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  “You never know till you ask, Detective.”

  “I wouldn’t even know who to ask.”

  “Then we’re in luck,” Wells said. “Because as it turns out, I do.”

  CHAPTER 39

  I was back in the office when my cell phone rang. The caller ID said Silvercup Studios. I picked up.

  “Zach, it’s Bob Reitzfeld. How’s your day going so far?”

  I looked at my watch. It was 3:00 p.m. “Let’s see: I’ve been at it for twelve hours, and so far I’ve had to suck up to a Haitian drug lord in the back room of a supermarket in Brooklyn, been chewed out by a billionaire, lied to by a lawyer, and wait…I know there is one more thing. Oh yeah: despite the fact that I had a six-man backup team, I managed to lose a hundred thousand dollars of the DA’s money. On the plus side, I got to spend some time on the High Line. It’s quite spectacular. I’m hoping next weekend I can go back there with Cheryl. And how’s your day going, Bob?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Why? Did someone zip-tie you to another water pipe?”

  “I think I know who hired those two lowlifes who pulled off the poker game robbery.”

  I inhaled sharply. “Hold on a minute.”

  Kylie had gone to the break room for coffee, but she’d be back any second, and this wasn’t a phone call I wanted to have with her sitting at the next desk. I took the stairs up to the fourth floor, found an empty interview room, and shut the door.

  “Bob, I’m sorry if I sounded like a jerk. It’s what happens when you ask an overworked cop how his day is going. Who do you like for the robbery?”

  “Is Kylie within earshot? I don’t want her to pick up on your reaction.”

  “No, we’re good. I’m alone.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s her boyfriend who planned the whole operation. His name is C. J. Berringer. Do you remember meeting him the other night?”

  Did I remember meeting him? I’d dug deep into Clyde Jerome Berringer’s past, hoping to find something I could use against him, but since Reitzfeld had told me to mind my own business, I couldn’t admit to him how much I knew. “Yeah, I met C.J.,” I said. “Tall guy, professional poker player—what makes you think it’s him?”

  “Because it’s clearly an inside job. At first I thought it might be someone connected to the hotel—a desk clerk, someone from room service, a bellman—but I interviewed anyone and everyone at the Mark who knew about the game, and they all come up clean. So I decided to focus on the people in the room.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, leaving out the fact that I’d gone down the exact same road two nights ago. “And how did you land on Berringer?”

  “Zach, the man sticks out like a boner in a Speedo,” Reitzfeld said. “Everyone else is a regular—same faces month after month, year after year. This Berringer character starts dating Kylie, gets her to introduce him to Shelley, plays twice, which is all it takes to get the routine down pat, and bingo—the third time he’s in the room, the game gets hit by a couple of bozos who couldn’t organize a two-car funeral if you spotted them a hearse and six pallbearers.”

  “Can you prove anything?”

  “Probably—if Shelley would let me.”

  “What do you mean if?”

  “When I told him I thought Berringer could be the brains behind the hit, he told me to back off. I love the old man, but he just doesn’t think like a cop.”

  “That’s why he made you head of security at Silvercup Studios.”

  “It’s a great title, Zach—very impressive on my business card. I’ve never seen Shelley’s business card, but it should say Control Freak. He doesn’t want me to follow up on C.J. because he doesn’t want Kylie to get hurt. He says her husband has caused her enough pain, and he would rather protect her than recover eight hundred thousand dollars.”

  “That’s insane,” I said. “I know Kylie: if her boyfriend is guilty, she’d want you to nail him.”

  “That’s why I’m calling you. You’re her partner. Shelley won’t listen to me, but he’ll listen to you.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “It can’t hurt to ask him.”

  “Yes it can. If I tell him to go after Berringer, and he says no, I can’t then turn around and do it anyway. But if I don’t say anything…”

  “Don’t ask permission; ask forgiveness,” Reitzfeld said. “But you’d have to investigate on your own. Do you mind?”

