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  “It’s the boss’s office,” Kylie said. “Wouldn’t you have tighter security?”

  “There’s nothing in there worth securing. A desk, a couple of file cabinets, a fridge, a microwave, a coffeepot, and that’s about it.”

  “Surveillance cameras?”

  “The university has cameras on the gates and peppered around the campus, but Arnie’s office was in no-man’s-land. It’d be easy enough for someone to scale the fence, pick the lock, and get away without anyone noticing.”

  “Did Mr. Zimmer have any enemies?” Kylie asked.

  Neill shrugged. “Sure, but not the kind that would blow him up. Arnie pissed a lot of people off. If something wasn’t going the way he wanted, he was quick to get in people’s faces. You guys ought to know.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Yesterday afternoon Arnie told me he laced into the mayor, then he read the riot act to a couple of her supercops because they weren’t looking hard enough for whoever killed Del Fairfax. I figured that was you.”

  “We’re not supercops,” I said.

  “But you’re trying to solve the first bombing, and now you’re on the second one. Do you have any leads?”

  “We’re working on it,” I said.

  And as soon as the words came out of my mouth, it dawned on me. That was the same promise I’d made to Arnie Zimmer just twenty-four hours earlier.

  CHAPTER 19

  Kylie and I thanked Bill Neill and started walking back toward our car, which we’d been forced to abandon on 70th Street because York Avenue had been clogged with emergency vehicles.

  By the time we got back to the blast site, some semblance of order had been restored. At least half of the fire trucks and patrol cars had been released, news vans were relegated to the side streets, and all civilian traffic from 61st to 72nd had been diverted to First and Second Avenues. That left two lanes open on York for official vehicles. I immediately recognized the black SUV parked in front of the 68th Street gate. It was the most official vehicle of them all.

  “Detectives!” a voice boomed.

  It was Charlie, the mayor’s driver. He waved us over to the car, opened the back door, and Kylie and I slid into the back seat next to Muriel Sykes.

  “Yesterday, when I called you and asked you to get Arnie Zimmer off my back, this is not what I had in mind,” she said. “He has now managed to become a bigger pain in the ass to me dead than he was alive. I realize that the dust hasn’t even settled, but do you have anything? One murder is a tragedy. Two is a conspiracy.”

  “Madam Mayor,” Kylie said, “when Zach and I met with the three surviving Silver Bullet founders yesterday, Arnie Zimmer tried to convince us that Del Fairfax was killed by a disgruntled contractor. If there’s a conspiracy against them as a group, I’m sure it came as as big a surprise to Zimmer as it did to us.”

  “So you have nothing. No suspects. No leads.”

  “Not yet.”

  “What about Aubrey Davenport? She got bumped off the front page because of the bombing, but she’s a big-name filmmaker, and the whole autoerotic asphyxiation thing is going to sell a lot of newspapers. Where are you on that?”

  We told her.

  “So this Janek Hoffmann,” she said, going over the high points, “he’s her cameraman, and there’s evidence of a tripod at the crime scene. The brother-in-law tells you that the guy is mentally and physically abusive. Davenport’s car is parked a block from Hoffmann’s apartment, and he has no alibi for the time of the murder. It sounds to me like you have an incredibly viable suspect.”

  “But we can’t arrest him,” I said. “We don’t have enough evidence to take to the DA.”

  “Zach, I know the rules. I was a U.S. attorney, and when I ran for mayor, I pushed every law-and-order hot button I could. How is it going to look to the voters if I have two unsolved high-profile cases hanging over my head in my first four months? I need an arrest, and you’re closer on this than you are on the bombings.”

  “Madam Mayor, if we go to Mick Wilson and tell him we want to charge Janek Hoffmann, he’ll kick us out of his—”

  “I’ve got two words for our illustrious district attorney,” she barked.

  I braced myself for the inevitable mayoral f-bomb.

