Driving Heat (18 page)

“Why, thank you. At my second Pulitzer ceremony the presenter did say I was known for daubing tight lines and shadows with a painter’s eye for prose.”

“No, Rook. Your rundown was OK. What I mean is, I can actually
see
what he’s all about.” He turned to follow her gaze. Rook’s jaw didn’t exactly drop, but
there was definitely some involuntary hinge action when he reacted to what she was indicating.

Ahead of them to starboard, just beyond the Circle Line docks and the Intrepid, one of the largest private motor yachts Rook had ever seen sat berthed at the Manhattan Cruise Terminal. The
SwiftRageous
, which Rook estimated to be over three hundred feet long, was docked at Pier 90, which was normally reserved for cruise ships. As their captain dropped speed to approach the
wharf, Heat and Rook tilted their heads back to look up at the pair of MD600N helicopters looming four stories above them from the stern helipads of the
SwiftRageous
. Rook rubbed the kink
out of the back of his neck and turned to Nikki. “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.”

Churning up a swirl of brackish foam, the NYPD skipper backed the stern
of his ship quickly and surely right up to the water-level
transom of the
SwiftRageous
. When Heat leaped onto the other vessel and then stepped aside for Rook to join her, she expected to be met by security, which she was. Four very athletic men
in matching khaki slacks and green polos assembled, forming an impressive line of muscle between them and the Hudson River. What she didn’t expect was to be greeted personally by Tangier
Swift. Although it wouldn’t exactly be called a greeting.

“What do you think you are you doing?” said the CEO as he descended the open staircase from the sundeck.

“Tangier Swift?” She reached up to part her blazer to show him the shield at her waist. As she did, all four security men immediately placed a hand on their fanny packs.
“Captain Nikki Heat, NYPD.” Even after she had flashed tin, not one hand ever left the proximity of its sidearm.

“Heat…You’re the one who’s been calling my office.” Two of his bouncers parted to let him through the line and he lifted his shades to appraise her. “Have you got
a warrant?”

“I don’t need one, Mr. Swift. This is a Harbor Unit snap safety inspection of your vessel.” She pointed between the Zodiac and the Sea-Doo GTX attached to the port side of the
garage deck. “For instance, does that fire extinguisher have a full charge?”

Swift tipped his wood-and-titanium Maybachs up onto his shaved head and made a sour face. “You’re joking.”

“Sir, I assure you, it’s all legal. We have the authority to board and conduct our inspection.” She beckoned to the three waiting Harbor Unit officers, who stepped from the
Gladding-Hearn onto the yacht. “I suggest your men move their hands away from their weapons. This is not something we take lightly.”

“Captain Heat, this is completely over the top.”

“And totally avoidable if you had cooperated with my request for a meeting.”

The billionaire seemed more amused by Heat’s audacity than he was perturbed by the intrusion and signaled his detail to stand down. “How did you find out I was here?”

Rook spread his arms wide to indicate the ship and said, “Duh. The James Bond–villain boat with your name on it was kind of a hint.”

“It’s a ship, not a boat.”

“Don’t need to tell me. You could fit Mick’s, Bono’s, and Madge’s yachts on here and still have room for David Geffen’s hot tub.”

“Who the hell are you? You’re no cop.”

Heat stepped in. “This is Jameson Rook. He is fully authorized to be a civilian ride-along with me.”

“The writer? Fuckin-A, it just gets better.”

“Mr. Swift,” said Nikki, “I only have a few questions to ask you. If we had just addressed them, I’d already be gone by now.”

Seeing that someone with the balls to successfully board his ship was not about to go quietly, he flipped his mirrored shades back down on his nose. “You want a soda or
something?”

It turned out that Rook had underestimated the length of the
SwiftRageous
by four yards. The luxury motor yacht measured 312
feet, with five decks, including a master suite and staterooms on the top level, and a salon (aka: living room) complete with a wood-burning fireplace of French limestone that separated it from the
formal dining area. In the forward area one deck below, across the passageway from the twenty-seat movie theater, a state-of-the-minute gaming parlor with night-effect lighting was jammed with big
screens, gaming stations, both Internet and satellite connectivity for remote play, and the latest in interactive voice and motion-sensing platforms. Rook peered longingly from the doorway and
couldn’t resist. “Please tell me you have Dance Dance Revolution.” Swift didn’t acknowledge the question and ushered them on. “It’s addictive,” said Rook.
“I am this close to Maniac Level.”

