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  “Yes and no,” I said. “Her computer is missing. Her assistant told us that she uploaded everything to the cloud, and he gave us total access. But there were no sex videos. Not even the one we just saw of the judge.”

  “Then you better come up with that computer in a big hurry.”

  “We’ve got people looking for it,” Kylie said, “but maybe the best way to find the computer is to find the blackmailer who’s using it.”

  “And how do you propose doing that?”

  “The plan the blackmailer laid out for the drop is smart,” I said. “We won’t be able to pay him off in phony money or dye packs. So first we have to get the DA to sign off on fronting the hundred thousand.”

  “I’ll give Mick Wilson a call,” Cates said. “He wouldn’t put up that kind of cash for Joe Citizen, but what prosecutor doesn’t want a sitting judge to owe him one?”

  “Thanks. Once we know we’ve got the money, all we have to do is convince Judge Rafferty to deliver it. Then we surround the drop zone with undercover cops and wait for someone to make the pickup.”

  “Do it,” Cates said.

  We started to leave.

  “One more thing,” Cates said. “How old is this old coot, anyway?”

  “Seventy-five and change.”

  “I thought the retirement age is seventy.”

  “It is,” I said. “But Rafferty is a supreme court justice, and he can get three separate two-year extensions if a panel of appellate judges decides his services are needed and a doctor thinks he can still do the job.”

  “It wasn’t pretty,” Cates said, “but it looked to me like His Honor was getting the job done.”

  “Another testimony to the miracle of performance-enhancing drugs,” I said.

  “Well, somebody should warn him that Viagra can play fast and loose with his blood pressure,” Cates said. “At his age, the only performance-enhancing drug he should be using is Metamucil.”

  CHAPTER 30

  “So you’re telling me she’s not from the escort service?”

  “No, Your Honor,” I said. “She’s not.”

  “Conniving bitch. She said she was my Christmas present.”

  We were in Judge Rafferty’s chambers. He was sitting behind his desk in a leather armchair that looked to be at least as ancient as he was. Kylie and I were standing. Once again she’d asked me to do the talking.

  “I’m not sure I understand, Your Honor. What do you mean she was your Christmas present?”

  He tipped back in his chair and rested a pair of large, craggy hands on the substantial paunch that hung over his belt. “It was Christmas Eve last year. The courthouse was cleared out for the holiday. I was just sitting here, nursing a twenty-five-year-old single malt when she knocked on my door.”

  “How did she get through security?”

  “How the fuck should I know, Detective? She could have come in with the rest of the Great Unwashed anytime during the day. What difference does that make? Because if you’re trying to hang my court officers out to dry—”

  “I apologize, Your Honor,” I said. “It was a stupid question.”

  It was especially stupid since I knew that an attractive woman paying an after-hours call to Judge Rafferty would be quietly waved through security. Even if the guards had noticed a camera in her bag, they wouldn’t have asked questions. It was just another play toy for His Honor’s evening merriment.

  “Anyway, she comes in, shuts the door behind her, and she stands there. Not a bad looker—a solid seven, maybe an eight. She’s wearing a trench coat, and there’s this little tiny red bow on the belt. And she says, ‘I’ve got a gift from your secret Santa. He wants to know if you’ve been naughty or nice.’”

  He chuckled and looked at me. “I guess you can imagine what I said.”

  I took the high road and didn’t say a word.

  “Jesus, you’re slow on the uptake. What do you think I said? ‘Unwrap the present, and let’s find out.’”

  I took a sideways glance at Kylie. Her face was stone cold, but I knew that just below the stoic exterior, she was inflamed with disgust and rage.

  “And then,” he went on, “this is a hoot—it was like one of those soft-core pornos. She opens the coat wide, and all she’s wearing is a bra, panties, and a pair of stilettos. Can you figure out what I did next, Detective Jordan?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I saw the video.”

