“I have. This will be without notes, though, so apologies in advance for any rambling.” He crossed his arms and leaned against a bulkhead door, rough-drafting from memory.
“Let’s see, Tangier Swift. First name given by his parents in honor of one of the early settlers of New Amsterdam—that would be Manhattan—apparently an ancestor. Harvard wunderkind. Rare combo of gaming-obsessed funster and MBA standout. Made his first half billion, that’s with a b, at age twenty-two, developing an eponymous app named SwiftMoji, which morphed user photos into cartoon images they could use as emojis.
“In his thirties, he expanded his company—SwiftRageous—from gaming to industrial software design and struck platinum again with the automobile stability-control application his company developed.
“He’s forty now and obsessed with pushing limits. He’s driven to be the next Bill Gates or Paul Allen and obsessed with making Steve Jobs into Steve Who? A disciple of the management cult of poster motivation—that’s my own term for MBAs who love them some homilies—who are obsessively guided by the kind of inspirational motivational quotes you see on posters, usually involving soaring eagles and mountaintops. He’s all Malcolm Gladwell, Franklin Covey, and Googlisciousness.”
Heat flipped her notebook closed. “I can now see very clearly what Tangier Swift is all about.”
“Why, thank you. At my second Pulitzer ceremony the presenter did say I was known for daubing tight lines and shadows with a painter’s eye for prose.”
“No, Rook. Your rundown was OK. What I mean is, I can actually see what he’s all about.” He turned to follow her gaze. Rook’s jaw didn’t exactly drop, but there was definitely some involuntary hinge action when he reacted to what she was indicating.
Ahead of them to starboard, just beyond the Circle Line docks and the Intrepid, one of the largest private motor yachts Rook had ever seen sat berthed at the Manhattan Cruise Terminal. The SwiftRageous, which Rook estimated to be over three hundred feet long, was docked at Pier 90, which was normally reserved for cruise ships. As their captain dropped speed to approach the wharf, Heat and Rook tilted their heads back to look up at the pair of MD600N helicopters looming four stories above them from the stern helipads of the SwiftRageous. Rook rubbed the kink out of the back of his neck and turned to Nikki. “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.”
Churning up a swirl of brackish foam, the NYPD skipper backed the stern of his ship quickly and surely right up to the water-level transom of the SwiftRageous. When Heat leaped onto the other vessel and then stepped aside for Rook to join her, she expected to be met by security, which she was. Four very athletic men in matching khaki slacks and green polos assembled, forming an impressive line of muscle between them and the Hudson River. What she didn’t expect was to be greeted personally by Tangier Swift. Although it wouldn’t exactly be called a greeting.
“What do you think you are you doing?” said the CEO as he descended the open staircase from the sundeck.
“Tangier Swift?” She reached up to part her blazer to show him the shield at her waist. As she did, all four security men immediately placed a hand on their fanny packs. “Captain Nikki Heat, NYPD.” Even after she had flashed tin, not one hand ever left the proximity of its sidearm.
“Heat…You’re the one who’s been calling my office.” Two of his bouncers parted to let him through the line and he lifted his shades to appraise her. “Have you got a warrant?”
“I don’t need one, Mr. Swift. This is a Harbor Unit snap safety inspection of your vessel.” She pointed between the Zodiac and the Sea-Doo GTX attached to the port side of the garage deck. “For instance, does that fire extinguisher have a full charge?”