  “Selma Kaplan.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Selma is the smartest ADA in New York County. If anyone can help me get a win on the front page, it’s her. Plus she’s got the balls to stand up to Wilson, and she’s loyal—we went to Brooklyn Law together. Talk to her and see what she can come up with.” She leaned over and yanked the door handle. “Please…”

  Thirty minutes later, Kylie and I were in the Louis J. Lefkowitz State Office Building, reconnecting with one of the best prosecutors in the business.

  Kaplan came around from behind her desk and shook our hands. “Detectives, I wish we could spend twenty minutes together rehashing past glories,” she said, “but the villagers are breaking the law faster than I can lock them up. The only reason you got past the wolf at the door is because my old friend Muriel has my cell number, and she’s not ashamed to beg. She gave me an overview, but tell me what you’ve got on this Janek Hoffmann.”

  Kylie and I filled her in, and when we were done, Kaplan shook her head and frowned.

  “If I’m going to get a conviction, I need more than some juicer playing Fifty Shades of Weird with the victim and no alibi,” she said.

  “We told the mayor we didn’t think you could hang a case on it,” I said.

  “I can’t.” She paused. “But—and this is a big but—my gut tells me you’ve got enough circumstantial evidence to convince a grand jury to lock him up. Especially once they’re told he’s a flight risk who could hop a plane to Warsaw at any minute. Bring him in. I can get an indictment. That’ll buy you enough time to either build a case against Hoffmann or, to quote O.J., ‘find the real killer.’”

  “Thanks, Selma,” Kylie said. “We owe you one.”

  “No, sweetheart,” Kaplan said. “Muriel owes me one. And make sure you let her know that I plan to collect.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The Miranda warning is eloquent in its simplicity. And yet a few seconds after we advised Janek Hoffmann that anything he said “can and will be used against you in a court of law,” he assured us that he understood his rights and then blurted out, “I didn’t kill her. But if I did, I didn’t mean it.”

  Kylie tossed me a grin that summed up what we were both thinking: We may not have enough evidence to convict this idiot, but with a little luck, he’ll hang himself.

  In short order, he was assigned a lawyer from Legal Aid, arraigned, and remanded without bail. The mayor’s spin doctors did their best to drum up media buzz for the arrest, but in a city whose mantra is “If you see something, say something,” the two unsolved bombings dominated the airwaves.

  By six thirty we’d wrapped up the paperwork. Since Dr. Langford’s office was across town, we welcomed the opportunity for some new dining options and drove to Pizzeria Sirenetta on Amsterdam Avenue for some rustic Italian fare.

  Ninety minutes later, we parked at a hydrant on a tree-lined stretch of West End Avenue outside Langford’s apartment building. Kylie and I had Googled him before we left the office. He was forty-seven and had written five books, and with his thick mop of ginger hair, surfer-blue eyes, and camera-ready smile, he was the guy the TV stations called when they needed an expert.

  “Just our luck,” Kylie said. “Another pain-in-the-ass celebrity shrink.”

  The two of us had faced off with our share of A-list psychiatrists in the past, and humility is not their strong suit. Rule of thumb: the more famous they are, the more arrogant they can get.

  “Cheryl likes him,” I told her. “She says he’s a no-bullshit kind of guy.”

  “Cheryl’s a lousy judge of character,” Kylie said. “Look at who she’s dating.”

  It turned out that Cheryl was right: Langford was likable from the get-go. Two min
utes after we entered his waiting room, he stepped out of his office, walked his patient to the front door, and introduced himself.

  “Morey Langford. I’ve heard quite a bit about you both. I’m sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances. I’ve been in a news-free zone since this morning. Have you made any progress?”

  “Not enough,” I said, and left it at that. I didn’t want Hoffmann’s arrest to color any of Langford’s comments.

  He shook his head and escorted us into his office. It was warm and inviting, with curtained windows, upholstered furniture, and a deep red Persian rug, and in lieu of the usual ego gallery of framed diplomas and degrees, the walls were decorated with vintage movie posters. I stopped to admire the one behind his desk.

  “Ah,” he said. “The proverbial elephant in the room.”