  “Go to the head of the class. So now the bitch wants to blackmail me? Well, fuck her. I’m seventy-five years old, my wife is dead, I’ve got six months left on the bench, and if she thinks I give a shit about a video on YouTube of me getting it on with a woman half my age, she’s wrong. I’ll send the link to my friends. They’ll all be jealous.”

  “She’s dead, Your Honor,” I said. “Murdered.”

  That stopped him. But not for long. “So who the hell is putting the squeeze on me for a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “We don’t know, sir. It could be someone who stumbled on the video and decided to go into business for himself. Or it could be the person who killed her.”

  “Well, I’m not paying him a red cent.”

  “District Attorney Wilson is willing to front the money.”

  “I don’t care whose money it is. You can tell Mick Wilson that Michael J. Rafferty doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  “Sir, you may not be the only victim.”

  “Really? Are you saying there are more horny bastards out there who got caught with their dicks in their hands? That’s their problem, not mine. So stop confusing me with someone who gives a shit. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Good. Now go back and tell your commanding officer—never mind. You’re an idiot.” He turned to Kylie. “You. You’ve got to be smarter than your partner. You be the messenger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you going to tell them?” he said.

  “I’ll tell them that you have no issues being immortalized on YouTube for accepting free sex for Christmas, but you’re far too principled to help NYPD catch a murderer.”

  Rafferty didn’t have a gavel, but that didn’t stop him from jumping out of his chair and pounding his fist down on the desk.

  “And what the hell is your name?” Rafferty bellowed.

  “Detective First Grade Kylie MacDonald, NYPD Red, Your Honor.”

  “You realize I could hold you in contempt, MacDonald.”

  “I’m trying to solve a homicide, Your Honor, not make friends with the court. I apologize if I offended you, but I believe what I just said is an accurate replay of this meeting.”

  He eased himself back down into his chair. A faint smile crossed his lips, morphed into a grin, and then erupted into a full-blown laugh.

  “Your partner certainly has got a pair there, doesn’t she, Jordan?”

  “You don’t know the half of it, Your Honor.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sure you’re aware that I’m not the most beloved magistrate in the shire,” he said. “I’ve got one of the best legal minds in the business, but people will remember me as a lecherous old curmudgeon with no patience, no tact, and absolutely no humility. And now you want me to wrap up forty-one years on the bench by being your bagman?”

  “Without you, sir, we don’t have a prayer,” Kylie said. “Will you do it?”

  “I’m wavering, Detective MacDonald.”

  “What’ll it take to put you over the top?”

  He rested his chin on one hand and whispered, “Dinner.”

  “It would be an honor, Your Honor,” Kylie said, turning on a smile that can transform glaciers into puddles. “Dinner. Just the three of us.”

  “Hold on. You seriously don’t think I invited this bozo to tag along,” he said, pointing at me.

  “No, sir. That’s not the threesome I had in mind.”

  His eyes popped. “What were you thinking?”

  “Just you, me, and my friend Mr. Glock,” she said, patting
the 9mm automatic on her right hip.

  “You won’t need it,” he said. “I’m taking you to the Harvard Club. You’ll get a damn good dinner out of it, and I’ll get to drive every other man in the room batshit crazy.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Kylie’s dinner date with the judge was at seven. I didn’t hear from her until eleven. “Rafferty’s on board,” she said.

  “It took long enough,” I said. “How was dinner at the Harvard Club?”

  “We decided to skip dinner and rented a hotel room. I’ll send you a link to the video.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Yes. And I’m guessing you’re not, because it’s never fun for the bozo who didn’t get to tag along. I’ll see you at seven a.m. Get some sleep.”

  It was good advice, but my head was too filled with crap, and C. J. Berringer was at the top of the pile. I searched the internet for any skeletons that might have escaped the law enforcement databases, but after an hour all I had learned was that C.J. was a professional gambler who won some, lost some, and photographed devilishly handsome no matter what the outcome.

