“It’s all my fault,” he said. “If Elena had gone with Leo like she was supposed to, she would still be alive.”
And just like that, the interview was no longer over.
“Who is Leo?” I asked.
CHAPTER 3
Leo, it turned out, was someone Kylie had met.
“I doubt if he’d remember me,” she said when we were back in the car.
“How is that possible? You’re the most unforgettable cop on the force.”
“I wasn’t a cop that night. It was an industry party, and I was there as Mrs. Spence Harrington. Leo was so starstruck he barely said hello to me. People like him don’t waste their time talking to the wives of people who make movies.”
We found Bassett’s number in Elena Travers’s cell phone. I called him and told him we had a few questions.
“My brother and I have some questions of our own,” he said. “Can you meet us at our place?”
By the time we got there, the street was clogged with news trucks, paparazzi, and the usual assortment of homicide junkies. Two squad cars and a pair of traffic agents wearing Day-Glo yellow vests had been dispatched to the scene to help maintain sanity.
Working for Red, I get a firsthand look at how the other half lives. Of course, the Bassett brothers weren’t exactly the other half. They were more like the 1 percent of the 1 percent, and their “place” was more like a palace.
Back when New York was in its industrial heyday, lower Manhattan was peppered with loft buildings intended for commercial or manufacturing use but off-limits for residential. In the early eighties, the law changed, and the smart money gobbled up the cold, bleak, rat-infested buildings for next to nothing.
The Bassetts got in early and transformed a six-story warehouse on West 21st Street into two spectacular triplex apartments. Leo occupied the lower half of the building, and Kylie and I took the elevator to the third floor.
The door opened into a vast room with vaulted ceilings, massive windows, and museum-quality furniture. The two men who were waiting for us looked nothing like brothers.
One was big and burly, with a smoky-gray beard and icy blue eyes. He was wearing faded jeans and a nondescript T-shirt. “Max Bassett,” he said.
The other was short, with soft, doughy features and ink-black hair that could only have come from a bottle. His outfit, a red smoking jacket over deep-purple silk pajamas, looked like it was right out of Hugh Hefner’s closet.
“I’m Leo,” he said. “Thank you for coming. We are devastated, and there’s no real information on television. Please tell us what happened.”
We sat down, and I gave them the highlights.
“I don’t understand,” Leo said. “We’ve been robbed before. Jewel thieves almost never get violent. Why did they have to shoot her?”
“You’re not listening,” Max said. “They shot her because her idiot boyfriend grabbed for the gun.”
Leo lashed out. “So you’re saying it’s all my fault?”
Max came right back at him. “Jesus, Leo, how the hell did you manage to make this about you?”
“Because I was the one who was supposed to go with her. If someone stuck a gun in my face, I’d have said, ‘Take the necklace, take my wallet, take what you want—just don’t hurt us.’ But I didn’t go, and now she’s dead.”
“Why didn’t you go?” I asked.
“It was a stupid accident,” Leo said. “I was—”
“More like a stupid decision,” Max said. “He didn’t go because he got cocktail sauce on his jacket. Elena didn’t care. She asked him to go anyway. But he said no.”
Leo stood up. “Thank you, Max. Because I didn’t feel bad enough as it is.” He turned to me. “I’m not feeling well. If you have any more questions for me, I’ll be happy to talk to you in the morning. Alone.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned and walked out of the room.
“There you have it, Detectives,” Max said. “My brother’s MO. Grand entrances and even grander exits. He’s a total drama queen even when the drama isn’t about him. This is a terrible tragedy. How can I help you find the people who killed Elena?”
“Can you describe the necklace?” I said.
“Seeing as I designed it, yes. There are twenty emeralds—absolutely superbly matched stones, four carats apiece. Each one is surrounded by a cluster of round and pear-shaped diamonds. They’re tiny, five points each, but the effect was dazzling. She looked gorgeous.”
“Who knew she’d be wearing the necklace?” I asked.
Max shook his head. “Everybody. It was one of Leo’s misguided publicity initiatives.”
“It sounds like you don’t see eye to eye with your brother,” Kylie said.
“Not remotely. Maybe once upon a time you could trot Marilyn Monroe or Elizabeth Taylor down the red carpet wearing an eight-million-dollar necklace and hope that the stunt would cast some kind of magic halo effect over the brand. But not anymore. I told Leo he was still living in the second half of the twentieth century. The hype would be all about Elena, and no one would even remember she was wearing an original Max Bassett. Well, I was wrong. Now everyone will remember me as the man who designed the necklace Elena Travers died for.”
“Mr. Bassett, whoever took the necklace is going to try to sell it,” Kylie said. “We need to get pictures and laser inscriptions to the JSA and the FBI as soon as possible.”
“Our publicist, Sonia Chen, will have it for you within the hour,” he said. “I’m impressed. Most cops aren’t familiar with the Jewelers’ Security Alliance.”
“We’ve had a bit more experience in this area than most cops,” Kylie said. What she didn’t say was that when you’re assigned to Red, stolen jewelry is as common as shoplifting.
