“So Nervous Nathan’s got himself some shugah on the side,” I said. “That’s grounds for divorce, but it’s not a motive for murder. And it’s definitely not enough to convince the DA to give us the green light to run trap and trace devices on three philanthropists who fight for the less fortunate.”
“But you know the rich,” Kylie said, holding up a finger. “One dirty little secret is the tip of the iceberg, and if Nathan is into sex for money, Thursdays in Jersey won’t be enough. And thousand-dollar-an-hour lawyers who are into hookers don’t cruise Twelfth Avenue looking for bargains.”
“No, they don’t,” I said. “Those who can afford the best invariably reach out to New York’s number one purveyor of quality female companionship for gentlemen of breeding and taste.”
“Get him on the phone and see if he knows any or all of the three amigos.”
Q Lavish, who was born Quentin LaTrelle, knows enough about the sex lives of the rich and famous to write a book. But since he’s also the one who fulfills their kinkiest fantasies, he’s as discreet as a mute in a monastery. With one exception: he’ll share certain secrets with us. We, in turn, have been known to help him navigate the unfriendly waters of justice when one of his wealthy clients winds up handcuffed to a cop instead of to a bedpost.
I called Q and put on the speaker so both Kylie and I could listen.
“Detectives,” he said. “How can I be of service to New York’s Finest?”
“We have three persons of interest, and we were hoping you might know something about their mating habits.”
“This is truly a fortuitous moment,” he said. “As luck would have it, I was going to call you, although I planned on waiting for a more civilized hour. But who am I to complain about some lost sleep when the quid pro quo gods are smiling so brightly down upon us? May I tell you my conundrum?”
“We go first,” Kylie said. “Princeton Wells, Arnie Zimmer, Nathan Hirsch—do you know any of them?”
“What child of the ghetto hasn’t heard of the illustrious benefactors of the Silver Bullet Foundation? I’m guessing this is connected to the unfortunate incident at The Pierre hotel.”
“No comment. Do you know them?”
“The first two only by reputation, but Macanudo Nate is a valued client. He has a fine appreciation for women of color.”
“What do you hear?”
“Apart from the fact that he smells like the inside of a humidor, none of my girls have ever said an unkind word about him.”
“Ask around,” Kylie said.
“Happily. But first let me ask if you can reason with someone on my behalf.”
“Who?”
“He’s a judge. And before you say no, he’s also a client.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“He’s accused me of blackmailing him.”
“Are you?” I said.
“I will take that question as a lapse of judgment on your part rather than a condemnation of my character, Detective Jordan.”
“Get over it, Q. I’m a cop. It’s how I roll. Who’s the judge?”
“The Honorable Michael J. Rafferty.”
“What’s the matter—you couldn’t pick a beef with Attila the Hun? Rafferty is the biggest prick in the entire judiciary. Nobody likes him, and nobody can reason with him.”
“I’m sure that once you know the particulars, you’ll find a way.”
“Lay them on us.”
“That can only be done face-to-face. Can I have Rodrigo drive me over to the One Nine?”
“We have a meeting off campus at ten. If you can be here by—hold on.”
Cates’s door flew open, and she came storming toward us, her heels echoing on the tile floor.
“Get moving,” she yelled, still at least fifty feet away. “A bomb went off at Sixty-Eighth and York.”
“What’s there?”
“A construction site. The blast was contained to a small field office. One person is dead.”
“Who?” I said, but I knew the answer before I asked the question.
“The owner of the company. Arnold Zimmer.”
CHAPTER 18
“Looks like Arnie Zimmer got what he was asking for,” Kylie said as we made our way to the blast site.
“That’s harsh,” I said. “The guy was a jerk, but he didn’t deserve to die.”
“Jesus, Zach, I didn’t say he got what he deserved. I said he got what he was asking for. Us.”
“Not quite,” I said. “He wanted us exclusively. Technically he’s still got to share us with Aubrey Davenport.”
“Right now, Arnie Zimmer has our undivided attention. Aubrey is going to have to wait. Why don’t you call Dr. Langford and tell him we’re going to be late for our sex ed class.”
Langford’s calendar was jammed from eleven on, so we rescheduled for 8:00 p.m., which was the earliest he could see us. It was going to be another long day.
The explosion took place on the campus of Rockefeller University, which is tiny as institutions of higher learning go, stretching only five blocks along York Avenue. But what it lacks in size it makes up for in worldwide renown. Devoted to research in biomedical science, Rockefeller produces Nobel Prize laureates the way some schools turn out point guards for the NBA.
Zim Construction was one of several contractors hired to add state-of-the-art laboratories and other buildings to the campus, and their field office, a steel box about eight by twenty feet, was tucked into a corner away from most of the foot traffic.
Howard Malley was waiting for us with a damage report.
“One dead: Arnold Zimmer, the owner of the company. As far as we can ascertain, nobody else was injured,” he said. “From what I can piece together, the victim arrived about seven thirty, unlocked the door, walked over to the air conditioner, and the bomb vaporized him.”
“Did he trip it when he turned on the AC?” Kylie asked.
“No. It was triggered wirelessly from outside. He would have been clearly visible from the street as he approached the window where the AC unit was mounted. The bomber just watched and waited.”
“Same bomb maker?”
“Same blast pattern, a shaped charge, but we still have to sift through the rubble and see if we can find some of the same signature elements.”
“Is there a crew boss or somebody in charge around here from the construction company?” Kylie asked. “We’ve got a few questions that you can’t answer.”
“I like to think I can answer any and all questions, but if you’re looking for the general superintendent, he was just here. I told him NYPD would want to talk to him. He works out of a second field office near the Sixty-Fourth Street gate, but that’s off-limits till we get a K-9 unit to go through it. He’s easy to spot. Big guy, about six four, work clothes, yellow hard hat. His name’s Bill Neill.”
“Thanks,” Kylie said. “How soon can you let us know if we’re looking at the same bomber as the hotel?”
Malley grinned. “Now that’s a question I can’t answer.”
Kylie and I walked across the campus and saw Bill Neill standing under a tree, talking on his cell phone. Malley was right—he was easy to spot. And with our badges on chains around our necks, so were we.
“Barbara, it’s the police,” he said into the phone. “Let me call you back. I love you, too.”
He hung up the phone. “That was my wife,” he said. “She heard on the news that a bomb went off in a construction office at Rockefeller University, and she panicked. The FBI agent said you wanted to ask me some questions, but I was four blocks away when it happened. I heard the explosion, but I didn’t see anything.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “You can still help. How many people had keys to that office?”
“Arnie, me, and I don’t know who else, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just your basic pin and tumbler lock. Anyone can open it with a paper clip and a tension wrench. A key is optional.”
“It’s the boss’s office,” Kylie said. “Wouldn’t you have tighter security?”
“There’s nothing in there worth securing. A desk, a couple of file cabinets, a fridge, a microwave, a coffeepot, and that’s about it.”
“Surveillance cameras?”
“The university has cameras on the gates and peppered around the campus, but Arnie’s office was in no-man’s-land. It’d be easy enough for someone to scale the fence, pick the lock, and get away without anyone noticing.”