“Sorry. I already have one partner I can’t stand. Why would I want to break in a new one?”
She gave me the finger, and we drove the rest of the way in silence.
There were two squad cars in front of the Mark. I flashed my shield at the doorman, who nodded and softly spoke a single word: “Fourteen.” It was the essence of five-star discretion.
We took the elevator to the fourteenth floor and walked to the far end of the corridor, where Bob Reitzfeld was standing with four uniformed officers from our precinct.
“You’re too late, Detective,” one of them said. “We’re ninety-one, ninety-eight here.”
Kylie grinned. I stood there dumbfounded. Ninety-one is radio code that informs the responding officers that no crime has been committed. Ninety-eight orders them to resume patrol.
“Just in case my captain asks,” I said, “who called this a ninety-one?”
“The lieutenant,” he said, pointing at Reitzfeld.
Reitzfeld was not a lieutenant. True, he’d spent thirty years with NYPD and retired with medals on his chest and gold bars on his shoulders. But now he was a civilian—the head of security for Shelley Trager at Silvercup Studios.
The four cops said good-bye and walked off to the elevator.
“Zach, Kylie,” Reitzfeld said, “I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”
“Into what?” I asked. “Ten minutes ago, Shelley called us and said it was an armed robbery. Now it’s a noncrime, and you sent the troops packing. What’s going on?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Reitzfeld said.
“Bob, someone made a 911 call. This isn’t like the old days. They follow up on this shit.”
“Relax, Zach. Nine one one got a call that a man was tied to a pipe in the stairwell. I told the cops it was a misunderstanding: the guy who phoned it in didn’t realize Shelley is a film producer and we were shooting a movie.”
“And they believed that?”
“No, it’s complete horseshit. But when their CO asks why they walked away without taking a report, they’ll have an answer that will fly.”
“In that case, thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“For lying. Kylie was about to do the same thing, but she can’t get away with it. You can.”
“I hated lying to them, but Shelley’s in there with a suite full of high rollers, none of whom would think twice about losing a hundred grand, but all of whom would be very unhappy to see this little incident spin out on social media.”
“You want to tell us what really went down?” I said. “We’re off the clock, and we’re here as friends, one of whom was willing to throw herself under the bus for Shelley.”
“What do you know so far?”
“Shelley said something about two armed men, an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar haul, and his head of security trussed up like a Christmas goose, but I don’t believe he used the phrase little incident.”
Reitzfeld laughed. “The old man hosts a one-hundred-thousand-dollar buy-in game every other week. Same cast of characters, about a dozen, all told, but they rotate. He always rents the same two adjoining suites. One is for the game; the other is the losers’ lounge. We have hot and cold running room service, but they never get in the room with the players—or the money. I’m posted outside both doors. Cushy gig. Never had a problem.”
“What happened tonight?”
“I see this blind man feeling his way down the hallway with a cane, and as he gets closer, my instincts kicked in. Why is a blind guy wearing an Apple Watch? So I stand up, square off, and then…I never saw the second guy. He must have come through the fire exit behind me. Before I knew it, he had the chloroform rag over my face, and when I came to, I was in the stairwell, my hands zip-tied to a water pipe and my mouth duct-taped.”
“Could you ID him?” Kylie asked.
“No, but he’s sloppy—I made him from thirty feet away. Amateurs can get lucky, but they don’t get smart, and I’ll bet that somewhere there’s a couple of mooks with loose lips tossing around cash like Floyd Mayweather. I’ll find them.”
“We have some good people working the streets,” Kylie said. “We can help you get the word out.”
“No thanks. Much appreciated, but you’re not invited, and if you’ve got a problem with that, talk to the boss. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
CHAPTER 23
Reitzfeld opened the door for us. I was about to walk in when Kylie grabbed me by the elbow and whispered in my ear. “Don’t say anything.”
“About what?” I said.
“I’ll explain later,” she said, the whisper even more urgent. “Just be cool, and don’t say anything about anything.”
“Vow of silence,” I said, and I mimed zipping my lips.
We entered the suite. One look around the room, and I understood why Shelley wanted to keep the robbery under wraps. Most of the poker players were familiar faces. I recognized a retired NBA player turned ESPN commentator, a stand-up comic, a director, an actor, and an aging rock legend. There was another man sitting on a sofa at the far side of the room with a cell phone to his ear, but I’d never seen him before.
As soon as we walked in, Shelley Trager, a sixty-year-old bundle of kinetic energy with a receding hairline and an expanding waistline, came bounding toward us, wrapped his arms around Kylie, and planted a big kiss on her cheek. Shelley is a film producer and a studio overlord, but he’s not one of those Hollywood air kissers. Shelley is Big Apple to the core, so the smooch was pure New York: loud and genuine.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
“You call; we come,” Kylie said. “Any day, any time.”
“And I couldn’t have picked a worse day or a worse time. I know how busy you are with those bombings. Plus I heard you’re working on the Davenport murder. By comparison, this is small potatoes.”
“Maybe so,” a voice said, “but a hundred thousand bucks’ worth of small potatoes still adds up to a lot of fucking spuds.” It was Rick Button, the comic. He was sitting at the bar. “I came here figuring I’d lose a hundred grand tonight. I just didn’t expect to be cleaned out so fast. But those guys had guns, and I could tell they weren’t bluffing.”
“You want your money back, Rick?” Shelley said. “I’ll write you a check.”
“I don’t need your money. I could write this whole crazy poker game into my act and make a fortune.”
“You do that, and you’ll be dead before you can spend a dime,” Shelley said. “And my two friends here will have seven suspects.”
Kylie put a hand on Shelley’s arm. “I realize you guys have the ability to joke about this,” she said, “but there are two armed robbers walking around the city thinking they’re the baddest asses in town, and they’re not going to quit while they’re ahead. They’re going to do it again, and the next time, the outcome might not be something to laugh about. Are you sure you won’t reconsider reporting this to NYPD?”
“I can’t,” Shelley said. “Do you see the guy on the couch talking on the phone? His name is Eitan Ben David. Doctor Eitan Ben David, plastic surgeon to the rich and wrinkled. If you think these show business assholes would be embarrassed for this to get out, imagine how a respectable citizen like Eitan would feel. Look, you guys did your job. You ran right over, and you stopped the cops from making a federal case out of this.”
“We didn’t do anything,” Kylie said. “By the time Zach and I got here, Reitzfeld had it under control.”
“Then it’s over and done with.”
“Shelley, it’s not over and done with. Bob Reitzfeld is going to go after these guys, and he’s a damn good cop with a lot of resources at his disposal, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he caught them. Then what? You can farm out the police work, but once these felons are apprehended, they still have to be prosecuted through the city’s criminal justice system.”
“I know, but that can happen quietly. No hoopla, no newspapers, no other victims besides me, and no trial, because we’ll make it worth their while to cop a plea.”
“And maybe you’ll get your money back.”
“I don’t care about the money.”