It was Friday night.
Morris Langford was in a jail cell on a suicide watch. Janek Hoffmann was out of jail, and no doubt pumping his body full of steroids and crack. Aubrey Davenport was finally reposing at the Frank E. Campbell funeral chapel on Madison Avenue, her internment scheduled for Sunday. Nathan Hirsch was charged with three counts of bribery and two counts of stock fraud, and was released on two million dollars’ bail. Instead of a bomb handcuffed to his wrist, he was now under house arrest, a court-ordered electronic bracelet shackled to his ankle. I had no idea where Troy Marschand and Dylan Freemont were, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass. Princeton Wells had not called Mayor Sykes on Thursday morning as promised, and Captain Cates informed me that if Her Honor had not heard from Mr. Wells by Monday morning, Kylie and I were to pay him another visit. Hopefully by then he and Kenda would be out of the hot tub.
Most important, ten days after Del Fairfax’s podium exploded at the Silver Bullet Foundation fund-raiser, Geraldo Segura was still at large, and the citywide manhunt for the bomber had been escalated to nationwide.
With that much law enforcement on the case, I was resigned to the unhappy fact that Kylie and I would not be the ones to collar him. But at least I could look on the bright side. It was Friday night.
A week ago, I’d had to cancel my Friday reservation with Cheryl at Paola’s and fly to Bangkok. Tonight we were finally going to have the dinner date we had been looking forward to. With one difference. The reservation now said “Table for four.”
“How the hell did this happen, anyway?” I asked Cheryl. We were in a cab on Madison Avenue heading uptown to Paola’s.
“Wow,” she said. “That’s the tone of voice I’d expect if I ran your new car into a ditch. All I did was agree to have dinner with your partner and her significant other.”
“Sorry about the tone of voice. It’s just that I thought it was only going to be the two of us, and now it isn’t.”
“That’s what happens when you stick your cop nose into other people’s business. Apparently Shelley got his poker buddies together last night and told them how you and Bob Reitzfeld nailed Rick Button. There’s about three hundred thousand still left from the money he stole, so everyone is getting about forty-three thousand back. C.J. is so grateful he wants to take us to dinner.”
“We were already booked for tonight, and we’re driving up to Woodstock tomorrow morning for the weekend,” I said. “We had an ironclad excuse. You could have gotten out of it.”
“Why would I want to get out of it?” Cheryl said. “I’ve heard so much about Kylie’s new boyfriend. I’m finally getting the chance to meet him.”
Paola’s son, Stefano, greeted us at the door and escorted us to our table, where Kylie and C.J. were waiting with a bottle of champagne and four glasses.
Kylie introduced him to Cheryl, Stefano poured the wine, and C.J. made the toast. “To Zach,” he said. “You, sir, are an outstanding detective.”
“And he’s mighty good at keeping a secret, too,” Kylie said. “Zach, I didn’t know you were working the case.”
“Reitzfeld asked me to help and to keep it under wraps,” I said. “I couldn’t say no.”
Kylie grinned, and I could see she had me cold. Of the 275 recruits in our academy class, Kylie graduated number one. She was more than smart enough to figure out why I never told her I was helping Reitzfeld. And since I graduated number six, I was at least smart enough to know that she knew, and she was now going to bust my balls about it.
“So did you suspect Rick Button right from the get-go?” she asked, all wide-eyed and innocent.
I was groping for a passable answer when Cheryl came to my rescue. “I hate to be a hard-ass, guys, but Zach and I have a strict rule. No cell phones and no cop talk at the dinner table.” She turned to C.J. “You, on the other hand, are encouraged to talk shop. I am totally fascinated with the psychology of being a professional gambler. When did you first know that’s what you wanted to do?”
C.J. answered the question, but Kylie got Cheryl’s message. My boyfriend suspected your boyfriend. Get over it. Case closed.
After that, the evening turned out to be a lot of fun. Paola fed us well, and Stefano treated us like rock stars. The biggest shocker of the night came just as we were about to order dessert.
Danny Corcoran and Tommy Fischer walked through the front door. I’d told them where I was having dinner, but I hadn’t expected them to hunt me down. Stefano pointed to our table, and the two of them headed straight for us.
“Sorry to bust in on you,” Danny said. “I know you guys are off the clock, but there’s something we need to tell you before you hear it on the news.”
“We tried calling,” Tommy said, “but it just kept going to voice mail.”
Cheryl’s rules of dinner etiquette claim another two victims.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Princeton Wells is dead.”
“Blown up?” Kylie said.
“Carved up,” Danny said. “Haitian style. And in case we couldn’t figure out who was behind it, his body was wrapped in a Zoe Pound flag and left in a vacant lot about three blocks from their headquarters.”
“Do they want us on the scene?”
“Not now. The Six Seven is all over it,” Tommy Fischer said. “Wells being who he is, it may float up to Red eventually, but we all know it was Malique La Grande. Proving it is a whole nother kettle of creole.”
“We may never be able to prove who killed Princeton Wells,” I said, “but we sure as hell know who didn’t kill him.”
“Geraldo Segura,” Kylie said.
“Incredible,” I said. “After all that, he didn’t kill Wells.”
“Why not?” C.J. said. “I thought he had a major vendetta.”
“He did,” Kylie said. “But when you blow someone up with a bomb, they’re dead in an instant. After twenty years in a Thai prison, I think Segura wanted Wells to die a long, slow, agonizing death. And nobody does it better than the Haitians.”
“Excuse me,” Cheryl said, “but I think it’s time we got back to the no-cop-talk-at-dinner rule. Danny, we were just about to order dessert and coffee. Would you and Tommy like to join us?”
“Life must go on, Doc,” Danny said, signaling a busboy to bring two more chairs. “And dessert is a great place to start. Let me take a look at that menu.”
And then it hit me. With Wells dead, there was no reason for Segura to stay in New York. Or in the U.S., for that matter. In fact, since he farmed out the killing, he probably left the country while Wells was still alive.
I’d have liked to share my brilliant insight with my fellow detectives, but Cheryl runs a tight dinner table. No cop talk means no cop talk.
So I lifted my wineglass and drank a silent toast to Geraldo Segura, the one who got away.