On Heat’s drive to Tribeca for her second meeting with Tangier Swift, she mulled the notion of Eric Vreeland as a possible killer. On one level, it felt so right. High-level men like Swift relied on lowlife cockroaches like Vreelend to do the heavy lifting. So the PI—or operative, or fixer, or whatever the polite designation was for the scummy art of “making it so”—had instantly become the shortest distance between the combative software magnate and the inconvenient whistle-blowers who were threatening to shut him down.
But what seemed initially such a good fit raised doubts on examination. Eric Vreeland was unarmed at his capture. His hands and clothing tested negative for gunshot residue. He claimed he knew nothing about drones other than seeing on TV that they might be delivering pizza someday. Whether that was a lie or not, there was no drone or drone controller in his car. Plus, he was apprehended heading to Levy’s home after the attack. Was Vreeland going back to finish the job, or was he simply planning surveillance or light breakin work on his boss’s behalf?
Heat couldn’t recall a case with so many moving parts, so many orbiting elements begging to connect without hinting at their apparent relationships. The whistle-blowers going after Swift—the alleged auto-safety violator—was clear enough, of course. But why would a high-stratum billionaire bother killing his accusers when he employed lawyers to handle such problems as a matter of course? And how did a mobster like Tomasso Nicolosi figure in? He was plenty lethal, for sure. But murder to collect a gambling debt could be ruled out by his own logic. Even if he were brought in to arrange a contract killing by Swift or someone else, both the drone and the proving ground car crash seemed well above Fat Tommy’s beer-fart level of sophistication. What Heat did know was that the only way to find the links she needed was to keep asking questions and continue observing. And keeping her head in the swirl of everything else going on during the first week of her new job.
Which would break first, she wondered, the case or her?
Heat skipped the valet, slid her NYPD dash talker under the windshield, and left her car curbside at The Greenwich. Robert DeNiro’s upscale hotel was an easy walk from Rook’s loft and, over the past year, the two of them had eaten their weight in papardelle with lamb ragù at the embedded restaurant, Locanda Verde.
The Drawing Room at The Greenwich lived up to its name: quiet, tastefully decorated, and for guests only. Tangier Swift must have had a room there, or just booked one for the day so he could have the meeting where his whim took him. The concierge ushered Heat in, and she found the tycoon in the corner nook by the fireplace speed-swiping his iPad screen. He set it aside when she approached. “Don’t mean to put it in your face. Unlike New York City’s, my technology still works. Let me know if I can Google anything for you.”
Nikki didn’t miss a beat. “Sure thing. Why don’t you run a search for private eyes who do B&E work for dot-com billionaires? See if you get any hits.”
“You won’t be deterred, will you?”
She sat down and looked at him with a level gaze. “Count on it.”
“I’m surprised you came alone. Is Jameson Rook out beating the bushes and/or cesspools for new targets of his ‘journalism’?” Swift actually made air quotes around the word with his fingers. Heat didn’t need to spend her interview capital defending her fiancé, and stayed on point.
“The next time we meet, Mr. Swift, we may not be in such an agreeable setting. The way I see it going, you may not even be wearing a belt or shoelaces.”
“Oh, man, that’s hilarious. Are you really trying to intimidate me? Really?” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “What world do you live in, Captain?” He didn’t form air quotes around her rank, but it sure sounded like it. “Do you even think this is your meeting? That I wanted to sit down and let you browbeat me with your fantasy probes and conspiracy theories?”