendergast spoke to the lawyer. "Perhaps not a suspect. But your client may be a material witness, and it would not be beyond the bounds of probability he might be asked to surrender his passport-temporarily, of course."

D'Agosta had his eyes on Bullard's face and-even though he was expecting a change-he was startled by how dark it became. He seemed about to burst out again.

The lawyer smiled pleasantly. "An utterly absurd statement, Mr. Pendergast. Mr. Bullard will in no way be restrained in his movements. I am surprised and consider it most improper that you have even mentioned such a possibility, which might be construed as a threat."

Hayward cast a dark glance at Pendergast. "Mr. Pendergast-"

Pendergast held up his hand. "Mr. Bullard, do you believe in the existence of the devil?"

Something flickered across Bullard's face, some swift and powerful emotion, but it went by too fast for D'Agosta to get a sense of what it was. Bullard took his time leaning back in the chair, crossing his legs, smiling. "Of course not. Do you?"

The lawyer stood up. "It seems we've reached the end of our questions, gentlemen."

There was no contradiction. The lawyer handed around his card with smiles and handshakes. "The next time you need to communicate with Mr. Bullard," he said, "do so through me. Mr. Bullard is going abroad." He gave Pendergast a pointed smile.

"That," said Pendergast very quietly, "remains to be seen."

{ 26 }

 

Bullard and his lawyer had left, shoving their way through a second throng of shouting reporters. Pendergast had disappeared, too, leaving D'Agosta alone with Hayward. They were now lingering in the mud-colored lobby of Police Plaza. He had something he wanted to say; and so, it seemed, did she.

"Did Bullard really threaten you, Sergeant?" she asked.

D'Agosta hesitated.

"Just for my own information, off the record. I'm not asking you to tell tales out of school."

"In a way, yes." They began walking side by side toward the building's exit. Outside, the remaining news teams were grudgingly packing up. The sky in the west was smeared with red. As he walked, D'Agosta could almost feel waves of heat radiating from Hayward. She was clearly still pissed off.

"What kind of threat?"

"I'd rather not talk about it.” I know all about that wife of yours in Canada. The image of Chester Dominic's smooth-shaven face came unbidden to his mind. It couldn't be true. Well, on second thought, it could be true-they had been apart for a long time. The marriage was over-who was he fooling? But not Chester Dominic, with that cheesy shit-eating grin and the phony car-salesman cheer. And the polyester suits. Jesus. Anybody but him.

D'Agosta glanced over to see Hayward looking back at him. Her face showed concern mingled with skepticism. This wasn't easy for her, he thought. Pendergast was one hell of a good FBI agent, but he was no good at teamwork. It was his way or the highway-no compromise.

"You might have to talk about it if charges are brought."

"Fine. But not now." He took a deep breath. "Captain Hayward, Pendergast really did have to get tough with Bullard."

"I don't believe it. He could've gotten a subpoena, scheduled the interview on the boat, and probably gotten more information out of the guy in the process. As it is, we didn't get jack out of that interrogation."

"We went to the boat to ask questions. I was threatened. I don't see why you think scheduling it would have been more successful."

"Okay, you've got a point, but it turned into a pissing contest, and that's never successful."

They passed through the doors and paused on the broad marble steps. Hayward was still mad. More fence-mending was in order.

"You doing anything?" D'Agosta asked.

Hayward looked at him. "I was planning on going home."

"How about a drink? Strictly professional. I know-or at least I used to know-a place over on Church Street."

She gazed at him for a moment, her pale face framed by glossy black hair, her eyes still flashing with residual irritation. "All right."

D'Agosta descended the steps, Hayward by his side.

"Pendergast's got his own methods," said D'Agosta.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of. Look, Sergeant-"

"How about calling me Vinnie?"

"Call me Laura, then. Here's what worries me: how many times has Pendergast had to testify against a perp in court?"

"I don't know."

"I'll tell you. Very few times. You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because most of his perps wind up dead. That's why."

"That's not his fault."

"I didn't say it was. It's just an observation. Let's say Bullard does become a suspect. This little shenanigan is going to look bad."

They made a left at Park Row, then a right at Vesey. Ahead, D'Agosta saw the little place still there, apparently unchanged. A couple of dying ferns hung from macramé in the basement window, just the right touch to keep out other cops. He liked it for that-and for the Guinness on tap.

