Detective Rhymer came to Heat’s desk. “Just got back from a meet with our German dancer’s agent. The guy’s a sketch. A support system for a toupee working out of a fleabag office in Chelsea.”
“Any beefs between the agent and the client?” she asked.
“Anything but. The rep told me Meuller was a steady client who worked hard, stayed out of trouble, and made him a lot of money. The only bump in the road was that Meuller’s boyfriend died recently,” said Rhymer. “Agent says after that, his top earner changed addresses and basically crawled in a hole. Didn’t answer calls, like that.”
“How did the boyfriend die?” asked Heat.
“Ahead of you. I checked it out. Natural causes. He had some congenital heart condition and the ol’ ticker stopped ticking.”
Over at his desk, Detective Raley hung up his phone so quickly he missed the cradle. He replaced it while he grabbed his coat and hurried over. “Lawrence Hays’s private jet just touched down at Teterboro.”
* * *
The New York headquarters of Lancer Standard comprised the top two floors of a black glass office high-rise on Vanderbilt a half block from Grand Central. It was the sort of building commuters passed every day hustling to and from trains without giving it much notice, unless they were clients of the custom shirtmaker on the ground floor or the gourmet gym in its basement.
“Is Mr. Hays expecting you?” asked the woman behind the counter in the reception lobby.
Detective Heat reflected on the nature of work done by this soldiers-and-spies-for-hire company, and then on the operative that Rook saw casing her apartment, and said, “I’m going to bet Mr. Hays already knows we’re here.” The receptionist invited them to have seats, but the three cops stepped away from the pink marble counter and stood. Roach had insisted they accompany Heat to this meeting. The Discourager, hunkered in his blue-and-white Radio Mobile Unit, may have had her back in transit, but Raley and Ochoa didn’t want her walking into the offices of a CIA contractor alone.
It was only seconds before they heard a buzz and two very fit men held the wood-paneled door open to the security vestibule. As she passed the pair, Nikki could see their suits were tailored to accommodate shoulder holsters, which made her wonder if the custom shirtmaker twenty-six floors below was the beneficiary of his co-tenants’ outfitting requirements. Before they could proceed, the lobby door needed to close behind them and lock. When the bolt shot, one of the minders pressed his thumbprint to a scanner and the door ahead of them slid open.
At the top of a carpeted spiral staircase they arrived at the penthouse floor and the anteroom of Lawrence Hays’s executive suite. In a very matter-of-fact way, one of the escorts said, “I’d like to take your firearms.”
“I’d like to see you try,” said Ochoa, equally as matter-of-factly. There was no way Heat was going to give up her weapon, either, and she wondered how this would play out—three New York cops facing two running backs in a stare-down.
The door opened and Hays said, “Stand down, they can come in as is.”