Swift tipped his wood-and-titanium Maybachs up onto his shaved head and made a sour face. “You’re joking.”
“Sir, I assure you, it’s all legal. We have the authority to board and conduct our inspection.” She beckoned to the three waiting Harbor Unit officers, who stepped from the Gladding-Hearn onto the yacht. “I suggest your men move their hands away from their weapons. This is not something we take lightly.”
“Captain Heat, this is completely over the top.”
“And totally avoidable if you had cooperated with my request for a meeting.”
The billionaire seemed more amused by Heat’s audacity than he was perturbed by the intrusion and signaled his detail to stand down. “How did you find out I was here?”
Rook spread his arms wide to indicate the ship and said, “Duh. The James Bond–villain boat with your name on it was kind of a hint.”
“It’s a ship, not a boat.”
“Don’t need to tell me. You could fit Mick’s, Bono’s, and Madge’s yachts on here and still have room for David Geffen’s hot tub.”
“Who the hell are you? You’re no cop.”
Heat stepped in. “This is Jameson Rook. He is fully authorized to be a civilian ride-along with me.”
“The writer? Fuckin-A, it just gets better.”
“Mr. Swift,” said Nikki, “I only have a few questions to ask you. If we had just addressed them, I’d already be gone by now.”
Seeing that someone with the balls to successfully board his ship was not about to go quietly, he flipped his mirrored shades back down on his nose. “You want a soda or something?”
It turned out that Rook had underestimated the length of the SwiftRageous by four yards. The luxury motor yacht measured 312 feet, with five decks, including a master suite and staterooms on the top level, and a salon (aka: living room) complete with a wood-burning fireplace of French limestone that separated it from the formal dining area. In the forward area one deck below, across the passageway from the twenty-seat movie theater, a state-of-the-minute gaming parlor with night-effect lighting was jammed with big screens, gaming stations, both Internet and satellite connectivity for remote play, and the latest in interactive voice and motion-sensing platforms. Rook peered longingly from the doorway and couldn’t resist. “Please tell me you have Dance Dance Revolution.” Swift didn’t acknowledge the question and ushered them on. “It’s addictive,” said Rook. “I am this close to Maniac Level.”
As they rounded a corner, Swift nearly collided with four Asian men in dark suits, one of whom, who looked to be in his sixties, beamed and said in accented English, “Mr. Swift. We are ready to meet when you are.”
Swift’s return smile was unconvincing, and he seemed agitated. “I’ll need a few moments.” Then he head-signaled up the hall. A trio of his polo-shirted handlers stepped in, ushered the suits back in the conference room, and rolled the pocket doors closed. “Chinese industrialists,” he explained without being asked. “More money than sense. They want to buy my yacht.” Gesturing aft, he followed Heat and Rook toward the sun deck.
Male and female wait staff served sparkling Saratoga waters and kale chips as they sat down in a cluster of deck chairs beside the swimming pool. “I have to say, this is quite overwhelming, Mr. Swift,” said Heat. Since he had relaxed his stance, she had tried to relax along with him, hoping to get more information by adopting a less adversarial stance.
“To be overwhelmed every day. That’s the guiding beacon of my life.”
“That can’t come cheap,” said Rook. “Just operating this thing, you’ve got a crew of—what?”
“Thirty-five.”