Red Alert

by James Patterson

  “All right, I get it,” Wells said. “I painted a pretty rosy picture last night. But you’re right. We give away a lot of money, but we can’t give it to everybody. We can’t support every cause. We can’t award jobs to everybody who bids on one. We make some people incredibly happy, and we can disappoint the shit out of others. That’s life. That’s business. It’s not a motive for murder.”

  Kylie turned to Hirsch. “Counselor, we need all the help we can get. Do you have anything you can add?”

  If he did, he didn’t look anxious to share it, but Kylie hadn’t made it easy for him to say no.

  “Arnie means well, but I think he’s…wrong,” Hirsch said, choosing his words carefully. “Last night’s insanity wasn’t payback for some kind of a business grudge. I want you to solve Del’s murder as much as anybody, but please don’t waste your time looking for vindictive contractors.”

  “Who should we look for? According to Mr. Wells, everybody loves the four of you.”

  Hirsch forced a smile. “Detective, I’m a lot more cynical than Princeton. We live in a city of haves and have-nots. I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who were happy to hear that somebody blew up a roomful of rich white do-gooders. I hope that helps.”

  It helped more than he realized. We thanked the two of them and didn’t say a word till we were back in the car.

  “Nicely done, partner,” I said. “Did you suspect Hirsch had something to hide, or did you just go fishing and get lucky?”

  “A little of both. Did you notice where he was sitting last night?”

  “Yeah. He was at a table close to the front, slightly off to the left.”

  “And did you notice what he did when Princeton Wells introduced his girlfriend to the crowd?”

  “No, but I imagine he was doing what most men in the room were doing: admiring Ms. Whithouse and thanking the cleavage gods.”

  “He wasn’t. And while your eyes were honed in on Kenda’s boobs, I watched Nathan Hirsch quietly get up from the table and leave the room.”

  My cell phone rang. I was about to let it go to voice mail when I saw who was calling. I picked up. “This is Detective Jordan.”

  “Detective, this is Dr. Langford. I’m returning your call. I’m…I was Aubrey Davenport’s psychiatrist. I’m in shock over her death. The reports on the internet say it was homicide. Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir. My partner and I would like to talk to you. We could come to your office immediately.”

  “That’s impossible,” he said, and I braced myself for the usual doctor-patient confidentiality resistance. “I’m at a medical conference in Albany. I couldn’t possibly get back to the city till tomorrow morning. I realize time is of the essence, but we can’t do this over the phone. Most of my notes are in my office.”

  “But you’ll help us?” I said.

  “Of course I’ll help you. The law forbids me to share information about my living patients, but Aubrey’s death frees me to help you in any way I can. I’ll gather her files, and we can meet in my office tomorrow at ten a.m.”

  He gave me the address and we hung up. “Good news on the Davenport case,” I told Kylie. “Now where were we on Fairfax?”

  “You were ogling Kenda Whithouse’s tits, and I was wondering why Nathan Hirsch would go to the men’s room instead of waiting a few more minutes until the mayor got up and said her piece. But now I’m thinking, What a lucky coincidence—Nathan left the room right before the bomb went off.” She smiled. “And you know how cops feel about luck or coincidence.”

  CHAPTER 16

  It was time to dig deeper into the lives of Del Fairfax’s surviving partners. Fortunately, there was no shortage of material.

  “These guys generate a lot of ink,” Kylie said.

  “People with no money love to read about people who have mountains of it,” I said. “The world is full of hermits, loners, and recluses, but Howard Hughes was a billionaire, so the press made him famous for it.”

  We were looking for a motive for the bombing, but in article after article, interview after interview, the four founders came across as model citizens. Princeton Wells had summed it up the night before: “Nobody wants to kill the golden goose. Silver Bullet doesn’t have enemies.”

  By 1:00 p.m. we had raked over their public persona, and there wasn’t enough Red Bull on the planet to get us started looking under their private rocks.

  After pulling a thirty-hour shift, we punched out. I went home, slept five hours, showered, and showed up at Cheryl’s apartment at seven. The heady aroma of jambalaya hit me as soon as she opened the door.

