“Tell him to come out,” she said. “Make him come out.”
“I’ve been involved in a lot of homicides, Dr. Langford,” I said. “You’d be amazed at how easy some of them are to solve. This one was genius. If Aubrey hadn’t backed up those videos, I never would have caught you. But you couldn’t know she did that. You may wind up in jail, but I know the media. They’re all going to want you: 60 Minutes, the New York Times, Time magazine.”
The cab door opened, and Langford stepped out, gun in hand. “Did they teach you that at the academy, Jordan? If you’re negotiating with a narcissist, get him to give up by convincing him he can become a media darling, a rock star inmate. I told you: rotting away in prison is not an option.”
He pointed the gun in my direction and started walking toward me. “You or me, Detective. And trust me, I won’t hesitate to shoot.”
I raised my gun. “Don’t make me do this,” I said.
“One of us is going to pull the trigger,” he said, still advancing. “Your choice.”
And then Kylie stepped out from behind the far side of the yellow Nissan. Her shooting stance was textbook. Feet shoulder width apart, the firing-side foot slightly behind the support-side foot. Her knees were flexed, arms extended straight out, head level.
She fired.
The two barbed darts flew from the Taser gun, one hitting Langford in the back, the other in the right hamstring. The pistol dropped from his hand, his body pitched forward, and he let out a prolonged agonizing scream as Kylie unleashed fifty thousand volts into his body.
Two uniforms poured out from behind the cab. Within five seconds, Kylie killed the power, and the cops pulled Langford to his feet.
She walked up to him and squared off. “Morris Langford, you’re under arrest for the murder of Aubrey Davenport. You have the right to remain silent.”
When she finished reading him his rights, one of the cops holding Langford said, “Would you like to do the honors and cuff him, Detective?”
Kylie slapped her hand to her belt and smiled. “I’m afraid one of you will have to do it, officer,” she said. “My partner and I are out of cuffs. It’s been a busy day.”
CHAPTER 66
At four thirty, Mayor Muriel Sykes did what she does best. She showed up at the precinct unannounced.
Well, almost unannounced. Before she could get up to the third floor, I got a heads-up call from Bob McGrath, my eyes and ears at the front desk.
“Your prom date is here, Detective,” he said.
“Thanks. How does she look?”
“Ravishing as always.”
“I’m serious, Sarge. Pissed? Happy? What?”
“I’ve never seen her happy, and if you’re wondering did she bring a box of doughnuts to reward you for your takedown in Central Park, the answer is no. She just blew right by me and headed up the stairs like a heat-seeking missile.”
“Thanks, Sarge. I owe you one.”
“Everybody owes me at least one, Jordan,” McGrath said. “And you and your wackadoo partner owe me more than most.”
“Shit,” I said, hanging up the phone.
“What now?” Kylie asked.
“The mayor is on her way up.”
“Shit,” Kylie repeated. “Attaboys come by email. Personal appearances are never a good sign.”
There was no time for further discussion. The stairwell door opened, and the mayor’s heels clackety-clacked across the floor until she got to my desk.
“Congratulations on breaking the Davenport case,” she said. “It was a home run.”
The words were there, but the look on her face didn’t match. If we’d hit a home run, how come there was no joy in Mudville?
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything is fucking wrong,” she said. “Morris Langford is a celebrity shrink—talk shows, news programs, magazines. Even people who never met a psychiatrist can tell you who he is. And now he’s going to be the focus of a murder trial where the key piece of evidence is a collection of videos that will give new meaning to the phrase ‘New York society’s most prominent members.’”
“Madam Mayor,” Kylie said, “we know for a fact that the DA will do all he can to keep those tapes from seeing the light of day.”
“Oh, I’m sure Mick Wilson can get a judge to rule them inadmissible at trial,” Sykes said. “But once the press becomes aware of their existence, they will stop at nothing to get their hands on them. Or at the very least get the name of every man who got caught with his pants around his ankles. To an investigative reporter, those videos are a Pulitzer waiting to happen.”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my job it’s this: never get in the way of a person who outranks you when they’re blowing off steam. Kylie and I didn’t say a word.
“Where are you on finding this mad bomber, Segura?” the mayor asked.
“We’ve got thirty-five thousand cops out there looking for him,” Kylie said.
“And I’ve got eight and a half million people looking over their shoulder, wondering if he’s going to cuff an exploding briefcase to their wrist,” the mayor said. “Find him. Fast.”
She turned and started to walk away. Then she stopped and came back. “One more thing,” she said.
It was bullshit. She didn’t have one more thing. This was the only thing. The mayor of the city of New York doesn’t drive over to East 67th Street to congratulate two cops on closing one case and bitch at them for not cracking another. She came because she needed something. But instead of straight out saying “I’m here because I need a favor,” she decided to make it look like it was an afterthought to our little heart-to-heart chat.
“When was the last time either of you spoke to Princeton Wells?” she said.
“I called him from Thailand to give him a heads-up about Segura,” Kylie said. “I think it was Sunday night New York time, so it’s been about three days.”
“I’ve been trying to get hold of him, but he seems to be off the grid.”
“Considering what happened to his partners, that kind of makes sense,” Kylie said.
“Remember that little black-tie dinner at The Pierre hotel?” the mayor said. “A lot of powerful people donated a lot of money to build permanent housing for the homeless. Tremont Gardens is important to those donors and to this administration. We’re scheduled to break ground in two weeks, and I can’t get in touch with the man who is supposed to make it all happen. Someone has to tell Princeton Wells that just because the podium exploded doesn’t mean the entire project gets blown up with it.”
“Would you like us to reach out on your behalf?” Kylie said.
“Excellent idea, Detective. Just don’t make it sound like I have NYPD running political errands for me. He’s holed up at his place. Pay him a visit. Reassure him that you’re close to catching Segura. Offer him police protection. Tell him we have to go back to business as usual, or the terrorists win. I don’t care what you say to him—just get him to call me.”
This time she turned and left. She got what she came for and made it sound like it was Kylie’s idea to help.
“I guess we’re going to Wells’s place,” I said. “You ready?”
“I just need a minute to update my résumé,” Kylie said. “I’m going to add ‘Personal flunky to the mayor.’”
CHAPTER 67
Geraldo Segura smiled as he watched Carlotta step out of the front door of Princeton Wells’s mansion on Central Park West. He didn’t have to look at his watch to know exactly what time it was: 4:30 p.m. On the dot. Not a minute earlier, not a minute later. Carlotta was a creature of habit.
Her key ring was already in her hand, and she double-locked the front door with a practiced twist, tossed the keys in her purse, and zipped it up.
He raised the binoculars to his eyes. She had aged well over the years. She was in her sixties now. Her face was rounder, fuller, but her dark eyes were just as alert and intense as ever as she lifted the flap on the keypad at the front door and carefully punched in the security code.