Fifteen minutes later, Kylie and I pulled up to a magnificent brick and limestone beaux arts facade on Central Park West. In a city full of ridiculously expensive real estate, there aren’t many private homes that can be called mansions. “Princeton Wells’s place,” as the mayor had called it, was one that could.
I rang the doorbell, expecting to be greeted by a butler wearing a proper black morning coat, gray striped trousers, and a white wing-collar shirt. Instead, Wells himself came to the door, dressed like he was ready to pose for the cover of the J. Crew catalog.
“Sorry about this,” he said, shaking his head. “Arnie is on a tear.”
“It’s understandable,” I said, using some of the language they taught me in NYPD Red charm school. “He may just be getting over the shock of last night.”
“I doubt it,” Wells said, walking us through a sprawling foyer and up a sweeping marble staircase. “Arnie is a notorious micromanager. It ain’t soup unless he’s stirred the pot.”
“The mayor said he’s not happy with the way we’re handling the case. We’ll do what we can to reassure him that—”
“Save your breath,” Wells said. “Arnie already tore the mayor a new one. You’re just here so he can vent to the cops.”
Kylie gave me a subtle nod. One of the qualifications for joining a police force dedicated to working with the uber-rich is being able to put up with their verbal abuse while you’re busting your ass to help them. It’s the shit part of the job, and I’m much better at it than Kylie is. The nod was a message. It was my turn to stand between her and the bullets.
On the other hand, one of the best parts of the job is getting a taste of the mind-boggling creature comforts that unlimited wealth can buy. But this time, we hadn’t been invited to soak up the grandeur. We were there to take our lumps.
“They’re in my office,” Wells said when we got to the second floor. He opened a mahogany door, and we stepped into a vast room with wood-paneled walls, a soaring ceiling, leather furniture, and all the trappings of an old-school private men’s club. I took a few seconds to fantasize what it must feel like to sit down at the end of a tough day and enjoy a well-earned snifter of single malt whiskey. The fantasy fizzled as soon as Wells made the introductions.
I’d done a quick background check on the players before we got there. Nathan Hirsch was a thousand-dollar-an-hour banking and finance attorney with an Ivy League pedigree and a blue-chip résumé. He was a lot less impressive in person. Overweight and straining the good graces of his designer suit, he smelled of cigar. His handshake was clammy, and his eyes never made contact with mine. My cop radar kicked in, and I wondered if he was still reeling from last night, or if he had another reason to be twitchy.
Arnie Zimmer, who owned the Zim Construction Group, was taller and thinner and wasted no time taking on the mantle of designated bully. “Do you know how much I gave to Muriel Sykes’s election campaign?” he asked, ignoring my extended hand.
“No, sir,” I said.
“Enough money so that I shouldn’t be paying for hind tit. If Sykes expects a nickel out of me when she runs for reelection, she better put the two of you on this case 24/7.”
“Sir, we’re sorry for the loss of your friend, but we are on the case. We haven’t slept since the bomb exploded.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I’ve got friends in the department. You’re splitting your time between a page one terrorist attack and some page thirty-seven sex crime.”
“Mr. Zimmer, we understand your frustration, but I can assure you that Mayor Sykes has made this our number one priority. And we’re not working alone. The FBI has already helped us identify the person who built the bomb.”
“I don’t care if Lockheed Martin built the fucking bomb. Your job is to figure out who set it off. Del was in construction. Did it ever dawn on you that contractors use explosives? Why don’t you start there? It was probably some pissed-off asshole who lost out on one of Del’s jobs.”
And with that, the pissed-off asshole left the room.
“Meeting adjourned?” I asked Wells.
He smiled. “Arnie called it; Arnie gets to pull the plug on it. I’ll tell the mayor you represented her admirably.”
“I’d much rather you just gave Mr. Zimmer my phone number,” I said, holding out my card.
“Detective, you saw what he can be like. Are you sure you want him badgering you?”
“Anytime—as long as he stops badgering the mayor.”
He took the card reluctantly. “Nathan and I will do what we can to keep him at bay, but Arnie’s a pit bull. He’s going to give you problems.”
I shrugged off the comment, but it turned out to be an understatement. Arnie Zimmer gave us more problems than anyone ever anticipated.
CHAPTER 15
I was ready to leave, but Kylie, who hadn’t said a word since we got there, wasn’t. “One question before we go,” she said to Wells. “Which one of you knew the real Del Fairfax? You or Mr. Zimmer?”
Wells looked confused. “I’m sorry, Detective. The four of us have been friends since high school. I don’t understand the question.”
“Last night we told you that the blast analysis indicated that Mr. Fairfax was the primary target, and we asked you if he had any enemies. Do you remember what you said?”
“Not word for word, but the answer is no. People liked him.”
“I took notes. Last night you said, ‘Everybody loved him. Hell, they love the four of us.’ Then you suggested that the bomb was intended for the mayor. Now, this morning, Mr. Zimmer has a different perspective. He’s saying it’s a disgruntled contractor out to settle a score, but he stormed off before we could ask him if there were any specific contractors he might point us to. So let me repeat what I asked you last night. Can you think of anyone—especially in the building trades—who didn’t love Mr. Fairfax and would want to see him dead?”
“All right, I get it,” Wells said. “I painted a pretty rosy picture last night. But you’re right. We give away a lot of money, but we can’t give it to everybody. We can’t support every cause. We can’t award jobs to everybody who bids on one. We make some people incredibly happy, and we can disappoint the shit out of others. That’s life. That’s business. It’s not a motive for murder.”
Kylie turned to Hirsch. “Counselor, we need all the help we can get. Do you have anything you can add?”
If he did, he didn’t look anxious to share it, but Kylie hadn’t made it easy for him to say no.
“Arnie means well, but I think he’s…wrong,” Hirsch said, choosing his words carefully. “Last night’s insanity wasn’t payback for some kind of a business grudge. I want you to solve Del’s murder as much as anybody, but please don’t waste your time looking for vindictive contractors.”
“Who should we look for? According to Mr. Wells, everybody loves the four of you.”
Hirsch forced a smile. “Detective, I’m a lot more cynical than Princeton. We live in a city of haves and have-nots. I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who were happy to hear that somebody blew up a roomful of rich white do-gooders. I hope that helps.”
It helped more than he realized. We thanked the two of them and didn’t say a word till we were back in the car.
“Nicely done, partner,” I said. “Did you suspect Hirsch had something to hide, or did you just go fishing and get lucky?”
“A little of both. Did you notice where he was sitting last night?”
“Yeah. He was at a table close to the front, slightly off to the left.”
“And did you notice what he did when Princeton Wells introduced his girlfriend to the crowd?”
“No, but I imagine he was doing what most men in the room were doing: admiring Ms. Whithouse and thanking the cleavage gods.”
“He wasn’t. And while your eyes were honed in on Kenda’s boobs, I watched Nathan Hirsch quietly get up from the table and leave the room.”
My cell phone rang. I was about to let it go to voice mail when I saw who was calling. I picked up. “This is Detective Jordan.”