  She had a wooden spoon in her hand, so I gave her a quick kiss, and she hustled back to the stove while I made straight for the open bottle of Chardonnay on the counter.

  “Can I violate one of our cardinal rules tonight?” she asked, spooning mounds of chicken, shrimp, sausage, rice, and chopped vegetables into a serving bowl.

  “Just give me half a minute to inhale some of this wine, and you can violate anything you want.”

  “Reel it in, lover boy. I’m talking dinner table rules.”

  “You mean the one where Zach can’t use his phone at the table, but Cheryl can, because she’s a doctor?”

  “That one is chiseled in stone, but I’d like to bend the no-cop-talk-at-dinner rule. I’ve been getting secondhand news about the bombing all day, and I want the unsanitized version.”

  We sat down to dinner, and in between forkfuls of spicy Creole bliss and sips of chilled, fruity Chardonnay, I took her through it all—glossing over the carnage and milking absurdities like Kenda Whithouse’s post-explosion bad hair for all the laughs I could get.

  By the time I got to the verbal drubbing we’d taken from Arnie Zimmer, the bottle of wine was empty. “You must be exhausted,” she said, opening another. “And you haven’t even come up with a motive for the bombing yet.”

  “Plus I still have a second high-profile murder on my hands. Which reminds me: did you ever hear of a shrink named Morris Langford?”

  “Morey Langford? Yes, he’s the go-to doc on psychosexual disorders. Why do you ask?”

  “Kylie and I are going to see him tomorrow.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, that’s wonderful,” she said, refilling my wineglass. “It’s about time you and Kylie came to terms with your issues. I’m sure Morey can help you.”

  “Thanks, but I get all the therapy I need from Gerri at the diner. It’s free with breakfast whether I ask for it or not. My other homicide victim, Aubrey Davenport, was a patient of Langford’s, and he agreed to help. Didn’t throw any of the standard HIPAA bullshit at us.”

  “That sounds like Morey. He’s a no-bullshit kind of guy. I had a consult with him a few months ago.”

  “Are you serious? You went to see a sex therapist a few months ago, and you didn’t say anything to me?”

  “Get a grip, Romeo. It wasn’t about you. I’m a department shrink. You think I only deal with PTSD and alcohol abuse? Cops have at least as many sexual impulse disorders as congressmen. It’s none of my business until they either bring it to me on their own, or someone from on high asks me to evaluate how it could impact their job.”

  “Why did you consult with Langford?”

  “I had a transit cop who was suffering from frotteurism, and I had zero experience with it. Langford knew it chapter and verse.”

  “I never even heard of it.”

  “Good, and please promise me you will continue to remain blissfully unsophisticated.”

  “Unsophisticated? Come on, doc—how can you say that? You’ve seen my moves—all three of them.”

  “Hmm,” she said, her eyes locked on mine, her fingers twirling a lock of raven hair. “There were three?”

  I stood up, took her by the hand, and put my arms around her. “You know, I think I’m coming down with a case of sexual impulse disorder myself.”

  She began kissing my neck. “I’m a doctor,” she whispered. “Why don’t you step into my offic
e and take off your clothes? I may be able to help.”

  “I think you’re helping already,” I said, rotating my hips in time with hers.

  “Are you sure there were three?” she said, leading me to the bedroom. “I think I’m going to have to sign up for a refresher course.”

  CHAPTER 17

  By the time I got to the precinct the next morning, Kylie was already at her desk. “How was your evening?” I asked.

  “Stellar,” she said with a gleam in her eye that challenged me to ask for the juicy details. When I didn’t, she came back with, “And how was yours?”

  “Educational,” I said. “I learned a new word.”

  “Educate me.”

  “Frotteurism. It means—”

  “Zach, I know what it means. I arrested a guy for it. It happened a few years ago on the number 6 train. It was rush hour, the car was packed, and this dirtbag started rubbing his junk up against the woman standing next to him.”

