Red Alert(NYPD Red #5)(5)

The mayor had introduced us to Wells earlier in the evening. We’d given him our cards, and he’d joked about hoping he’d never need them. Yet here we were, only hours later, following him into the living room.

“Grab a chair,” he said, heading for a well-stocked wet bar. “Drink?”

We declined. He tossed some rocks into a glass and added four inches of Grey Goose. Then he uncorked a bottle of white and poured an equally generous amount into a crystal goblet.

He took a hit of vodka, set the wine on the coffee table in front of us, and said, “What have you got so far?”

“We’re sorry for the loss of your friend,” I said, “but the fact that he was the only one killed points to the possibility that he may have been the primary target.”

“That’s insane,” Wells said. “Who would want to kill Del?”

“That’s what Detective MacDonald and I are here to ask you. How well did you know him?”

“We’ve been best friends since high school. We roomed together in college. Twenty years ago we cofounded Silver Bullet along with Arnie Zimmer and Nathan Hirsch. Del and I were like brothers.”

“Did he have any enemies? Anyone who would want to see him dead?”

“This is fucking surreal,” he said, tipping the glass to his lips and draining it. “I need another drink.” He padded back to the bar.

The last thing Princeton Wells needed was more alcohol, which is something I would have told him if he were an ordinary citizen, and I were an ordinary cop. But he was a billionaire many times over, and I was a detective first grade trained to deal with the privileged class, be they shit-faced or sober. I watched as he ignored the ice and replenished the vodka.

“This is a beautiful place,” Kylie said, backing off the raw subject of his murdered best friend.

He smiled. “Thanks. I’ve had it for three years now. The view is spectacular when it snows. Point the remote at the fireplace, open a bottle of wine…”

“Did someone say wine?”

Kenda Whithouse entered the room, her hair wrapped in a towel, her body somewhat covered by a man’s tuxedo shirt.

“Already poured,” Wells said, pointing to the glass he’d left on the table.

She picked it up, sat on a sofa, and discreetly tucked her legs under her.

“Kenda,” Wells said, “these detectives are from NYPD.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “Did you catch them yet?”

“We’re working on it,” I said.

“It was terrible. Like one of those disaster movies, only it was real. I was lucky I wasn’t killed. Bad enough I got covered with all that crap flying through the air. I looked like one of those homeless women Princeton is building housing for. I had to wash my hair three times to get the smell out.”

Wells sat down next to her, took another belt of the vodka, and shifted his body so he could square off with the two of us.

“You want to know what I think, Detectives? I think that bomb was meant for the mayor. I mean, she left the podium just a few seconds before it blew. That’s the only thing that makes sense. There’s always someone with a hard-on for politicians. But Del Fairfax? Everybody loved him. Hell, they love the four of us. We raise hundreds of millions of dollars. We provide food, shelter, and education for these people, but more important, we give them purpose, hope—”

He stopped, looked at the glass in his hand, and set it down. “Sorry. A couple of drinks and I go all humanitarian commando on you. My point is, nobody wants to kill the golden goose. Silver Bullet doesn’t have enemies.”

“What about Fairfax’s personal life?” Kylie asked.

“Del was a player. Never married. And why would he? He was rich, he was good-looking, and the gals loved him.”

“Did any of these gals have husbands?” Kylie asked.

“God, no. Del would never poach another man’s wife. He was a hound, but he wasn’t into drama.”

My cell rang. It was Cates. I stepped into the foyer to take the call.

“Fill me in,” she said.

“The blast investigator flat out said, ‘It wasn’t a terrorist attack.’ He thinks it was a targeted hit at the victim. But Princeton Wells says the vic was a saint, beloved by all, so the bomb must have been meant for the mayor.”

“I doubt it,” Cates said. “Sykes was a last-minute addition to the program. This attack was planned, prepped—but I’ll alert Gracie security. What else?”

“Nothing else, boss. There were four hundred people in the room, yours truly included, and we can’t find a single witness who witnessed anything.”

“How soon can you and MacDonald tear yourself away from the scene?”

“About twelve seconds. We’re coming up dry here.”

“Then get your asses out to Roosevelt Island. Chuck Dryden has a body he wants you to meet.”

“Another homicide? For Red?”

“What can I tell you, Jordan?” Cates said. “It’s a bad night for the rich and famous.”





CHAPTER 4



“Never underestimate the insanity of people with money,” Kylie said.

“Did you just open a fortune cookie, or is this the beginning of a fascinating observation?” I asked.