Ding.
The elevator doors opened immediately after Harvard hit the Up button. It was his turn for the all-too-knowing smile. “Just making sure,” he said.
“Of what?” asked Elizabeth.
“That you’re the right man for the job.” He stepped back, allowing Elizabeth to step on the elevator. Ladies first.
“You already woke him, didn’t you?” she asked.
Harvard loved to play games.
“Right after you called me,” he said, following her onto the elevator. He punched the button for the penthouse. “You wouldn’t be here unless it was important, right?”
Chapter 22
HARVARD DIDN’T say another word during the entire ride up to the top floor. Nor did he say anything when he led Elizabeth down the hallway to the largest suite in the hotel, the door of which was slightly ajar.
“Good morning, Detective Needham,” said the man wearing the lush waffle-knit white robe. He was sitting on the couch, drinking coffee from the kind of bone china they don’t exactly sell at Pottery Barn. Behind him was one of the best views of Central Park that money can buy—exactly what the man had thought back when he ruled commercial real estate. In fact he liked the view so much he bought the entire hotel.
“Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” said Elizabeth. “Sorry to wake you.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, motioning for her to sit down. “What do you have for me? The sun’s not even up, and already you’re here to ruin my day.”
It was more like save his ass, and they both knew it. The mayor simply liked to razz her a bit. It was how he flirted at arm’s length.
Elizabeth waited until he set down his coffee before she launched right into it, a recap of the evening in bullet-point fashion.
The murder of a club kid most likely disguised as an overdose.
Bryce VonMiller as the king of clubs.
And proof that the killer, who had now killed twice, intended to kill again.
“The two of hearts, huh?” asked the mayor. “Who else saw it?”
“I think the important question, sir, is who else knows what it means,” said Elizabeth. “Besides the people in this room, that’s Reinhart and Grimes.”
“Grimes?” said Harvard. “You freakin’ told Grimes?”
“Of course she did,” said the mayor. “Feed the lion and he forgets he’s in the cage.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “Isn’t that right, Detective?”
She loved it when the mayor put Harvard in his place. His Honor didn’t do it very often, but when he did it was a thing of beauty. Not that she ever let on.
Still, if you’re going to wear that crimson sweatshirt in public, you pretentious prick, you gotta know you’re asking for it.
“Nothing’s going in his column for now,” said Elizabeth, assuring the mayor. “But Grimes is definitely rattling that cage.”
“What about the professor?” he asked.
“What about him?” she asked back.
The mayor shrugged slightly under his white robe. “Has he been helpful?”
“Sure,” she said. “Right now, though, we’re all just trying to figure out the rules of the game.”
“In other words, it’s too early to tell,” said the mayor. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Whatever sixth sense Elizabeth possessed kicked in like a mule with that last question. Too early to tell was not what the mayor wanted to hear, for reasons as obvious as the huge stack of polling data on the coffee table in front of him. The first Tuesday in November was less than two months away, and his support for reelection was slipping, not gaining traction.
For the man wealthy enough to buy almost anything, this was the one thing he couldn’t afford. A serial killer terrorizing the city. Not now.
“What I’m saying is that the original plan is still the best plan,” said Elizabeth. “We buy enough time to end this story before it ever becomes a story.”
For once, the mayor seemed more concerned about someone other than himself. At least it appeared that way.
“I’m not complaining,” he said. “Not yet. I was only asking about the professor. Tell me more about him.”
“What would you like to know?” asked Elizabeth.
“His private life,” said the mayor. “What has he told you about himself? Anything?”
“Do you mean the fact that he’s gay?” she asked.
The mayor reached for his coffee. “Did he tell you that?”
“No. It’s never come up,” she said. “But it’s hardly a secret.”
“What about something that is?” asked the mayor. “Has he told you anything in confidence?”
That sixth sense of a mule kicked hard again in Elizabeth’s gut. Is he testing me? Trapping me?
All she knew was that he was obviously leading to something.
“No,” said Elizabeth. “Suffice it to say there’s been no pillow talk. Nor have we braided each other’s hair yet.”
The mayor smiled, reminded again why he liked this detective so much. Then he reached for an envelope sticking out of a folder next to the stack of polling data. He handed it to Elizabeth.
“For all the things we know about Dylan Reinhart, it turns out there’s one thing we didn’t know,” he said. “Until now.”
Book Two
Everything’s Wild
Chapter 23
I COULD hear the early morning traffic creeping and honking its way down Fifth Avenue twenty floors below as Barbara Nash sat down behind her desk. Like a disapproving parent, she shot a glance at Tracy and me.
“You really should’ve made an appointment, gentlemen,” she said slowly.
Perhaps showing up unannounced first thing Monday morning and camping out in the waiting room was not the best strategy for currying favor with the head of the city’s largest international adoption agency.
“I apologize, Barbara. It was my idea,” said Tracy. “But I think we’re owed an apology as well.”
That was Tracy at his most sincere but also clever best. Before anything else, he wanted to learn what, if anything, Barbara had been told about our home interview debacle. Had she already spoken to Ms. Peckler? Were we dealing with a clean slate? Or would Barbara now be looking for “our side of the story”?
Something told me it was the latter.
“You think I’ve got a homophobe working for me, huh?” asked Barbara.
You had to admire her bluntness. That was sort of her thing, really. A job requirement. The world of foreign adoption was like no other, and she’d been quick to make that clear when we’d first met. Messy politics. Conflicting regulations. Bribes and handouts. And one law above all others: Murphy’s. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. For instance, a seemingly innocuous home interview.
So yeah, despite being a Montana transplant, Barbara acted every bit the native New Yorker, direct and to the point. She had to.
“To be honest, I hate the word homophobe almost as much as I hate the word homo,” said Tracy.
“Then what are you accusing Ms. Peckler of being?” asked Barbara.
“The wrong person for the job,” he said.
“She’s been working at the agency for eleven years. That’s longer than I’ve been here,” said Barbara.
“Are you condoning her behavior?” asked Tracy.