  “Most of these pervs don’t get caught. Lucky for the woman, there was a cop on the train.”

  She grinned. “Actually it was unlucky for the perv that the ass he decided to rub against belonged to a cop.”

  Her phone rang, and she picked it up. “Hey, Jason, what’ve you got?”

  Jason White is a recent transfer from NYPD’s Real Time Crime Center and our back door into the private lives of private people. He’s the Big Brother who can track anyone’s digital footprints. Yesterday, after we’d come up empty-handed, we recruited him to see what he could find on Wells, Hirsch, and Zimmer.

  “Thanks,” Kylie said, hanging up. She turned to me. “Nathan Hirsch lives with his wife and three kids in Forest Hills Gardens, Queens, but he also rents an apartment on Hudson Terrace in Fort Lee, New Jersey. And his E-ZPass has him going over the G. W. Bridge every Thursday around three p.m.”

  “Maybe the apartment is for his ailing mother, and, good son that he is, he visits once a week.”

  “According to Jason, Mom is black, has implants the size of disco balls, and goes by the name of Tiffany Wilde.”

  “How the hell does he dig that shit up so fast?”

  “I’m curious, too, but it would be unwise of us to ask. The less we know, the more honest we can be on the witness stand.”

  “So Nervous Nathan’s got himself some shugah on the side,” I said. “That’s grounds for divorce, but it’s not a motive for murder. And it’s definitely not enough to convince the DA to give us the green light to run trap and trace devices on three philanthropists who fight for the less fortunate.”

  “But you know the rich,” Kylie said, holding up a finger. “One dirty little secret is the tip of the iceberg, and if Nathan is into sex for money, Thursdays in Jersey won’t be enough. And thousand-dollar-an-hour lawyers who are into hookers don’t cruise Twelfth Avenue looking for bargains.”

  “No, they don’t,” I said. “Those who can afford the best invariably reach out to New York’s number one purveyor of quality female companionship for gentlemen of breeding and taste.”

  “Get him on the phone and see if he knows any or all of the three amigos.”

  Q Lavish, who was born Quentin LaTrelle, knows enough about the sex lives of the rich and famous to write a book. But since he’s also the one who fulfills their kinkiest fantasies, he’s as discreet as a mute in a monastery. With one exception: he’ll share certain secrets with us. We, in turn, have been known to help him navigate the unfriendly waters of justice when one of his wealthy clients winds up handcuffed to a cop instead of to a bedpost.

  I called Q and put on the speaker so both Kylie and I could listen.

  “Detectives,” he said. “How can I be of service to New York’s Finest?”

  “We have three persons of interest, and we were hoping you might know something about their mating habits.”

  “This is truly a fortuitous moment,” he said. “As luck would have it, I was going to call you, although I planned on waiting for a more civilized hour. But who am I to complain about some lost sleep when the quid pro quo gods are smiling so brightly down upon us? May I tell you my conundrum?”

  “We go first,” Kylie said. “Princeton Wells, Arnie Zimmer, Nathan Hirsch—do you know any of them?”

  “What child of the ghetto hasn’t heard of the illustrious benefactors of the Silver Bullet Foundation? I’m guessing this is connected to the unfortunate incident at The Pierre hotel.”

  “No comment. Do you know them?”

  “The first two only by reputation, but Macanudo Nate is a valued client. He has a fine appreciation for women of color.”

  “What do you hear?”

  “Apart from the fact that he smells like the inside of a humidor, none of my girls have ever said an unkind word about him.”

  “Ask around,” Kylie said.

  “Happily. But first let me ask if you can reason with someone on my behalf.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s a judge. And before you say no, he’s also a client.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “He’s accused me of blackmailing him.”

  “Are you?” I said.

  “I will take that question as a lapse of judgment on your part rather than a condemnation of my character, Detective Jordan.”

  “Get over it, Q. I’m a cop. It’s how I roll. Who’s the judge?”

  “The Honorable Michael J. Rafferty.”

