It had taken less than two minutes to cut Nathan Hirsch free from that bomb, and more than two hours to fill out the investigative work sheets that detailed the incident.
“If I’d have known that saving his life would involve so much paperwork,” Kylie said, pushing her chair away from her desk, “I’d have thought twice about flipping the switch on that cell jammer.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Since when have you ever thought twice before pulling one of your crazy-ass stunts?”
“It wasn’t a stunt. I got a court order.”
“Kylie, you can bullshit Barbara O’Brien, but don’t bullshit me. I saw the signature at the bottom of that warrant. Rafferty’s not a federal judge, so he must have sent his clerk across the street to the district court and had one of his cronies sign it. You couldn’t possibly have gotten all that done before the fact.”
“Well, aren’t you the crafty detective? What’s important here, Zach, is that we saved a man’s life.”
“Yes, and now that man is cuffed to a bed in Bellevue, his wife is filing for divorce, and the DA’s office is charging him with half a dozen white-collar crimes. So I guess you’re right. It sounds like a win-win all the way around. How do you plan on celebrating?”
“C.J. and I are going for dinner at the Mark.”
“Are you serious? The same hotel where the robbery took place?”
“They have an incredible restaurant in the lobby. The hotel manager invited everyone at the poker game to be his guest, anytime. Hey, do you and Cheryl want to join us?”
“Thanks, but Cheryl took the Amtrak down to Philadelphia for a conference. My victory dinner will be a solo affair: sausage pizza, a six-pack of Blue Moon, and a Yankee game.”
“That sounds dreadful.”
It did. But it was a lie. Not the Cheryl part, but everything else. Q had texted me earlier in the day and told me he had a lead on the two thugs who had chloroformed Bob Reitzfeld, tied him up, and escaped with eight hundred thousand dollars. It was ironic that C.J. would be returning to the scene of the crime on the very same night that I was working hard to connect him to it.
As soon as Kylie left the office, I texted Q. Some of my informants like to give up the information they’ve got, take the money, and run. Not Q Lavish. He doesn’t take money, and he enjoys turning our get-togethers into a social event.
An hour later, we were at Nom Wah Tea Parlor in Chinatown, sharing eight different kinds of dumplings. Halfway through the meal, the waiter brought us an order of boiled chicken feet with black bean sauce, which I happily pushed over to Q’s side of the table.
“The two boys who hit the poker game are Tariq Jessup and Garvey Jewel,” Q said, picking up a turnip cake with his chopsticks and taking a bite.
“You sure?”
“A hundred percent. I have a signed confession,” he said, totally straight-faced. “They’re waiting for you to cuff ’em and stuff ’em.”
“Sorry. Dumb question. Let me rephrase. What makes you think they’re the perps?”
“Jessup and Jewel are two bottom-feeder hip-hop promoters. They troll the streets and the internet looking for any wannabe Kanye or Nicki Minaj who can keep a beat and chant a rhyme. They put together a show, package it to any low-end club that will take them on, then beat the bushes for friends, family, and anyone else they can get to line up behind the velvet rope.”
“So they’re musical impresarios,” I said.
“Impresarios who get paid in watered-down drinks and a small percentage of the gate if they’re lucky. There’s a ladder in the music business, Zachary, and these brothers barely have one foot on the bottom rung.”
“And yet…”
“Are you familiar with Gansevoort PM? It’s a club in the meatpacking district.”
“I’ve heard of it.” From Kylie. She was supposed to meet C.J. there but called it off when Aubrey Davenport’s body turned up on Roosevelt Island.
“Now that’s a club,” Q said. “Their music rocks the roof off the building. And so do their prices. But guess who was seen there the past two nights?”
“Jessup and Jewel.”
“Correct. They had their mitts all over two women who were totally out of their league, and they’d traded up from rack vodka to bottles of Dom. These mofos never had that kind of money in their lives.”
“Is it possible they won it in a poker game?”
Q picked up another chicken foot. “You sure you won’t try one of these?”
“No, I’m more of a breast man. Do you know where I can find Jessup and Jewel?”
“They move around.”
“How about tonight?” I said.
He gave me a wide grin and sank his teeth into the chicken foot. Of course he knew. Q knows everything.