  Did I mind proving Kylie’s latest was a crook? I grinned. “I can deal with it. Give me a few days.”

  “Thanks. So tell me about losing the DA’s hundred thousand dollars.”

  “How about I tell you over a beer at my retirement party, which will be coming around a lot sooner than I planned if I don’t find the money?”

  He hung up, and I sat there, staring at my phone. I was planning my next move when a text message popped up on the screen. It was from Kylie.

  Where R U?

  I tapped out an answer.

  I was meditating. Thanks for harshing my zen.

  She texted back.

  Your zen can wait. Cates wants us.

  I let her know I was on my way, then hit Q’s number on my speed dial.

  He answered on the first ring. “Detective Jordan,” he said. “Rumor has it that you and Judge Rafferty had quite a costly adventure on the High Line.”

  “The good news is His Honor no longer thinks you’re blackmailing him.”

  “For which you have my undying gratitude,” Q replied. “If you ever need any—”

  “Forget ‘If you ever.’ I’m collecting now.” I filled him in on the poker game robbery that went down at the Mark.

  “So you want me to be on the lookout for two gentlemen of dubious earning power who are spending money like a couple of scratch-off winners.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And Q…this one is between me, you, and nobody else.”

  “Please, Detective,” he said. “You know my reputation. I’m as discreet as a whisper in a windstorm.”

  “And you know my partner,” I said. “If she finds out, I’ll be as dead as a flounder in a frying pan.”

  I hung up and headed for my meeting with Cates. As I double-timed down the stairs, I realized I was smiling. I know it’s not healthy, but for me, there’s something gratifying about proving to the woman who dumped me for another man that once again, she’d made the wrong choice.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Uh-oh,” Kylie said as the two of us walked down the hall to Cates’s office.

  Her door was shut, the privacy blinds on the glass wall were down, and there were two large men standing directly outside her office. I knew them well: Mayor Sykes’s bodyguards.

  “Well if it isn’t Cagney and Lacey,” Kylie said, never missing an opportunity to bust balls. “Glad to see that the taxpayers were smart enough to pay two of you to protect the mayor from the evils that lurk in the halls of an Upper East Side police precinct.”

  “Ah, the ever delightful Detective MacDonald,” the larger of the two large men said, putting his hand on the doorknob. “Let’s see if you’re still smiling when you come back out.” He held the door open, and Kylie and I went in.

  Cates was behind her desk. Sykes was sitting across from her. “He’s taking hostages,” the mayor said as soon as the door closed behind us.

  “Ma’am?” I said. “Who’s taking hostages?”

  “Princeton Wells. The Silver Bullet Foundation was supposed to break ground on Tremont Gardens next month.” In case we hadn’t been paying attention to the speeches on the night of the hotel bombing, she added, “It’s the city’s permanent housing project for homeless people that Del Fairfax designed. But Wells is putting it on hold until the person or persons responsible for the deaths of his two partners are brought to justice.”

  “That’s emotional blackmail,” Kylie said.

  “But that’s how billionaires work the system, Detective.”

  “Madam Mayor, we’re doing everything we can.”

&nb
sp; “Not according to Wells. He told me the whole story of this drug deal he and his cohorts got caught up in when they were kids—”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Kylie said, “but he probably only gave you his account of the whole story. There are other versions.”

  “Don’t waste my time asking if I believe a drug dealer or a philanthropist,” Sykes said. “All I know is that the bomb maker is in a prison in Thailand, and this Geraldo Segura, who has a deep-seated grudge against Wells and the others, is also incarcerated in Thailand. Captain Cates has just confirmed that.”

  “But we don’t know if the two men ever met,” Kylie said.

  “Mr. Wells refuses to wait for the Thai government to be forthcoming with that information. He tells me he suggested that the two of you fly to Thailand and find out for yourselves. Your response was that the city would never pay your travel expenses.”

  “Not the city,” Kylie said. “The department.”

