“So. You know him,” said Rook.
The irony escaped Swift. The flush had splotched his cheeks by now. “You know what that guy really is? A gadfly. No, worse than a gadfly. A gadfly may be a pain in the ass, but at least a gadfly is operating from a sense of conscience. Wilton Backhouse is all about Wilton Backhouse. Fame, gaining wealth through extortion. He creates nothing. He adds no value. He is a self-important leech who would be better off—” Swift caught himself. “Oh fuck, he’s not dead is he? You’re a homicide detective, and I’m shooting my mouth off about—Is he dead?”
“No. But he swore in a complaint that you once tried to run him down with your Mercedes outside the NoMad.”
“I didn’t see him. Until I swerved to miss him.”
“I read the police report. Eyewitnesses said you were laughing afterward and told Mr. Backhouse that next time you wouldn’t miss.”
“I can be immature sometimes. No charges came of it, right? And he wasn’t harmed. And certainly not killed.”
“No. But the two other people I mentioned were. And you still say you have no relationship with them?” Heat showed him Lon King’s picture on her cell phone. He shook his head no. Then she swiped to Lobbrecht’s. That one made Swift pause and think. Or pretend to think—Nikki couldn’t be sure. Finally he gave a no to that picture, as well.
Heat pocketed her phone. “The second picture is of Fred Lobbrecht. He worked at Forenetics with Professor Backhouse on a special study involving your software.”
“That fucking committee. This is what I’m talking about. Backhouse, trying to build a brand by squeezing my balls over some phony claim about a faulty stability control system.”
The investigative journalist weighed in. “And you assert that the claim is untrue?”
“Absolutely. I would be happy to go further, but there has been litigation and I am bound by the same settlement gag order as the complainants when it comes to the rollover lawsuits. Neither side can talk about it. It’s a two-way street.”
“And if we are on that two-way street,” asked Rook, “are we OK if one of your apps is in our car?”
“Hey, fuck you.”
Nikki worked him from the other side. “Tangier. You maintain that you have had no contact—directly or indirectly—with any of these three men?”
“If you are accusing me of something, you’d better say it.” Swift stood. “But you are going to be saying it to my lawyers.” Then he stormed up the staircase to the upper deck and disappeared.
“I’m telling you, your new buddy Tangier’s lying about hitting the river,” said Rook as they pushed through the front door of the Twentieth. “He seems a little wussy for the Sea-Doo in spring weather—even though he can probably afford a mink wet suit. But he could have easily made it up to Spuyten Duyvil in the dry comfort of that Zodiac, popped Lon King, and been back in time to catch Matt Damon duct-taping Jimmy Kimmel to his chair.”
The duty sergeant two-finger-saluted the captain as she moved past the bulletproof glass, then buzzed her through the security lock. “Rook, you’re assuming Swift would have done it himself. Or would have needed proximity. I’m buying into the drone as MOD, and that could have been controlled onshore.”
“Or from a Zodiac,” Rook insisted as he scurried to keep pace with Heat as she raced up the hall and into her office.
Heat kept the conversation going while scanning the stack of message slips on her desktop. “Besides. As usual, you’re jumping from zero to sixty on this case.”
“You don’t think Tangier Swift has a perfect motive?”
“I’m sure that busting the colorful villain CEO as our double murderer would make great copy for your article—”
“That’s cheap—”