We did, and we drove back to Manhattan restoring our souls in the grand tradition of cops everywhere: wolfing down sugary pastries and deconstructing the events of the past twelve hours.
The Jacob K. Javits Federal Building at 26 Federal Plaza on Foley Square is forty-one stories of steel, glass, and red tape. It houses a multitude of government agencies, including Homeland, GSA, Social Security, Immigration, and, on the twenty-third floor, the New York field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Howard Malley was waiting for us in his office.
“Do you accept bribes?” Kylie asked, dropping what was left of the Polish goodies onto his desk.
“It’s the first thing they teach us at Quantico,” Malley said, digging into the bag and pulling out a piece of apple cake. “I found your bomb maker. He’s a master. One of the best in the business.”
“Name?” Kylie said, pen and pad in hand.
“Real name is Flynn Samuels, but Interpol gave him a code name: Sammy Six Digits.”
“Six Digits? He doesn’t sound that masterful.”
“That’s that wacky French sense of humor. The guy has all ten fingers, but he always uses a symbolic six-digit date to trigger his bombs. So, like, if he wanted to blow up Independence Hall, he might go with July 4, 1776, and use 741776.”
“What numbers did he use to set off this one?”
“Impossible to tell,” Malley said, putting away half a square of cake in a single bite, “but last night’s blast has his signature all over it. His specialty is shaped charges designed to take out a single target. And remember the red, white, and blue wires? You thought that meant he was American. You were close. He’s Australian, and guess what colors their flag is.”
“Do you have a mug shot? We’ll put out a citywide BOLO.”
“Don’t bother. He’s in a prison in Thailand. Fifteen years ago he built the bomb that killed their minister of justice. It was neat, clean, and did the job without any collateral damage. But the people behind the assassination were stupid and got caught. They were facing the death penalty, so they made a deal. They gave up their bomb maker in exchange for a lighter sentence. The cops arrested Samuels at the Bangkok airport just as he was about to get on a plane for Australia. The next morning, the bozos that hired him were executed by machine gun. Samuels wasn’t so lucky. They decided to let him rot in a Thai prison.”
“Then he must have a disciple,” Kylie said. “Someone he taught the tricks of his trade.”
“I doubt it. Samuels commanded top dollar to create one-of-a-kind bombs. Blowing people up was his livelihood. He didn’t have disciples. He was too smart to share his secret sauce recipe.”
“Do you have any idea when he gets out of prison?” I asked.
Malley reached into the bag and plucked out a gooey Danish. “Good question, Zach. Let me check my calendar. Oh, wait: it’s Thailand. Never.”
CHAPTER 12
We drove back to the precinct, where I showered, shaved, and grabbed a change of clothes from my locker. By the time I got to my desk, Kylie had already cleaned up and was checking her email.
“We got a gratitude note from Mayor Sykes.” She tapped her computer screen. “Take a look.”
My mind was too preoccupied with Cheryl for me to care about reading an attaboy from the mayor. “How about you just give me the executive summary?”
“Sure,” she said, swiveling her chair away from the screen. “‘Blah, blah, blah, Jordan and MacDonald, quick thinking. Blah, blah, blah, Jordan and MacDonald, excellence and valor.’ Plus four more paragraphs of ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Bottom line: we are the flavor of the month.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.”
“That’s the beauty of politics, Zach. It’s both—all wrapped up in a digital love letter, with copies to Cates, the chief of d’s, and the PC himself.” She stood up. “We should get out of here. Our backup team is waiting for us at the diner.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I said. “Give me five minutes to stop on the second floor and say hello to the department psychologist.”
She looked at her watch. “Five minutes? Really?”
“Maybe ten. I might think of something else to say besides hello.”
I took the stairs down to Cheryl’s office. She was at her desk, reading, dark brown eyes fixed on the thick binder in front of her, wavy jet-black hair framing her face and resting on her shoulders. I stood in the open doorway and thought, God, she’s gorgeous.
Or maybe I said it out loud, because she raised her head, sang out my name, came around to the other side of the desk, pulled me into the room, closed the door, grabbed me in her arms, and gave me a long, slow, lingering kiss. She looked, smelled, felt, and tasted like heaven.
“You’re alive,” she said.
“And becoming more alive by the second,” I said, as she dug her hips into mine. I backed off reluctantly. “Let’s not start anything we can’t consummate. I’ve got two fresh homicides to work. Can we pick this back up again at dinner?”
“Oh, we will,” she said, letting me go. “But fair warning: I know you didn’t get any sleep last night. Don’t expect to get much tonight, either.”
She kissed me again, and I left the room happy and horny. I double-timed it around the corner to Gerri’s Diner and found Kylie at a booth in the rear with our backup team.
Danny Corcoran is second-generation NYPD who did his twenty and is two years into his next five. As usual, he was well-dressed, sporting a gray off-the-rack suit from one of the city’s better racks. Hair-challenged, he topped off the look with a gray newsboy cap.
Always on the wrong side of the body fat index, his round Irish face lit up when he saw me, and he tore himself away from a stack of pancakes with a side of sausage to give me a fierce bear hug.
“Still on that health kick?” I said, pointing to his lumberjack breakfast, and Danny responded by not so subtly scratching the tip of his nose with his middle finger. Then he introduced me to Tommy Fischer, who, like all of Danny’s partners over the years, was the quiet type.
“Foreplay is over,” Kylie said. “Cut to the chase, boys.”
“We hit the garage at about three a.m. and found her car,” Danny said. “The attendant who punched her in was long gone, so we got his home address and paid him a visit.”
“Did he remember her?” I asked.
“Oh yeah. She greased him twenty bucks to keep her car up top in one of those golden spots reserved for good tippers. She said she’d be back soon, but of course she never showed.”
“Had he seen her before?”
“She wasn’t a regular, but she’d park there from time to time. Mostly overnight. A few times he remembers her driving in with some yobbo half her age. He called him ‘a young Arnold Schwarzenegger.’”
“Sounds like the boy we like for the murder,” I said. “Name is Janek Hoffmann. He’s her cameraman. Where’s the car now?”
“Impounded. The lab guys are dusting and probing.”
“How about her apartment?” Kylie asked.
“It’s like the Barbie Dreamhouse for the terminally oversexed.” He handed Kylie his cell phone. “Scroll through some of the highlights.”
Corcoran had taken pictures of a closetful of sex paraphernalia that for most people would be taboo, but for Aubrey Davenport was the norm. I looked over Kylie’s shoulder as she flipped through the pictures in a hurry. By now we knew enough about Aubrey’s world not to be surprised.
“Drugs?” Kylie asked.
Fischer flipped open a notepad. “Ecstasy, coke, poppers, weed, plus scripts for Paxil and Zoloft,” he said. “The prescribing doc’s name is Morris Langford. Here’s his number.” He tore off a page and handed it to me.
“We’re looking for her video cameras and her computer,” I said. “You find any in her apartment?”
“Nothing.”
“How about her office?”