  “MacDonald,” Cates said, “stop talking and start listening.”

  “Captain,” Kylie said, “after what happened this morning on the High Line, we were under the impression that the department wouldn’t pay for—”

  Cates stood up. “Stop. Talking. Now.”

  “Thank you, Delia,” the mayor said. She turned to the two of us. “First, I assured Mr. Wells that this administration would go to the ends of the earth to hunt down the people who murdered two of our city’s most generous benefactors, and that cost was definitely not a factor.

  “He then pointed out to me that he knows exactly how our system works. You can’t just jump on a plane to Bangkok without jumping through a lot of bureaucratic hoops. It would take days for the pencil pushers and the number crunchers to approve your travel expenses. I told him I could cut through a lot of that red tape with one phone call to the police commissioner, and that you’d be on your way within twenty-four hours. He laughed and said he could cut through all of the red tape and have you wheels up by seven thirty tonight.”

  “Ma’am,” Kylie said, “Wells talks a good game, but how is that even possible?”

  “Anything is possible when you own a fleet of corporate jets. Wells will have a plane and a flight crew waiting for you at Teterboro.”

  “Isn’t that…” Kylie stopped herself.

  “Isn’t that what?” Sykes asked.

  “Nothing, ma’am. It’s not important.”

  “It’s important to me, because once you get on that plane, I want you to have no other concerns besides tracking down Geraldo Segura. Now ask the question.”

  “Zach and I are city employees. Aren’t we bound by the law that prohibits us from accepting gifts for anything valued over seventy-five dollars?”

  “Yes. But as mayor of this city, I can issue an executive order waiving that law due to the dire emergency of the situation. Any more questions?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then dust off your passports and pack your bags, because in three hours the two of you are leaving for Thailand.”

  CHAPTER 41

  I went straight to Cheryl’s office. “Something came up,” I said.

  “Judging by the hangdog look on your face, I’m guessing it’s something that’s going to screw up our dinner reservations at Paola’s.”

  “Sorry. I have to cancel.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to her carciofi alla giudea all day, so you better have a good reason for bailing on me.”

  “Kylie and I are going to Thailand.”

  She laughed. “No, seriously.”

  “I’m not kidding. We’re leaving tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “The Silver Bullet bombings. All roads lead to Thailand.”

  “Oh, Zach,” she said, picking up her cell. “What’s your flight number? At least I can follow you on FlightView.”

  “Actually,” I said, knowing that there was no way to sugarcoat what I was about to say, “we’re not going commercial. We’re flying out of Teterboro on Princeton Wells’s corporate jet.”

  “You, Kylie, and Wells?”

  “I doubt if Wells is going to go to Thailand. Ever. I think he only flies into countries he knows he can fly out of.”

  “So it’s just you and Kylie on a private plane.”

  “And the crew,” I added lamely.

  “Do you realize that as a city employee it’s against the law for you to accept—”

  “I know, I know. It’s a long story. I don’t have time to give you the details. My flight leaves at seven thirty. I’ve got to go home and pack.” I put my arms around her. “I just came to say good-bye.”

  “Not here,” she said, backing off. “Let’s go. I’ll help you pack.”

  She grabbed her purse, and I followed her out of the office.

  My apartment was a short cab ride away, but four thirty in the afternoon is not the best time for finding a taxi, so we snagged a ride uptown with a couple of uniforms. It was fast and cheap, but it’s impossible to have a personal conversation when you’re riding with two chatty cops in a squad car.

  I waited till we got in the elevator. “Look, Cheryl, I know this sucks. I’m really sorry.”

  “For what? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “No, but Kylie and I are going to be flying God knows how many hours on this luxury airplane, and…”

  “So, then, is this another one of your famous prophylactic apologies? Or are you just projecting that I’m jealous?”

  “None of the above, but—” The elevator stopped on the tenth floor, and we got out.