  It was indeed an elephant—Walt Disney’s Dumbo, to be specific. “I saw the movie as a kid,” I said, “but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what a flying elephant has to do with sex therapy.”

  He laughed. “Not all my patients are dealing with sexual dysfunction, but virtually every one of them has self-esteem issues. I hung the posters because I’m a film buff, and they cheer the place up. But Dumbo turned out to have a not-so-subliminal message. He symbolizes the power of belief. If we believe, we try; if we don’t believe, we give up.”

  “What can you tell us about Aubrey?” Kylie asked.

  “Here are her files,” he said, sliding an envelope across his desk. “But a doctor’s notes can be dreadfully clinical. I can probably be more helpful if you ask me some questions.”

  “For starters, you prescribed Paxil and Zoloft,” I said. “What were you treating her for?”

  “Both drugs are SSRIs—in layman’s terms, antidepressants—and if you check the dates on the bottles, you’ll see that I prescribed them months apart. I started her on the Paxil, but she complained that it was making her gain weight, so I transitioned her to Zoloft.”

  “Did it help with the depression?”

  “Depression wasn’t her problem. Aubrey had compulsive sexual thoughts and behavior that led her into liaisons that could have had life-threatening consequences. One of the most common side effects of SSRIs is diminished sexual desire. I used the pills to try to squelch her libido, but that was a Band-Aid. The real work was being done in our weekly sessions, yet clearly I failed her.”

  “Doc,” I said, “cops know a thing or two about survivor guilt trips. You were trying to help her. Somebody strangled her to death. Not your fault.”

  “You’re good, Detective,” he said. “And you’re right. Aubrey was deeply mired in her addiction when we first met. For her, sex had to be loveless and punishing, and like any addict, she kept chasing bigger and better highs. The men she had sex with became more dangerous. She stopped saying her safe words. Twice she was left for dead. She wanted to end the madness, but she couldn’t. That’s why she came to me. I won’t say I failed, but I accept that I didn’t succeed. The best thing I can do now is help you catch the bastard.”

  “The file you gave us should help,” I said. “Does it name names?”

  “Detective, Aubrey lived in a netherworld where men and women freely exchange bodily fluids, but not identities. If she saw the same men on more than one occasion, she would help me keep track of them by saying things like ‘the one from Queens who breathes like Darth Vader,’ or ‘the Puerto Rican guy I picked up on the L train who gave me the black eye.’ However, there is one real name in the file. She mentioned him often. Janek Hoffmann. He was her cameraman.”

  “What can you tell us about him?” Kylie asked.

  “Nobody terrified her more than Janek.”

  “Why? What did he do that the others didn’t?”

  “You may find this hard to understand, but after years of having men treat her like she was a worthless, unlovable piece of shit, Janek did the unthinkable.” Langford inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “He told her he loved her.”

  CHAPTER 21

  A stillness fell over the room as we processed Dr. Langford’s last statement. Psychiatrists, of course, are totally comfortable sitting in silence. Kylie is not.

  “So let me get this straight,” she said. “Aubrey told you that Janek Hoffmann physically and mentally abused her.”

  Langford nodded.

  “And she kept going back for more.”

  Another nod.

  “But when he told her he loved her, that scared the hell out of her?”

  “Welcome to the world of psychosexual disorders, Detective MacDonald. I’ve written several books on the subject. Would you like one?”

  “I’ll pass, thank you, but we’ve arrested Janek Hoffmann. There’s no smoking gun, so the DA will need your testimony to help make a case.”

  “Absolutely. But make sure the DA knows that I never met Mr. Hoffmann. I have no idea if he’s guilty of murder, but I can testify that from everything Aubrey told me about him, he was certainly capable.”

  We thanked him. He walked us to the door, and we went back to our car.

  “I liked him,” Kylie said. “Cheryl’s a better judge of character than I thought. Tell her she’s now batting five hundred.”

  I ignored the dig.

  “Do you know what he gets paid to testify as an expert witness in a sex trial?” she said.

  “No, but I’m sure it’s plenty.”