CHAPTER 4
Under normal circumstances, getting home five hours after my shift ended wouldn’t be a problem, but for the past twenty-four days my life had been anything but normal. Cheryl and I were living together.
Or at least we were trying to, but I was doing a lousy job of holding up my end of the living arrangement. This was the fifth night I’d come home late since she’d moved in, plus I’d been called into work two out of the past three weekends.
I’d met Dr. Cheryl Robinson about four years ago. I was on the short list of candidates for NYPD Red, and she was the department shrink assigned to evaluate me. I know it’s what’s on the inside that counts, but it’s impossible to meet Cheryl and not be dazzled by the outside. Most of her family is Irish, but it’s the DNA of her Latina grandmother that gives her the dark brown eyes, jet-black hair, and glorious caramel skin that turn heads. I was instantly smitten.
She had only one drawback: a husband. But good things come to those who wait, and about a year ago, Cheryl’s marriage to Fred Robinson crashed and burned, and we went from friends to lovers to whatever it is you call it when two people start living together but hang on to both apartments because they’re not so sure it’s going to work out.
“Hurry up,” she said as soon as I opened the front door to my apartment.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “I was—”
“I know, I know,” she said. “It’s coming up on the eleven o’clock news.”
She was on the sofa wearing black running shorts and a turquoise tank top, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She patted the cushion next to her, and I sat down.
“You must be starved,” she said, leaning over and giving me a kiss.
I was, but you don’t come home five hours late and ask what’s for dinner. I didn’t have to. Cheryl had set a plate of cheese, olives, salsa, and chips on the coffee table along with a bottle of wine and two glasses. I dug into the food as a somber anchorman led off with the murder of Elena Travers.
The report was interspersed with film highlights of Elena’s career, the limo crash, her body on the red carpet, and a still shot of the missing necklace. And since Kylie and I had been involved in three high-profile cases in the past year, the report
er thought it was newsworthy to point the cameras at us and mention us by name as we entered the Ziegfeld to question Craig Jeffers.
The piece ended with a shot of a teenage girl, tears streaming down her face, kneeling down to add a bouquet of flowers to the makeshift memorial.
“It’s terrible,” Cheryl said, her own eyes watery and ready to spill over. “I’m glad you and Kylie are on the case. You’ll solve it.”
“It won’t be easy,” I said. “It seems like a robbery gone bad, so there’s no direct link between the killer and the victim.”
“Don’t look so down. You’ve cracked tougher cases.”
“I know, but it’s going to mean working overtime. I’m sorry.”
“Stop it,” she snapped.
I didn’t know what I’d done, but clearly it wasn’t good. “Stop what?” I said.
“Apologizing.”
“I thought women liked apologies,” I said, turning on my boyish smile. “Especially if they’re accompanied by flowers or jewelry.”
She muted the TV. Not a good sign. “I don’t know what other women like, Zach, but the woman you’re living with doesn’t like you apologizing on spec.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“It means you just apologized to me in advance for working overtime. It’s manipulative. You’re trying to preempt any negative reaction I might have the next time you come home late.”
“I thought I was taking responsibility for my actions.”
“And I think you’re asking for a free ride. ‘How can Cheryl be mad? I told her this would happen.’”
“What can I say? I feel guilty for all the times I’ve worked late.”
“Why? You’re a cop. I know you keep crazy hours. In fact, you may remember that I’m one of the people who helped you land this job.”
“So what’s my best course of action here, doctor?” I said. “Should I retract the apology, or should I get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness for having made it?”
That cracked the code. She laughed. “I have a better idea,” she said. “We’ve both spent the whole night focused on death. Let’s do something that reaffirms life.”
She took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. She dimmed the lights to a warm golden hue, and we undressed slowly, deliberately, not touching, leaving just enough space between us for the anticipation to build.
“Not yet,” she whispered as I stood there naked, clearly ready. It was agonizing and tantalizing at the same time. I waited as she pulled back the sheets and lay on the bed.
“Now,” she breathed softly.
I lowered my body gently to meet hers, let my tongue caress her breasts, and slid effortlessly inside her.
And there in the soft light, entwined with the woman I was growing to love more and more every day, all the harsh realities of carrying a badge and a gun melted away. My anxieties about the past and my fears of the future disappeared.
There were no words. Just the calming peace of being with the only person in the world who really mattered. It truly was life affirming.
CHAPTER 5
I got to Gerri’s Diner the next morning and settled into my favorite booth. Gerri herself came out from behind the counter and brought me coffee.
“I saw you on the news last night,” she said.
“How’d I look?”
“You looked like you could use a good night’s sleep, but from the way you dragged your ass in here this morning, I’m guessing you didn’t get one. Breakfast will help,” she said. “What would you like?”
“Eggs over easy, bacon, toasted English.”
“Would you like anything else with that?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
“It doesn’t have to be on the menu,” she said. “I take special care of my special customers.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, Gerri,” I said as soon as I realized I was being snookered.
