As soon as Kylie and I broke the news to Corcoran and Fischer that they were the designated hitters to shadow the two suspects in the drone heist, we were able to pick up where we’d left off after our predawn meeting with Malique La Grande.
Thirty minutes later, we walked into the lobby of a forty-story green glass tower on Maiden Lane in the financial district.
“You know what I hate about this job?” Kylie asked as we stepped into an elevator.
“I’m sure you’ve got a list,” I said. “But since we’re only going to the twelfth floor, how about you just give me your bitch du jour?”
“Ass-kissing,” she said as soon as the elevator door closed.
“Can you elaborate?”
“Nathan Hirsch came to us with his big confession about running drugs for Zoe Pound, but he left out the most important part,” she said. “I mean, why tell us the whole truth when all he wanted us to do was arrest Malique?”
“The guy is a slimeball with a wife and kids in Queens and a hooker on call in Jersey,” I said. “Are you surprised that he lied to you?”
“No. They all lie, Zach. But if Hirsch were a run-of-the-mill asshole, we’d drag him into an interview room and scare the crap out of him. But since he’s a privileged asshole, we’re heading upstairs to his office, and we’ve got to smile politely, pucker up, and kiss his butt while he keeps lying to us.”
“I believe you just summed up the mission statement of our unit,” I said. “To protect and serve the privileged assholes.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” she said. “I’ll give it a shot. Let me do the talking.”
The elevator door opened on twelve. There were five names on the wall, one of which was Hirsch’s.
We went through the standard meet and greet with the receptionist. No, we didn’t have an appointment, but tell Mr. Hirsch that Detectives Jordan and MacDonald are here, and we’re sure he’ll find the time.
In less than a minute, we were sitting in Hirsch’s office, where the familiar aroma of cigar smoke and flop sweat permeated the air.
“Did you arrest La Grande?” he asked.
“He said he didn’t do it,” Kylie said.
“There’s a shocker,” Hirsch said. “A drug dealer who lies to the cops.”
“Was he lying about Geraldo Segura?” she snapped, neither smiling nor puckering up.
“Is that why you’re here?” he said, raising his voice. “La Grande told you about Segura, and I didn’t, so you’ve come to the erroneous conclusion that I have something to hide.”
“Do you?”
“No. But the fact that Segura is in prison is irrelevant.”
“Not to us,” Kylie said. “According to La Grande, Segura was innocent. You brought him along to take the fall if the drug run went south.”
“I brought him along?” Hirsch said, his fists clenched, his face turning red. “The entire operation, start to finish, was Princeton’s. He set up the deal with Dingo, he provided the plane, and the rest of us didn’t even know Segura was coming along for the ride until he showed up at the hangar. I was a kid, I was stoned half the time, and if Segura was set up to take the fall, blame Princeton Wells. He was the mastermind.”
“And what if Segura doesn’t know that?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“What if he blames all four of you? Wouldn’t that make him a prime suspect?”
“No. It makes him someone who might want to kill us, not someone who can actually pull off the bombings. In case you forgot, Detective, Geraldo Segura is serving fifty years in a prison in Thailand.”
“You know who else is doing time in a prison in Thailand?” Kylie said. “The man who designed the bombs that killed Del Fairfax and Arnie Zimmer.”
Hirsch sat there, mouth open, head cocked, eyes squinting. “What…what do you mean?”
“Bombs have signatures,” she said. “The ones that killed your partners are the handiwork of a man named Flynn Samuels, who is also locked up in Thailand, and who may have taught Segura the tricks of his trade.”
Hirsch’s pasty-white face turned an even ghostlier shade of pale. “But…but Geraldo is in prison.”
“That might slow him down, but it won’t stop him. If Geraldo Segura has the motive and the method, the only thing he would need to actually pull off the bombings is an accomplice in New York.”
“Like who?”
“We don’t think his grandmother infiltrated The Pierre hotel, but you’d be amazed at the kind of freelance talent that’s available for the right price.”
“Segura is dirt-poor, and his family…” Hirsch stopped. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“Silver Bullet has been sending the grandmother money. It was Princeton’s idea. He told her it was a privilege to be able to help Geraldo’s family, but in reality, it’s just blood money.”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand a year…for the past twenty years.”
“So let’s see,” Kylie said. “Fifty thousand times twenty—wow, you better hope that Granny isn’t the vindictive type. Because a million dollars would buy her a hell of a lot of firepower.” She nodded to me. “Let’s go, Zach.”
“Wait!” Hirsch said. “What do I do?”
Kylie handed him her business card. “Call us if you think of something. We can’t help if we don’t know what’s going on.”
She turned, and the two of us left his office and walked to the elevator.
“So how’d I do?” she said.
“A refresher course in sensitivity training couldn’t hurt,” I said, “but one thing’s for sure: Nathan Hirsch is never going to lie to you again.”