“That’s a lot of polo shirts. And it can’t be inexpensive to tie up your modest pied à l’eau here on Luxury Liner Row.”
“If you really want to know, it’s not that bad. Two grand a day. Better than a hotel, and worth it for the convenience of location.” Swift added an inch to Nikki’s glass from the blue bottle. “Except when that means getting stormed by zealous cops reenacting a scene from Captain Phillips.”
“I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t important, Mr. Swift.”
“And you should call me Tangier. And that’s not because I’m a nice guy. Those dudes who founded Google got it right when they created an atmosphere for moon-shot thinking, and I’m not above modeling myself after mold breakers.”
Nikki recalled Rook’s rundown on Swift, how he was a motivational zealot.
“Oh, I gave it my own spin, calling my hierarchical structure a Flat Pyramid, but I’m really chasing their unicorn. No neckties; messy offices, a plus; first names only—including the CEO; transparency, and direct access—including the CEO.”
“Is that why it was so easy for me to see you, Tangier?” Nikki asked, making a calculated back-to-business jab to forestall his hijacking her meeting with a wharf-side Tony Robbins seminar.
“Nikki, is it?” He set his glass down on the river-stone-covered tabletop, top-decked his designer sunglasses again, and fixed her with a steely gaze. “Nikki, maybe you had better ask me those questions so you can be on your way. That transparent enough?”
Heat didn’t flinch. “Glad to. First, I’d like to ask if you know the name Lon King.” Swift rolled his eyes upward, then shook his head no. She opened her notebook and popped the cap on her $1.28 stick pen. “How long have you been berthed here?” Beside her, Rook turned to look upriver, where he could see the George Washington Bridge spanning the Hudson, right where Lon King’s kayak would have been adrift the night before.
“Ten days, why?”
One way to keep control of an interview, Nikki had learned through the years, was not to respond to questions. Especially with a smart, strong personality who was accustomed to getting his way, it was too easy to have the meeting wrested from her grip if she let it become his conversation. “When was the last time you used those toys on your transom, the Zodiac and the Sea-Doo?”
“Hmm. Not since Bermuda. Before we put in here. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Has anyone else used them here in New York? Someone on your crew, maybe?”
“No.”
“And you also have those two helicopters.”
“MD660Ns.”
“Do you fly them yourself?”
“I’m rated for fixed wing only. I’m learning though. Spending a lot of time in the copter simulator in the game salon.”
“Those things are great,” said Rook. “I fly the radio-controlled copters. You ever fly them?”
Swift squinted at him as if he thought Rook must be high. “No.”
“Ever fly the drones?” Rook asked. “You know, the quadcopters?” Rook caught Nikki’s eye, and in that nonverbal micro-instant she marveled at how in tune they were. And how deft he was at playing the exasperating court jester one moment, then coming in sideways on a point she was going for.
“No,” he snapped. “Are you writing fucking hobby profiles now?”
Heat took advantage of Swift’s irritation to jerk the conversation in another direction. “I have another name to ask you about. Fred Lobbrecht. You may also know him as Frederick or Freddy.”
“Sorry, no matches. Who are these people you keep asking me about?”
“What about Wilton Backhouse?” Swift was about to speak, then held back. Red blotches appeared at his collar and spread toward his jawline. “Wilton Backhouse,” she repeated.
“Shit disturber.” He reached across and tapped a forefinger on her notebook. “You can quote me. Shit disturber. And neurotic. Oh, and narcissist,” said the man with the 312-foot yacht named after himself.