  At midnight I turned off the computer and sat down to meditate. It helped, although I was struck by the irony of using a meditation app to do what people without iPhones have done for thousands of years.

  I drifted off about twelve thirty. The phone jolted me awake at three. I pawed it off the night table and grumbled my name into it.

  “Zach, it’s Danny Corcoran.”

  “What’s up, Danny?”

  “I got through to Malique. He’s willing to talk to you.”

  “Nice work, Danny, but Jesus, did you have to call me in the middle of the night?”

  “Yeah, I kind of did, Zach. Malique just called. You have until four a.m. to meet him in Brooklyn.”

  I sat up in bed. “You’re serious.”

  “It’s a power play. He knows you’re not charging him, so it’s his rules, his turf. He’ll give you ten minutes of his time. Take it or leave it.”

  I took it. I rousted Kylie, dressed, and was in front of my building in five minutes. She picked me up three minutes later, and we made the hour-long trip to the Canarsie section of Brooklyn in thirty-seven minutes.

  The Karayib Makèt on Rockaway Parkway was a half-block-long supermarket catering to the largest Haitian population in America outside Florida. Kylie pulled up to the front at 3:54 a.m. We were greeted by a welcoming committee of four men, all large, all tattooed, and all in need of dental work. The store was closed, but a fifth man opened the front door, and we were ushered past aisles of produce, meats, and groceries you don’t find on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

  We walked through a steel door into a vast cold room. There was a second door on the opposite side. One of our escorts tapped out a code on a keypad. The door was opened from the inside, and we were led in.

  The far wall was covered with a large flag: two horizontal bands, one blue, one red, resting on top of large gray letters that spelled out Zoe Pound. The final letter, d, was spattered with the same blood-red color as the bottom band. In the center was a white panel bearing a multicolored coat of arms proclaiming L’UNION FAIT LA FORCE. I didn’t know Haitian Creole, but I spoke enough French to understand: Unity makes strength.

  In the center of the room was an oversize scarred wooden desk. Six armed men stood at key points around it. A seventh sat behind it.

  “I am Malique La Grande,” he said.

  “I’m Detective Zach—”

  “I know who you are, and I know why you’re here,” La Grande said. “You think Zoe Pound is responsible for the deaths of Fairfax and Zimmer. I am delighted that they are dead, but Zoe does not blow people up.”

  “So you’re saying you didn’t kill them,” I said.

  “Trust me, Detective. If we had killed them, it would have taken them a lot longer to die.”

  “But you did have a motive. They ran drugs for you, and it went south.”

  “They did not run drugs for me. It was my predecessor’s call. I warned Dingo against it. I told him mules should be desperate. These were spoiled rich kids. I was right. They came back to New York empty-handed.”

  “Did they give you a reason?”

  “They said they made the buy, and were about to fly back to the U.S., when the police stopped them at the airport and confiscated the drugs.”

  “Heroin,” I said.

  “Four kilos. Dingo fronted them a hundred large. When they came back empty-handed, I knew they were lying, and should have been put to death, but Dingo said it would be bad for business if we killed four rich white boys. So he settled for a payout of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, even though the shit would have been worth five times that once we cut it and put it on the street.”

  “You don’t believe the drugs were taken by the authorities at the airport?”

  “No.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think they set us up. They bought the dope, planted some of it on that Guatemalan kid, let him take the fall, paid off the cops, and flew back to New York with a couple of kilos of Zoe Pound heroin. But we couldn’t prove—”

  “Excuse me,” Kylie said. “What Guatemalan kid?”

  “The one they took with them on their fucking private jet. He was dirt-poor, but he got a scholarship to their fancy white school, so they took him along for the ride. And then they hung that little brown boy out to dry.”

  “There was a fifth kid on the drug run with them?” I said. “Do you know his name?”

  Malique nodded. “Segura. Geraldo Segura.” He looked at his watch. “Your time is up.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been a big help, Mr. La Grande. One more quick thing: We’d like to talk to this Mr. Segura. Do you know where we can find him?”