As they rounded a corner, Swift nearly collided with four Asian men in dark suits, one of whom, who looked to be in his sixties, beamed and said in accented English, “Mr. Swift. We are
ready to meet when you are.”

Swift’s return smile was unconvincing, and he seemed agitated. “I’ll need a few moments.” Then he head-signaled up the hall. A trio of his polo-shirted handlers stepped
in, ushered the suits back in the conference room, and rolled the pocket doors closed. “Chinese industrialists,” he explained without being asked. “More money than sense. They
want to buy my yacht.” Gesturing aft, he followed Heat and Rook toward the sun deck.

Male and female wait staff served sparkling Saratoga waters and kale chips as they sat down in a cluster of deck chairs beside the swimming pool. “I have to say, this is quite
overwhelming, Mr. Swift,” said Heat. Since he had relaxed his stance, she had tried to relax along with him, hoping to get more information by adopting a less adversarial stance.

“To be overwhelmed every day. That’s the guiding beacon of my life.”

“That can’t come cheap,” said Rook. “Just operating this thing, you’ve got a crew of—what?”

“Thirty-five.”

“That’s a lot of polo shirts. And it can’t be inexpensive to tie up your modest
pied à l’eau
here on Luxury Liner Row.”

“If you really want to know, it’s not that bad. Two grand a day. Better than a hotel, and worth it for the convenience of location.” Swift added an inch to Nikki’s glass
from the blue bottle. “Except when that means getting stormed by zealous cops reenacting a scene from
Captain Phillips
.”

“I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t important, Mr. Swift.”

“And you should call me Tangier. And that’s not because I’m a nice guy. Those dudes who founded Google got it right when they created an atmosphere for moon-shot thinking, and
I’m not above modeling myself after mold breakers.”

Nikki recalled Rook’s rundown on Swift, how he was a motivational zealot.

“Oh, I gave it my own spin, calling my hierarchical structure a Flat Pyramid, but I’m really chasing their unicorn. No neckties; messy offices, a plus; first names
only—including the CEO; transparency, and direct access—including the CEO.”

“Is that why it was so easy for me to see you, Tangier?” Nikki asked, making a calculated back-to-business jab to forestall his hijacking her meeting with a wharf-side Tony Robbins
seminar.

“Nikki, is it?” He set his glass down on the river-stone-covered tabletop, top-decked his designer sunglasses again, and fixed her with a steely gaze. “Nikki, maybe you had
better ask me those questions so you can be on your way. That transparent enough?”

Heat didn’t flinch. “Glad to. First, I’d like to ask if you know the name Lon King.” Swift rolled his eyes upward, then shook his head no. She opened her notebook and
popped the cap on her $1.28 stick pen. “How long have you been berthed here?” Beside her, Rook turned to look upriver, where he could see the George Washington Bridge spanning the
Hudson, right where Lon King’s kayak would have been adrift the night before.

“Ten days, why?”

One way to keep control of an interview, Nikki had learned through the years, was not to respond to questions. Especially with a smart, strong personality who was accustomed to getting his way,
it was too easy to have the meeting wrested from her grip if she let it become his conversation. “When was the last time you used those toys on your transom, the Zodiac and the
Sea-Doo?”

“Hmm. Not since Bermuda. Before we put in here. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Has anyone else used them here in New York? Someone on your crew, maybe?”

“No.”

“And you also have those two helicopters.”

“MD660Ns.”

“Do you fly them yourself?”

“I’m rated for fixed wing only. I’m learning though. Spending a lot of time in the copter simulator in the game salon.”

“Those things are great,” said Rook. “I fly the radio-controlled copters. You ever fly them?”

Swift squinted at him as if he thought Rook must be high. “No.”

“Ever fly the drones?” Rook asked. “You know, the quadcopters?” Rook caught Nikki’s eye, and in that nonverbal micro-instant she marveled at how in tune they were.
And how deft he was at playing the exasperating court jester one moment, then coming in sideways on a point she was going for.

“No,” he snapped. “Are you writing fucking hobby profiles now?”

Heat took advantage of Swift’s irritation to jerk the conversation in another direction. “I have another name to ask you about. Fred Lobbrecht. You may also know him as Frederick or
Freddy.”