Gerri Gomperts is a take-no-prisoners, abide-no-fools Jewish grandmother who serves up home cooking along with a side order of her sage but snarky wisdom on what makes relationships work.
“Do I look like I need therapy?” I asked.
“Who said anything about therapy?” she asked, all wide-eyed and innocent. “All I know is that Cheryl moved in with you three weeks ago, last night you didn’t get home till God knows when, and then you showed up this morning looking more stressed out than a virgin at a lumberjacks’ convention. So I’m going to go out on a limb and say that your troubled mind is more troubled than usual. If therapy would help, then you’ve come to the right diner.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” I said.
“Sounds like I struck a nerve. I’ll be right back.”
She returned with my breakfast, topped off my coffee, and sat down. “You do this all the time,” she said. “You show up with that needy-guy look on your face, I offer to help, and you play hard to get. Either tell me what’s going on, or I’ll find someone else who appreciates what a woman with my life experience brings to the table.”
I told her.
She shrugged. “So you’re busy. It goes with the territory. Cheryl’s not going to move out because you’re on a high-profile case and have to work late.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I said. “I know too many cops whose relationships imploded because they put the job first.”
“Your job isn’t the problem, Zach.”
“Then what is?”
She picked up the sugar packet dispenser and dumped it on the table.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“It’s the diner version of a PowerPoint presentation.”
She picked up a pink packet of Sweet’N Low and a blue packet of Equal. “The blue is you, and the pink is Cheryl,” she said. “And here you are, together at home.” She put both packets back into the empty dispenser.
“Over here is work,” she said, picking up a saltshaker and putting it on the other side of the table.
“Now, every day, you go to the salt mines,” she said, moving the Zach packet from home to work, “where you are joined by a lot of your fellow men in blue.” She surrounded the saltshaker with Equal packets.
“And your ex-girlfriend Kylie.” She added a single pink packet to the blue pile. “Then you and Kylie go off and spend the next ten to fourteen hours together.” She moved the Sweet’N Low and an Equal to a vacant spot on the table.
“So,” she said, “do you still think it’s about working overtime, or are you apologizing to Cheryl for spending those late nights with Kylie?”
“I hope you’re not charging me for this,” I said, “because your entire analysis is based on old news. I’ve moved on. Kylie is the past. Cheryl is the future. The Zach Jordan soap opera is over.”
“I’m sure you believe that, but you forgot one thing. When you moved in, you and Cheryl went from dating to cohabitating. You’re living with her now, and I’ll bet that every night you’re out late playing cops and robbers with your past, you’re haunted by the fact that your future is all alone in the love nest waiting for you to come home.”
She handed me the dispenser with the solo pink Sweet’N Low packet in it. “Mull it over,” she said.
Before I could respond, my phone vibrated and a text popped up. It was from Captain Cates.
Gracie Mansion. Now.
“Gerri, I’ve got to go,” I said, standing up.
“Wait a minute,” she said, pointing at the packets of artificial sweetener scattered all over the table. “Are you going to just leave this mess here?”
“Since when is that my job?” I said.
A victory smile spread across her face. “It’s all part of the therapy, Zach. It’s your life. You clean it up.”
CHAPTER 6
Muriel Sykes had been mayor of New York for only three months, but Kylie and I were already on her speed dial. We had done her a real solid when she was a candidate, and as good fortune would have it, the new mayor believed in reciprocity.
&n
bsp; The brass at Red, who knew the benefits of being in bed with the politicians in power, loved the fact that one of their teams had become the mayor’s go-to cops. So when Cates’s text came telling us to go to Gracie Mansion, we didn’t waste time prioritizing. Mayor Sykes was our priority.
Kylie was waiting for me outside the One Nine.
“Do you know what the mayor wants?” I asked as soon as I got in the car.
“No,” Kylie said. “I was in the office when Cates got the call. There were no specifics. She just told me to roll.”
“Did you fill Cates in on where we are on the Elena Travers case?”
“It’s more like I filled her in on where we aren’t. We got nothing. All I could tell Cates is that these guys weren’t high-end jewel thieves. They’re a couple of mooks who are in over their heads and will try to unload the necklace fast. I told her we put the word out on the street, and we’re hoping to get a hit from our extensive CI network.”
“Extensive? We’ve got a call in to three CIs. She didn’t buy that bullshit, did she?”
“Of course not. But it did get a laugh.”
Two minutes later, we arrived at Gracie and let the guard at the gate know we were there to see Mayor Sykes.
“You better hurry,” he said. “She’s going to be wheels up in less than a minute.”
The mayor’s black SUV was parked in front of the mansion. I recognized her driver.
“Charlie, what’s going on? We just got a call that the mayor wanted to see us.”
“And she just got a call that the governor wanted to see her. We all have to dance for someone, Zach.”
Kylie and I walked up the porch steps just as the front door flew open, and Muriel Sykes stormed out. She was wearing a warm purple coat and a cold, hard scowl.
“Good morning, Madam Mayor,” I said.
“America’s sweetheart was murdered in my city on my watch. What the hell is good about it?” she said. “Where are you on the case?”
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