  Malique laughed. A few of his bodyguards cracked smiles as well.

  “Geraldo Segura is in the same place he’s been for the last twenty years,” La Grande said. “The same place he’ll be for the next thirty.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The Bangkok Hilton.”

  My mind started to race, and I repeated the word in my head. Bangkok. Bangkok. Bangkok.

  As in Thailand.

  CHAPTER 32

  We’d been blindsided, and Malique knew it.

  “Well, well,” he said. “It seems that the do-gooders from Silver Bullet failed to mention that they left their boyhood friend rotting away in a hellhole in Thailand.”

  I nodded. “Do you think Segura could be connected to the bombings?”

  “What do you mean connected?”

  “Could he be orchestrating the hits?” I said.

  “Strange question, Detective. I don’t know what would make you think that a man chained to a prison wall in Thailand could be responsible for setting off bombs in New York. Unless…” Malique ran a hand under his chin and stroked his wiry beard. “Unless there’s something you failed to mention.”

  Danny Corcoran had warned me about Malique. “You can fuck with him,” he had said, “but don’t try to con him.”

  “There is something,” I said. “But I didn’t fail to mention it. I just wasn’t going to walk in here with my kimono wide-open. But now that I know there’s good faith, I’ll tell you.”

  I looked around the room, and then turned back to Malique. “Do we need this big a crowd?”

  He barked a command in Haitian Creole, and five of the six bodyguards left the room. The sixth man didn’t budge. “That’s my son,” Malique said. No further explanation was necessary.

  “The bombs that killed Fairfax and Zimmer had an identical signature. They’re both the handiwork of an Australian named Flynn Samuels. The problem is that Samuels has been in prison for the past fifteen years.”

  Malique La Grande had perfect teeth. And I could see almost every one of them as a wide smile crossed his face. “Let me guess. The prison is in Bangkok.”

  “Small world,” I
said.

  “So they’re cellies?”

  “We don’t know that yet. The Thai government isn’t exactly forthcoming with details on their prison pop.”

  “Does Segura have a network here in the city?” Kylie asked. “People who might be willing to exact revenge for him?”

  “He’s got his Guatemalan grandmother and a couple of aunts. That’s his network. But I doubt if these ladies know much about blowing shit up, because if they did, they wouldn’t have waited twenty years to get even.”

  Malique looked at his watch. “You got one more minute. It’s not good for my reputation to have a cop car camped out in front of my market.”

  “It’s unmarked,” Kylie said.

  “People in this neighborhood don’t need the big blue letters. They can smell a cop car.”

  We got in a few more questions before our time ran out. We thanked him and left. As soon as we were on the road I called Cates at home and told her we had a new development in the Silver Bullet case.

  “Another bomb?” she asked.

  “Metaphorically speaking, I guess it is.”

  Kylie and I stopped in a coffee shop in Queens, where the breakfast waitress didn’t know anything about our lives and didn’t care. I put in a quick call to Howard Malley at the FBI, and by 6:20 we were in Cates’s office telling her about our middle-of-the-night ride to a Haitian supermarket in Canarsie.

  “Was Segura in on it?” she asked.

  “Malique thinks he was clueless. The heroin was found in Segura’s bag, but all five boys were hauled off and locked up by the Thai cops. About ten hours later, an emissary from a Bangkok bank paid a visit to a senior police official, and the four rich kids hopped on their private jet and flew home. Segura is still there. Malique swears up and down that they only brought him along to take the fall.”

  “So the guy who took the rap for the drug deal is locked up in the same country as your bomb maker,” Cates said. “Do you have any idea if their paths ever crossed?”

  “According to Howard Malley, there are 144 prisons in Thailand, with a combined male population of over two hundred thousand,” I said. “It seems unlikely that the two of them met and even more unlikely that Flynn Samuels would ever give up his trade secrets, but we’re looking to see if we can make a connection.”