Her door was shut, the privacy blinds on the glass wall were down, and there were two large men standing directly outside her office. I knew them well: Mayor Sykes’s bodyguards.
“Well if it isn’t Cagney and Lacey,” Kylie said, never missing an opportunity to bust balls. “Glad to see that the taxpayers were smart enough to pay two of you to protect the mayor from the evils that lurk in the halls of an Upper East Side police precinct.”
“Ah, the ever delightful Detective MacDonald,” the larger of the two large men said, putting his hand on the doorknob. “Let’s see if you’re still smiling when you come back out.” He held the door open, and Kylie and I went in.
Cates was behind her desk. Sykes was sitting across from her. “He’s taking hostages,” the mayor said as soon as the door closed behind us.
“Ma’am?” I said. “Who’s taking hostages?”
“Princeton Wells. The Silver Bullet Foundation was supposed to break ground on Tremont Gardens next month.” In case we hadn’t been paying attention to the speeches on the night of the hotel bombing, she added, “It’s the city’s permanent housing project for homeless people that Del Fairfax designed. But Wells is putting it on hold until the person or persons responsible for the deaths of his two partners are brought to justice.”
“That’s emotional blackmail,” Kylie said.
“But that’s how billionaires work the system, Detective.”
“Madam Mayor, we’re doing everything we can.”
“Not according to Wells. He told me the whole story of this drug deal he and his cohorts got caught up in when they were kids—”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Kylie said, “but he probably only gave you his account of the whole story. There are other versions.”
“Don’t waste my time asking if I believe a drug dealer or a philanthropist,” Sykes said. “All I know is that the bomb maker is in a prison in Thailand, and this Geraldo Segura, who has a deep-seated grudge against Wells and the others, is also incarcerated in Thailand. Captain Cates has just confirmed that.”
“But we don’t know if the two men ever met,” Kylie said.
“Mr. Wells refuses to wait for the Thai government to be forthcoming with that information. He tells me he suggested that the two of you fly to Thailand and find out for yourselves. Your response was that the city would never pay your travel expenses.”
“Not the city,” Kylie said. “The department.”
“MacDonald,” Cates said, “stop talking and start listening.”
“Captain,” Kylie said, “after what happened this morning on the High Line, we were under the impression that the department wouldn’t pay for—”
Cates stood up. “Stop. Talking. Now.”
“Thank you, Delia,” the mayor said. She turned to the two of us. “First, I assured Mr. Wells that this administration would go to the ends of the earth to hunt down the people who murdered two of our city’s most generous benefactors, and that cost was definitely not a factor.
“He then pointed out to me that he knows exactly how our system works. You can’t just jump on a plane to Bangkok without jumping through a lot of bureaucratic hoops. It would take days for the pencil pushers and the number crunchers to approve your travel expenses. I told him I could cut through a lot of that red tape with one phone call to the police commissioner, and that you’d be on your way within twenty-four hours. He laughed and said he could cut through all of the red tape and have you wheels up by seven thirty tonight.”
“Ma’am,” Kylie said, “Wells talks a good game, but how is that even possible?”
“Anything is possible when you own a fleet of corporate jets. Wells will have a plane and a flight crew waiting for you at Teterboro.”
“Isn’t that…” Kylie stopped herself.
“Isn’t that what?” Sykes asked.
“Nothing, ma’am. It’s not important.”
“It’s important to me, because once you get on that plane, I want you to have no other concerns besides tracking down Geraldo Segura. Now ask the question.”
“Zach and I are city employees. Aren’t we bound by the law that prohibits us from accepting gifts for anything valued over seventy-five dollars?”
“Yes. But as mayor of this city, I can issue an executive order waiving that law due to the dire emergency of the situation. Any more questions?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then dust off your passports and pack your bags, because in three hours the two of you are leaving for Thailand.”
CHAPTER 41
I went straight to Cheryl’s office. “Something came up,” I said.
“Judging by the hangdog look on your face, I’m guessing it’s something that’s going to screw up our dinner reservations at Paola’s.”
“Sorry. I have to cancel.”
“I’ve been looking forward to her carciofi alla giudea all day, so you better have a good reason for bailing on me.”
“Kylie and I are going to Thailand.”
She laughed. “No, seriously.”
“I’m not kidding. We’re leaving tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“The Silver Bullet bombings. All roads lead to Thailand.”
“Oh, Zach,” she said, picking up her cell. “What’s your flight number? At least I can follow you on FlightView.”
“Actually,” I said, knowing that there was no way to sugarcoat what I was about to say, “we’re not going commercial. We’re flying out of Teterboro on Princeton Wells’s corporate jet.”
“You, Kylie, and Wells?”
“I doubt if Wells is going to go to Thailand. Ever. I think he only flies into countries he knows he can fly out of.”
“So it’s just you and Kylie on a private plane.”
“And the crew,” I added lamely.
“Do you realize that as a city employee it’s against the law for you to accept—”
“I know, I know. It’s a long story. I don’t have time to give you the details. My flight leaves at seven thirty. I’ve got to go home and pack.” I put my arms around her. “I just came to say good-bye.”
“Not here,” she said, backing off. “Let’s go. I’ll help you pack.”
She grabbed her purse, and I followed her out of the office.
My apartment was a short cab ride away, but four thirty in the afternoon is not the best time for finding a taxi, so we snagged a ride uptown with a couple of uniforms. It was fast and cheap, but it’s impossible to have a personal conversation when you’re riding with two chatty cops in a squad car.
I waited till we got in the elevator. “Look, Cheryl, I know this sucks. I’m really sorry.”
“For what? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No, but Kylie and I are going to be flying God knows how many hours on this luxury airplane, and…”
“So, then, is this another one of your famous prophylactic apologies? Or are you just projecting that I’m jealous?”
“None of the above, but—” The elevator stopped on the tenth floor, and we got out.
“But what?”
“Are you jealous?”
“Zach, you’re a cop. Kylie is your partner. You spend sixty hours a week with her in the same office, the same car, on stakeouts together, eating meals together—it’s what you do. So what’s the difference if you do it on a private plane? What’s the difference if you do it eight thousand miles and eleven time zones away in an exotic country with gorgeous beaches, exciting nightlife, and luxurious hotels? Why would I be jealous? If I trust you here, I trust you there.”
I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I could wade through the subtext, so I took the high road. I said nothing. I unlocked my door, and we entered the apartment.
As soon as we were inside, Cheryl grabbed me, pressed me against the wall, and kissed me hard. “You realize I’m not here to help you pack, don’t you?” she said, pulling her sweater over her head and dragging me toward the bedroom.
“Packing is highly overrated,” I said, shucking my clothes along the way, my libido kicking into overdrive.
One of the things I love about my sex life with Cheryl is that she has never once been hesitant to let me know what she needs. There are times when our lovemaking is practically puritanical—sweet, slow, gentle. Skin to skin, heart to heart, soul to soul.