“The hotel is two blocks from your apartment,” Kylie said as we headed east across Central Park. “This is a nonevent. Why don’t I drop you off and spare you the bullshit?”
“Better yet,” I said, “why don’t you find the turnip truck you think I fell off and throw me back on? Do I look like I woke up stupid this morning? Since when is an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar armed robbery a nonevent?”
“Come on, Zach, you heard what Shelley said. He’d be embarrassed if this went public. He wants it to go away.”
“And if this were 1987, I’m sure we could make that happen. But if we try it today, we’ll be lucky if we get to spend the rest of our careers writing parking tickets in the Bronx.”
“Shelley’s been like a father to me and Spence. I’m willing to risk it—just me—on my own. If I get caught, your ass won’t be in a sling.”
“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.”