  “But what?”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Zach, you’re a cop. Kylie is your partner. You spend sixty hours a week with her in the same office, the same car, on stakeouts together, eating meals together—it’s what you do. So what’s the difference if you do it on a private plane? What’s the difference if you do it eight thousand miles and eleven time zones away in an exotic country with gorgeous beaches, exciting nightlife, and luxurious hotels? Why would I be jealous? If I trust you here, I trust you there.”

  I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I could wade through the subtext, so I took the high road. I said nothing. I unlocked my door, and we entered the apartment.

  As soon as we were inside, Cheryl grabbed me, pressed me against the wall, and kissed me hard. “You realize I’m not here to help you pack, don’t you?” she said, pulling her sweater over her head and dragging me toward the bedroom.

  “Packing is highly overrated,” I said, shucking my clothes along the way, my libido kicking into overdrive.

  One of the things I love about my sex life with Cheryl is that she has never once been hesitant to let me know what she needs. There are times when our lovemaking is practically puritanical—sweet, slow, gentle. Skin to skin, heart to heart, soul to soul.

  This was not one of those times. This was raw sex. Frenzied, loud, primal. I doubt if we lasted more than ten minutes, but they were ten of the most incredible minutes of my adult life.

  I lay there on my bed, wrapped in her arms, completely spent, deliriously happy. “That,” I said, still breathing heavily, “was the best going-away present I ever got.”

  “Wait till you see the welcome-home present I have planned for you,” she whispered, her tongue teasing my ear, her fingertips making small circles against my nipple.

  I felt myself stirring. “You keep that up, and I may not wait till I get back home to collect.”

  She kept it up. I collected.

  This time the sex was unhurried, sensuous, tender, each of us caught up in the act of making love, neither of us racing to the finish line.

  “You’re getting pretty good at this,” she said as we curled up for the second time.

  “Thanks. I’d be even better if I’d had any sleep last night. I’ve been up since three.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll sleep on the plane.”

  “I hope so. I don’t sleep well on airplanes.”

  “You’ll sleep like a log
on this one.” She pressed her body closer to mine, and I could feel her warm breath on my ear. “Trust me,” she said. “I’m a doctor.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Princeton Wells thought of everything. At five thirty I got a call from a man named Matéo, who asked me what I’d care to eat en route.

  “I’m easy,” I said. “Whatever you’ve got on the plane.”

  “At the moment the cupboard is bare, but I’m about to call our in-flight catering service,” he said. “They feed some of the world’s most demanding clientele, so please tell me what foods you enjoy, and they will be on board.”

  I gave him a few of my favorites.

  “Is that all?” He sounded disappointed.

  “I’m sure my traveling companion will give you a much more challenging shopping list,” I said.

  “She already has,” he said. “A car will pick you up shortly. I’ll meet you on the tarmac.”

  The car turned out to be a custom-built stretch Bentley complete with the obligatory bar in the back. Kylie had already popped the cork on a cold bottle of champagne, and a crystal flute of golden bubbly was waiting for me as soon as I got in.

  “To police work,” she said, raising her glass in a toast. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  Traffic was heavy, and we arrived at the airport in Teterboro, New Jersey, about fifteen minutes before flight time. A no-no in real life, but perfectly acceptable when your limo pulls up to the nose of your Gulfstream G650.

  Matéo gave us a grand tour of the aircraft. I’d been on corporate jets before. Comfortable reclining leather seats, highly efficient tables that can be adjusted for work or for meals, a well-stocked bar, and a number of available options for in-flight entertainment. Very corporate chic.

  This was not that. This was Princeton Wells’s fantasy bachelor pad with wings—decadence on a grand scale, high in the sky at six hundred miles an hour. The main cabin was a sumptuous living and dining area with some of the same decorating influences I remembered from Wells’s apartment in The Pierre. At the rear of the plane, hidden from sight by a sweeping frosted-glass bulkhead, was a large master bedroom with a king-size bed, and behind that a spacious bathroom with polished marble countertops, a heated floor, and a shower big enough for two.