“Sorry, no matches. Who are these people you keep asking me about?”

“What about Wilton Backhouse?” Swift was about to speak, then held back. Red blotches appeared at his collar and spread toward his jawline. “Wilton Backhouse,” she
repeated.

“Shit disturber.” He reached across and tapped a forefinger on her notebook. “You can quote me. Shit disturber. And neurotic. Oh, and narcissist,” said the man with the
312-foot yacht named after himself.

“So. You know him,” said Rook.

The irony escaped Swift. The flush had splotched his cheeks by now. “You know what that guy really is? A gadfly. No, worse than a gadfly. A gadfly may be a pain in the ass, but at least a
gadfly is operating from a sense of conscience. Wilton Backhouse is all about Wilton Backhouse. Fame, gaining wealth through extortion. He creates nothing. He adds no value. He is a self-important
leech who would be better off—” Swift caught himself. “Oh fuck, he’s not dead is he? You’re a homicide detective, and I’m shooting my mouth off about—Is he
dead?”

“No. But he swore in a complaint that you once tried to run him down with your Mercedes outside the NoMad.”

“I didn’t see him. Until I swerved to miss him.”

“I read the police report. Eyewitnesses said you were laughing afterward and told Mr. Backhouse that next time you wouldn’t miss.”

“I can be immature sometimes. No charges came of it, right? And he wasn’t harmed. And certainly not killed.”

“No. But the two other people I mentioned were. And you still say you have no relationship with them?” Heat showed him Lon King’s picture on her cell phone. He shook his head
no. Then she swiped to Lobbrecht’s. That one made Swift pause and think. Or pretend to think—Nikki couldn’t be sure. Finally he gave a no to that picture, as well.

Heat pocketed her phone. “The second picture is of Fred Lobbrecht. He worked at Forenetics with Professor Backhouse on a special study involving your software.”

“That fucking committee. This is what I’m talking about. Backhouse, trying to build a brand by squeezing my balls over some phony claim about a faulty stability control
system.”

The investigative journalist weighed in. “And you assert that the claim is untrue?”

“Absolutely. I would be happy to go further, but there has been litigation and I am bound by the same settlement gag order as the complainants when it comes to the rollover lawsuits.
Neither side can talk about it. It’s a two-way street.”

“And if we are on that two-way street,” asked Rook, “are we OK if one of your apps is in our car?”

“Hey, fuck you.”

Nikki worked him from the other side. “Tangier. You maintain that you have had no contact—directly or indirectly—with any of these three men?”

“If you are accusing me of something, you’d better say it.” Swift stood. “But you are going to be saying it to my lawyers.” Then he stormed up the staircase to the
upper deck and disappeared.

“I’m telling you, your new buddy Tangier’s lying about hitting the river,”
said Rook as they pushed through
the front door of the Twentieth. “He seems a little wussy for the Sea-Doo in spring weather—even though he can probably afford a mink wet suit. But he could have easily made it up to
Spuyten Duyvil in the dry comfort of that Zodiac, popped Lon King, and been back in time to catch Matt Damon duct-taping Jimmy Kimmel to his chair.”

The duty sergeant two-finger-saluted the captain as she moved past the bulletproof glass, then buzzed her through the security lock. “Rook, you’re assuming Swift would have done it
himself. Or would have needed proximity. I’m buying into the drone as MOD, and that could have been controlled onshore.”

“Or from a Zodiac,” Rook insisted as he scurried to keep pace with Heat as she raced up the hall and into her office.

Heat kept the conversation going while scanning the stack of message slips on her desktop. “Besides. As usual, you’re jumping from zero to sixty on this case.”

“You don’t think Tangier Swift has a perfect motive?”

“I’m sure that busting the colorful villain CEO as our double murderer would make great copy for your article—”

“That’s cheap—”

“And fuel your next Pulitzer—but for now Swift is only top of my list as a person of interest, not as a suspect.” To be honest with him, she had to add,
“Yet.”

But something seemed off with this case. Few homicide investigations ever rode an express train from the discovery of the victim to conviction of the murderer, but this one was giving her a
particular sense of unease. Heat had a strong sense of an inconsistency trying to bust through the early noise of this investigation. If only she could hear what it was trying to say through the
static.