"I never knew this place existed," said Hayward as they descended the steps and D'Agosta held open the door. He followed her into the cool, brew-fragrant interior. She took a table in the back and a man came up immediately.

"Guinness," she said.

"Two."

D'Agosta couldn't shake the image of Dominic with his wife. It was going to drive him crazy, he realized, until he did something about it. He got up. "Back in a moment."

He found the phone tucked into a nook in the back of the bar. It had been a long time since he used a pay phone, but this was one call he didn't want to make with his cell. He called information, got the Canadian operator, got the number, made the call. It took two trips to the bar and twenty quarters. Jesus.

"Kootenay RV," came a nasal voice.

"Chet Dominic there?"

"He's gone."

"Damn, I was supposed to meet him for an appointment, and I'm late. You got his cell?"

"Who's this?"

"Jack Torrance. I'm the one interested in the Itasca Sunflyer, you know, the one with the slide-out bedroom and Corian countertops? Chet's a friend from the club."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Torrance, of course," came the suddenly fake-friendly voice. "Just a moment." She gave him the number.

D'Agosta glanced at his watch, collected more quarters from the bar, dialed.

"Hello?"

It was Chester.

"This is Dr. Morgan at the hospital. There's been a terrible accident."

"What? Who?" The voice was instantly full of panic. D'Agosta wondered if Dominic had a wife and kids. Probably did, the scumbag.

"I must speak to a Mrs. Lydia D'Agosta immediately."

"Well, ah, wait-yes, yes, of course." There was a fumbling sound, a muffled voice, and then his wife's voice came on. "Yes? What is it? What's happened?"

D'Agosta carefully depressed the hang-up bar, took a couple of deep breaths, and made his way back toward the table. Even before he got there, his cell phone was ringing. He answered.

"Vinnie? It's Lydia. Are you all right?"

"Sure. Why do you ask? You sound upset."

"No, no, I'm fine. I just heard .     I don't know, something about the hospital. I was worried." She was all flustered and confused.

"Wasn't me."

"You know how it is, being out here like this, hearing everything secondhand .    "

"You still at work?"

"I'm in the parking lot. Just pulling out now."

"Right. See you." D'Agosta snapped the phone shut and reseated himself. You mean Chester Dominic was just pulling out, don't you? He felt a horrible prickly heat crawling over his skin. The Guinness had arrived, in a real imperial pint, with two inches of cream on the top. He raised it and took a long pull, then another, feeling the cool liquid loosening the tightness in his throat. He put the pint down to find Laura Hayward looking at him intently.

"You were thirsty," she said.

"Yeah." To hide his face, he took another pull. Who was he kidding? They'd been separated half a year now. He couldn't really blame her for that-not too much, anyway. And Vinnie Junior, his son, didn't want to move, either. Lydia wasn't a bad person at heart, but this was a low blow. A really low blow. He wondered if little Vinnie knew about it.

"Bad news?"

D'Agosta glanced at Hayward. "Sort of."

"Anything I can do?"

"No, thanks." He sat up. "I'm sorry. I'm lousy company tonight."

"Don't worry. It's not a date."

There was a silence, then Hayward said, "I read your two novels."

D'Agosta felt himself reddening. This was the last conversation he wanted to have.

"They were great. I just wanted to tell you that."

"Thanks."

"I loved the deadpan style. Gritty. Those books really captured what it's like to be on the job. Not like most of the phony police fiction around."

D'Agosta nodded. "So where'd you find them? On a remainder table?"

"I bought them when they were first published. As it happens, I've been sort of following your career."

"Really?" D'Agosta was surprised. When they'd worked together on the subway murders years ago, he hadn't thought he'd made much of an impression on her. Not a good impression, anyway. Then again, she'd always played her cards close.

"Really  I-" She hesitated. "I was still finishing up my master's at NYU when we worked together. That was my first big case. I was ambitious as hell, and to me, just starting, you looked like just the kind of cop I wanted to be. So I was really curious when you went off to Canada to write novels. I wondered why a cop as good as you would give it up."

"I had a lot I wanted to say-about crime, criminals, the justice system. And about people in general."

"You said it well."

"Not well enough."

Her pint was empty and so was his.

