By the time I got to the precinct the next morning, Kylie was already at her desk. “How was your evening?” I asked.
“Stellar,” she said with a gleam in her eye that challenged me to ask for the juicy details. When I didn’t, she came back with, “And how was yours?”
“Educational,” I said. “I learned a new word.”
“Educate me.”
“Frotteurism. It means—”
“Zach, I know what it means. I arrested a guy for it. It happened a few years ago on the number 6 train. It was rush hour, the car was packed, and this dirtbag started rubbing his junk up against the woman standing next to him.”
“Most of these pervs don’t get caught. Lucky for the woman, there was a cop on the train.”
She grinned. “Actually it was unlucky for the perv that the ass he decided to rub against belonged to a cop.”
Her phone rang, and she picked it up. “Hey, Jason, what’ve you got?”
Jason White is a recent transfer from NYPD’s Real Time Crime Center and our back door into the private lives of private people. He’s the Big Brother who can track anyone’s digital footprints. Yesterday, after we’d come up empty-handed, we recruited him to see what he could find on Wells, Hirsch, and Zimmer.
“Thanks,” Kylie said, hanging up. She turned to me. “Nathan Hirsch lives with his wife and three kids in Forest Hills Gardens, Queens, but he also rents an apartment on Hudson Terrace in Fort Lee, New Jersey. And his E-ZPass has him going over the G. W. Bridge every Thursday around three p.m.”
“Maybe the apartment is for his ailing mother, and, good son that he is, he visits once a week.”
“According to Jason, Mom is black, has implants the size of disco balls, and goes by the name of Tiffany Wilde.”
“How the hell does he dig that shit up so fast?”
“I’m curious, too, but it would be unwise of us to ask. The less we know, the more honest we can be on the witness stand.”
“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.”