“So you’re telling me she’s not from the escort service?”
“No, Your Honor,” I said. “She’s not.”
“Conniving bitch. She said she was my Christmas present.”
We were in Judge Rafferty’s chambers. He was sitting behind his desk in a leather armchair that looked to be at least as ancient as he was. Kylie and I were standing. Once again she’d asked me to do the talking.
“I’m not sure I understand, Your Honor. What do you mean she was your Christmas present?”
He tipped back in his chair and rested a pair of large, craggy hands on the substantial paunch that hung over his belt. “It was Christmas Eve last year. The courthouse was cleared out for the holiday. I was just sitting here, nursing a twenty-five-year-old single malt when she knocked on my door.”
“How did she get through security?”
“How the fuck should I know, Detective? She could have come in with the rest of the Great Unwashed anytime during the day. What difference does that make? Because if you’re trying to hang my court officers out to dry—”
“I apologize, Your Honor,” I said. “It was a stupid question.”
It was especially stupid since I knew that an attractive woman paying an after-hours call to Judge Rafferty would be quietly waved through security. Even if the guards had noticed a camera in her bag, they wouldn’t have asked questions. It was just another play toy for His Honor’s evening merriment.
“Anyway, she comes in, shuts the door behind her, and she stands there. Not a bad looker—a solid seven, maybe an eight. She’s wearing a trench coat, and there’s this little tiny red bow on the belt. And she says, ‘I’ve got a gift from your secret Santa. He wants to know if you’ve been naughty or nice.’”
He chuckled and looked at me. “I guess you can imagine what I said.”
I took the high road and didn’t say a word.
“Jesus, you’re slow on the uptake. What do you think I said? ‘Unwrap the present, and let’s find out.’”
I took a sideways glance at Kylie. Her face was stone cold, but I knew that just below the stoic exterior, she was inflamed with disgust and rage.
“And then,” he went on, “this is a hoot—it was like one of those soft-core pornos. She opens the coat wide, and all she’s wearing is a bra, panties, and a pair of stilettos. Can you figure out what I did next, Detective Jordan?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I saw the video.”
“Go to the head of the class. So now the bitch wants to blackmail me? Well, fuck her. I’m seventy-five years old, my wife is dead, I’ve got six months left on the bench, and if she thinks I give a shit about a video on YouTube of me getting it on with a woman half my age, she’s wrong. I’ll send the link to my friends. They’ll all be jealous.”
“She’s dead, Your Honor,” I said. “Murdered.”
That stopped him. But not for long. “So who the hell is putting the squeeze on me for a hundred thousand dollars?”
“We don’t know, sir. It could be someone who stumbled on the video and decided to go into business for himself. Or it could be the person who killed her.”
“Well, I’m not paying him a red cent.”
“District Attorney Wilson is willing to front the money.”
“I don’t care whose money it is. You can tell Mick Wilson that Michael J. Rafferty doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“Sir, you may not be the only victim.”
“Really? Are you saying there are more horny bastards out there who got caught with their dicks in their hands? That’s their problem, not mine. So stop confusing me with someone who gives a shit. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good. Now go back and tell your commanding officer—never mind. You’re an idiot.” He turned to Kylie. “You. You’ve got to be smarter than your partner. You be the messenger.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you going to tell them?” he said.
“I’ll tell them that you have no issues being immortalized on YouTube for accepting free sex for Christmas, but you’re far too principled to help NYPD catch a murderer.”
Rafferty didn’t have a gavel, but that didn’t stop him from jumping out of his chair and pounding his fist down on the desk.
“And what the hell is your name?” Rafferty bellowed.
“Detective First Grade Kylie MacDonald, NYPD Red, Your Honor.”
“You realize I could hold you in contempt, MacDonald.”
“I’m trying to solve a homicide, Your Honor, not make friends with the court. I apologize if I offended you, but I believe what I just said is an accurate replay of this meeting.”
He eased himself back down into his chair. A faint smile crossed his lips, morphed into a grin, and then erupted into a full-blown laugh.
“Your partner certainly has got a pair there, doesn’t she, Jordan?”
“You don’t know the half of it, Your Honor.”
He shook his head. “I’m sure you’re aware that I’m not the most beloved magistrate in the shire,” he said. “I’ve got one of the best legal minds in the business, but people will remember me as a lecherous old curmudgeon with no patience, no tact, and absolutely no humility. And now you want me to wrap up forty-one years on the bench by being your bagman?”
“Without you, sir, we don’t have a prayer,” Kylie said. “Will you do it?”
“I’m wavering, Detective MacDonald.”
“What’ll it take to put you over the top?”
He rested his chin on one hand and whispered, “Dinner.”
“It would be an honor, Your Honor,” Kylie said, turning on a smile that can transform glaciers into puddles. “Dinner. Just the three of us.”
“Hold on. You seriously don’t think I invited this bozo to tag along,” he said, pointing at me.
“No, sir. That’s not the threesome I had in mind.”
His eyes popped. “What were you thinking?”
“Just you, me, and my friend Mr. Glock,” she said, patting the 9mm automatic on her right hip.
“You won’t need it,” he said. “I’m taking you to the Harvard Club. You’ll get a damn good dinner out of it, and I’ll get to drive every other man in the room batshit crazy.”