  “What’s the matter—you couldn’t pick a beef with Attila the Hun? Rafferty is the biggest prick in the entire judiciary. Nobody likes him, and nobody can reason with him.”

  “I’m sure that once you know the particulars, you’ll find a way.”

  “Lay them on us.”

  “That can only be done face-to-face. Can I have Rodrigo drive me over to the One Nine?”

  “We have a meeting off campus at ten. If you can be here by—hold on.”

  Cates’s door flew open, and she came storming toward us, her heels echoing on the tile floor.

  “Get moving,” she yelled, still at least fifty feet away. “A bomb went off at Sixty-Eighth and York.”

  “What’s there?”

  “A construction site. The blast was contained to a small field office. One person is dead.”

  “Who?” I said, but I knew the answer before I asked the question.

  “The owner of the company. Arnold Zimmer.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “Looks like Arnie Zimmer got what he was asking for,” Kylie said as we made our way to the blast site.

  “That’s harsh,” I said. “The guy was a jerk, but he didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Jesus, Zach, I didn’t say he got what he deserved. I said he got what he was asking for. Us.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “He wanted us exclusively. Technically he’s still got to share us with Aubrey Davenport.”

  “Right now, Arnie Zimmer has our undivided attention. Aubrey is going to have to wait. Why don’t you call Dr. Langford and tell him we’re going to be late for our sex ed class.”

  Langford’s calendar was jammed from eleven on, so we rescheduled for 8:00 p.m., which was the earliest he could see us. It was going to be another long day.

  The explosion took place on the campus of Rockefeller University, which is tiny as institutions of higher learning go, stretching only five blocks along York Avenue. But what it lacks in size it makes up for in worldwide renown. Devoted to research in biomedical science, Rockefeller produces Nobel Prize laureates the way some schools turn out point guards for the NBA.

  Zim Construction was one of several contractors hired to add state-of-the-art laboratories and other buildings to the campus, and their field office, a steel box about eight by twenty feet, was tucked into a corner away from most of the foot traffic.

  Howard Malley was waiting for us with a damage report.

  “One dead: Arnold Zimmer, the owner of the company. As far as we can ascertain, nobody else was injured,” he said. “From what I can piece together, th
e victim arrived about seven thirty, unlocked the door, walked over to the air conditioner, and the bomb vaporized him.”

  “Did he trip it when he turned on the AC?” Kylie asked.

  “No. It was triggered wirelessly from outside. He would have been clearly visible from the street as he approached the window where the AC unit was mounted. The bomber just watched and waited.”

  “Same bomb maker?”

  “Same blast pattern, a shaped charge, but we still have to sift through the rubble and see if we can find some of the same signature elements.”

  “Is there a crew boss or somebody in charge around here from the construction company?” Kylie asked. “We’ve got a few questions that you can’t answer.”

  “I like to think I can answer any and all questions, but if you’re looking for the general superintendent, he was just here. I told him NYPD would want to talk to him. He works out of a second field office near the Sixty-Fourth Street gate, but that’s off-limits till we get a K-9 unit to go through it. He’s easy to spot. Big guy, about six four, work clothes, yellow hard hat. His name’s Bill Neill.”

  “Thanks,” Kylie said. “How soon can you let us know if we’re looking at the same bomber as the hotel?”

  Malley grinned. “Now that’s a question I can’t answer.”

  Kylie and I walked across the campus and saw Bill Neill standing under a tree, talking on his cell phone. Malley was right—he was easy to spot. And with our badges on chains around our necks, so were we.

  “Barbara, it’s the police,” he said into the phone. “Let me call you back. I love you, too.”

  He hung up the phone. “That was my wife,” he said. “She heard on the news that a bomb went off in a construction office at Rockefeller University, and she panicked. The FBI agent said you wanted to ask me some questions, but I was four blocks away when it happened. I heard the explosion, but I didn’t see anything.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “You can still help. How many people had keys to that office?”

  “Arnie, me, and I don’t know who else, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just your basic pin and tumbler lock. Anyone can open it with a paper clip and a tension wrench. A key is optional.”