"Another round?" he asked.

"Sure. Vinnie, I've got to tell you, I couldn't believe it when I saw you in sergeant's stripes with a Southampton P.D. badge. I thought maybe I was dealing with a twin brother."

D'Agosta tried to muster a laugh. "Life."

"That was some case we worked on, those subway murders."

"Sure was. You remember the riot?"

She shook her head. "What a sight. Like something in a movie. I still have nightmares about it sometimes."

"I missed it. I was about half a mile underground, finishing what Captain Waxie started."

"Old Waxie. You know, he was sucked down so deep into those tunnels they never did find his body. Probably got eaten by an alligator."

"Or worse."

She paused. "The force is different now, really different. Thank God-what a cast of characters we had to deal with back then, when I was just a new jack."

"You remember McCarroll at the T.A.? They called him McCarrion because of his breath?" He chuckled.

"Do I. I had to work for that bastard for six months. It was tough to be a woman on the T.A. force back then. I had two strikes against me: not only was I female, but I was in graduate school. Make that three strikes: I wouldn't sleep with McCarrion."

"He made a pass at you?"

"His idea of a pass was to get real close, breathe all over me, tell me I had a nice body, and pucker his lips."

D'Agosta made a face. "Oh, my God. You report him?"

"And kiss my career good-bye? He was just a harmless cretin, anyway, not worth reporting. Now the NYPD is like a different planet-totally professional. And anyway, nobody would dare pull a stunt like that on a captain."

The second round came, and D'Agosta buried his mug in it and listened to her reminisce, telling funny stories about McCarroll and another long-gone captain, Al "Crisco" DuPrisco. It brought back a lot of memories.

He shook his head. "Jesus, there's no better place to be a cop than in the Big Apple."

"You said it."

"I gotta get back on the job, Laura. I'm rotting out there in Southampton."

She said nothing. D'Agosta looked up, his eyes meeting hers and seeing what-pity? "Sorry." He looked away. Funny how life had reversed everything. Now here she was, probably the youngest captain on the force. And he .     Well, if anyone deserved success, she did .

"Look," he said, suddenly professional again. "I really asked you for a drink because I wanted to make sure you were okay with Pendergast. I've worked with him on not just one big case, but two. Believe me, his methods may be unorthodox, but they work. You couldn't ask for a better fed on your side."

"I appreciate your loyalty. But the fact is, he's got a cooperation problem. I went out on a limb to have that subpoena and warrant ready to go, and he embarrassed me. I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt this time, but please, Vinnie, keep the guy in line. He obviously respects you."

"He respects you, too."

There was a silence.

"So how come you gave up writing?" Hayward asked, shifting the subject back to him. "I thought you had a pretty good career going."

"Yeah, a career in bankruptcy court. I just couldn't make it. After two novels, I didn't have two nickels to rub together. Lydia-that's my wife-she couldn't take it anymore."

"You're married?" Her eyes rapidly glanced at his hand, but his wedding ring hadn't fit for years.

"Yeah."

"Why am I surprised? All the good guys are taken. Here's to Lydia."

She raised her pint. D'Agosta didn't raise his glass; instead, he said, "We're separated. She's still living in Canada."

"I'm sorry." She lowered her pint, but she did not look very sorry. Or was it just his imagination?

"You know that threat Bullard made against me?" D'Agosta swallowed. He wasn't sure why he was telling her this, but he suddenly felt he couldn't go another minute without getting it off his chest. "He somehow found out my wife was having an affair and told me about it. Along with a lot of other compromising personal information he dug up and threatened to make public."

"Bastard. In that case, I'm glad Pendergast stuck it to him." She hesitated. "You want to talk about it?"

"We are talking about it."

"I'm sorry, Vincent. That's tough. Is the marriage worth saving?"

"It was over half a year ago. We've just been in denial stage."

"Kids?"

"One. Lives with his mom. Going to college next year on scholarship. Great kid."

"How long were you married?"

"Twenty-five years. Married right out of high school."

"God. You sure there isn't something there worth holding on to?"

"Some good memories. But nothing now. It's over."

"Well then, Bullard just did you a favor." She extended her hand and laid it on his, comfortingly.

D'Agosta looked at her. She was right: in a way, Bullard had done him a favor. Maybe a really big favor.