  “There was a piece online about a case in Dallas. The defense flew him down and paid him a hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Pricey, but it wasn’t crazy. The defendant walked. Sex is free, Zach. Sex therapists are expensive.”

  Her cell phone rang. It was sitting between us, and we both saw the caller’s name come up on the screen. Shelley Trager, Spence’s former boss.

  Kylie tapped the Speaker button. “Shelley, I’m in the car with Zach, and you’re on speaker. Is this about Spence?”

  “No, it’s about me. I thought you’d be off shift by now. You and Zach are still working?”

  “Around the clock.”

  “Good. I need a cop. Better yet, I need two cops. I’ve been robbed.”

  “We’ll be right there. Where are you—the apartment? The studio?”

  “The Mark hotel on Seventy-Seventh and Madison. I was hosting a private poker game when two guys with guns broke in and got away with eight hundred thousand dollars.”

  “My God, Shelley, are you okay?”

  “No. None of us are okay. We can all afford the money, but none of us can afford the publicity. The News and the Post will have a field day with a story about eight rich assholes pissing away a hundred K apiece while millions of real New Yorkers are eating Big Macs and buying lottery tickets. We wanted to keep it quiet, but before they broke in, they chloroformed Bob Reitzfeld, who was on security duty outside the door.”

  “Is Bob okay?”

  “He’s fine—more embarrassed than anything. He said they’re amateurs and he never should have gotten suckered. Anyway, they duct-taped his mouth shut and tied him to a pipe in the stairwell. We could have kept it under the radar, but some goddamn Good Samaritan saw Reitzfeld trussed up like a Christmas goose and called 911.”

  “Are there uniforms on the scene now?”

  “Damn right there are. They’re coming out of the woodwork!”

  “Well, then it sounds like NYPD’s got it under control.”

  “It’s not under control, Kylie! Why do you think I’m calling you? We’ve got a bunch of cops walking around asking us questions we don’t want to answer.”

  “I understand. But what can Zach and I do?”

  “Get over to the Mark hotel and get rid of these goddamn nosy cops.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “The hotel is two blocks from your apartment,” Kylie said as we headed east across Central Park. “This is a nonevent. Why don’t I drop you off and spare you the bullshit?”

  “Better yet,” I said, “why don’t you find the turnip
truck you think I fell off and throw me back on? Do I look like I woke up stupid this morning? Since when is an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar armed robbery a nonevent?”

  “Come on, Zach, you heard what Shelley said. He’d be embarrassed if this went public. He wants it to go away.”

  “And if this were 1987, I’m sure we could make that happen. But if we try it today, we’ll be lucky if we get to spend the rest of our careers writing parking tickets in the Bronx.”

  “Shelley’s been like a father to me and Spence. I’m willing to risk it—just me—on my own. If I get caught, your ass won’t be in a sling.”

  “Sorry. I already have one partner I can’t stand. Why would I want to break in a new one?”

  She gave me the finger, and we drove the rest of the way in silence.

  There were two squad cars in front of the Mark. I flashed my shield at the doorman, who nodded and softly spoke a single word: “Fourteen.” It was the essence of five-star discretion.

  We took the elevator to the fourteenth floor and walked to the far end of the corridor, where Bob Reitzfeld was standing with four uniformed officers from our precinct.

  “You’re too late, Detective,” one of them said. “We’re ninety-one, ninety-eight here.”

  Kylie grinned. I stood there dumbfounded. Ninety-one is radio code that informs the responding officers that no crime has been committed. Ninety-eight orders them to resume patrol.

  “Just in case my captain asks,” I said, “who called this a ninety-one?”

  “The lieutenant,” he said, pointing at Reitzfeld.

  Reitzfeld was not a lieutenant. True, he’d spent thirty years with NYPD and retired with medals on his chest and gold bars on his shoulders. But now he was a civilian—the head of security for Shelley Trager at Silvercup Studios.

  The four cops said good-bye and walked off to the elevator.

  “Zach, Kylie,” Reitzfeld said, “I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”