“So what do you think?” Kylie said on the way back to the precinct. “Did Marschand and Freemont murder Aubrey Davenport?”
“I know Cates told us not to rule them out,” I said, “but what’s their motive?”
“That sex tape of her and the judge is probably the tip of the iceberg,” Kylie said. “Who knows how many there are? Troy Marschand found them, told his boyfriend, and they decided to go into the extortion business. But first they had to kill her.”
“Oh, I can picture that conversation,” Danny said. “Troy says, ‘Hey Dylan, let’s get a gun and whack my boss.’ And Dylan says, ‘No, I have a better idea. First we convince her that the two of us want to have autoerotic sex with her, then we take her out to this deserted smallpox hospital on Roosevelt Island, where she and Janek go to do all their kinky—’”
“Stop,” Kylie said. “I get your point.”
“I think Danny’s right,” I said. “Janek Hoffmann killed her. Troy and Dylan found the sex tapes on Aubrey’s computer after the fact. Like Cates said: the blackmail was most likely a crime of opportunity.”
“Fine. We’ll nail them on extortion and see where we can take it from there,” Kylie said. “All I know is that these two assholes think they’re smarter than we are, and we’re about to show them they’re not.”
“Technically, they are smarter than we are,” Tommy Fischer said. “They’re just not smarter than Jerry Brainard.”
Danny dropped us off at the precinct, and we stayed just long enough to pick up a car. Then we headed downtown to ADA Selma Kaplan’s office to tell her what we had on Marschand and Freemont.
“Do we have a case?” I asked.
“If you find what you think you’re going to find, you’ll have a slam dunk,” she said. “But I doubt if it’ll ever come to trial. Judge Rafferty would be crazy to go public with his sexual hijinks, and the perps would be even crazier not to plead out.”
“We need a couple of warrants,” I said.
“There’s not a judge in the building who wouldn’t be happy to sign off,” Kaplan said. “The only one who can’t is the aggrieved party, the Honorable Michael J. Rafferty.”
It was the fastest warrant we’d ever gotten.
Troy and Dylan lived on Franklin Street in Tribeca, which was only a five-minute drive from the courthouse. Corcoran and Fischer were parked outside their building.
“Marschand did a Starbucks run about twenty minutes ago,” Danny said. “Right now they’re both in the apartment sipping lattes and thinking about where to spend the DA’s money next.”
“Let’s go upstairs and ruin their day,” Kylie said.
We instructed the doorman not to ring up, and the four of us took the elevator to the fifth floor. Kylie knocked on the door, and Troy opened it.
“Remember me?” she said. “Detective MacDonald. My partner and I are working on the Davenport murder.”
“Of course I remember. But I thought you arrested Janek Hoffmann.”
“We did. You’ve been so helpful already. Sorry to keep bothering you. We just have some loose ends to tie up. Can we come in?”
“Sure.” He gave a yell. “Dylan, the two homicide detectives are here.”
We walked in, followed by Corcoran and Fischer.
“And they brought reinforcements,” Troy said with a laugh.
Dylan Freemont joined us, and once again I was weirded out by how much alike they looked. More like brothers than lovers. They were both wearing jeans and T-shirts. Dylan’s was black; Troy’s was lavender.
I nodded at Corcoran and Fischer, and they took out their cell phones.
“How can we help?” Troy asked.
“Well, here’s the thing,” Kylie said. She stopped, interrupted by the familiar thrum of the bass and the doot-didoot-didoot beat of Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side.” It was the ringtone on Troy’s cell.
Seconds later, another phone rang. The ringtone on this one was Madonna singing “Vogue.” Dylan answered his phone.
“Like I started to say,” Kylie boomed, “we’ve got a search warrant for your cell phones and your iPads. Hand them over, boys.”
The two of them were dumbstruck. Troy handed his phone over immediately. Dylan balked.
“Thank you,” Corcoran said, yanking Dylan’s phone out of his hand and giving it to Kylie. “Now, which way to the iPads?”
“I don’t have a fucking iPad,” Dylan said.
“Then have a seat,” Danny said, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcing him to the floor.
Troy was more cooperative. “I don’t have an iPad. I have a Kindle. Is that okay?”
“Let’s just start with Dylan’s phone,” Kylie said, thumbing through his apps. “I heard you’re an actor. Have I seen you in anything?”
Dylan spit in her direction.
“Son of a gun…Dylan must have a drone, because he’s got one of those DJI apps. Let’s take a quick peek at your flight history.”
“You have no right to look at my shit, bitch.”
“Read the warrant, dude. I’ve got plenty of rights. Hey, Zach, take a look at this. Friday, May twelfth. Dylan was flying his bird over the High Line at the exact same time we were there. He loses altitude around Twenty-Fifth Street, then takes off again and heads for Penn Station.”
I leaned over her shoulder. It was all there. “You know what the cops call this, Dylan?”
He scowled.
“Hard evidence,” I said.
“And speaking of rights,” Kylie said, “Dylan Freemont and Troy Marschand, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.” She finished the Miranda warning and asked if they understood. Troy, tears streaming down his face, said a meek “Yes.”
“Dylan,” Kylie said. “Do you understand?”
“Yes! What’s the fucking charge?”
“Conspiracy.”
“Conspiracy for what?”
“Well, we’ve got you cold for extortion,” Kylie said. “But we’re looking to put murder on the table.”
Troy made a loud retching sound and vomited down the front of his lavender shirt.
“We didn’t kill her,” Dylan said. “I swear to God.”
My phone rang. It was Cates. I held up my hand. “Hold that thought, Mr. Freemont.”
I answered the phone. “Yes, Captain?”
“I don’t care what you’re doing,” she said. “Drop it now, and get your asses over to Foley Square.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nathan Hirsch is sitting on the courthouse steps handcuffed to a bomb.”