Shoot (32 page)

“I found them.”

“No spit? The
Press
found the evidence? You buried your forking lead, dumbnuts—that has to go up top.”

“No, Mel. Sorry, but I’ve got a deal with the cops. They get the credit and I get the exclusive. Just hold it until eight o’clock and then blow it out on the web, okay?”

“Don’t make Coke-sipping deals like that!”

One thing I had noticed about newspaper work, during my brief time in the racket, was that no matter how good it was—it was never good enough.

“Too late, Mel. I made the deal and can’t break it. Any problems or questions? I’ve got a dinner date… with some important sources.”

“Sources? Dock me! I assume that means the parsing paper will be paying for this forking dinner?”

“You bet.”

“Well, thanks for a few moments of your precious porking time, Mr. Shepherd, it’s been a freaking honor.”

“The freaking honor is all mine.”

“Remember to get a mother-mugging receipt.”

“My mother-mugging pleasure.”

I still had an hour and a half before meeting Bryce, so I grabbed a cab over to Park Avenue. My parents had apparently knocked off for the night, along with the other demonstrators. Only a few signs were strung from the saw horses in their pen on the opposite sidewalk. I thought maybe my nice suit might get me in the door. I went up to the doorman, a different one this time, and asked if I could see the Roehm brothers.

“Which one, sir?”

“Whichever one is home.”

Wrong answer. He asked if I had an appointment. I didn’t lie.

“You’ll have to contact their office, sir,” he told me.

“Okay, thanks. Umm… is Walter home?”

“Mr. Cantor?”

“Yes. I’m F.X. Shepherd. We’re friends. Could you call him and ask if he’s got a quick minute to see me?”

He looked me up and down. He obviously thought I was some random guy but the suit and tie and my fancy initials forced him to give me the benefit of the doubt.

“Very well, sir. Please step inside and I’ll inquire.”

He pushed the heavy glass and brass revolving door and I entered the sacred precincts of the gods. The lobby was opulent, with plush red carpeting. I waited as the doorman spoke to someone on a wallphone.

“What is your name again, sir?”

“F.X. Shepherd,” I said, as if my name had launched a thousand ships.

The doorman listened to a voice on his intercom and then asked me if I was F.X. Shepherd from the
Daily Press
. I decided to keep trying the truth.

“Yes.”

The doorman listened again, nodding. Were they telling him which bones to break?

“Please have a seat in the lobby, sir. Someone will be right down.”

“Thank you.”

I was still inside. I sat in a comfy armchair, wondering if they had called the cops and I was about to be arrested for trespassing. I sweated it out for ten minutes. If I were a betting man… The large elevator across the lobby opened, giving a flash of mahogany paneling, a velvet bench and a small crystal chandelier inside.

Walter Cantor, in tan cargo shorts, sandals and a turquoise Caribbean reef shirt, walked out and came over to shake my hand. Son of a bitch.

“Thank you, Eddie,” he said to the doorman. “Hi, Shepherd. How are your parents? What can I do for you? Sorry I’m all wet. I just finished my laps.”

Of course he had a pool. Nice.

“Hello, sir. They’re fine, thanks. I just wanted to quickly run something past you, off the record, in confidence, if that’s okay?”

“Off the record? Sure. Call me Walter. Let’s sit down.”

We sat on the couch. I quickly shared what I knew about the Tea Party Animal killings, including the silver musket balls and the hidden zip guns, presumably very expensive custom items. I realized I was showing off for the rich guy. I couldn’t mention that the silver probably came from melted antique coins.

“Why haven’t I read about any of this?” Walter asked.

I told him the hidden tube guns story would break at eight but the fact that the bullets were made of silver was a police holdback.

“A holdback?”

“A vest card, something only the bad guy and the cops know about. It gives them a gauge of guilty knowledge and eliminates the fakers. I also think the killers used squares of a rare Revolutionary War flag to wad the silver shot.”

“A flag?”

I explained about the yellow silk, which had originally been bright green, and how the silk patches had been used.

“Why would someone use pieces of an historic flag?”

“I don’t know,” I told him. “Maybe to literally wrap the whole plot in Old Glory.”

“Fascinating,” Walter said. “Oh… I get it. You’re here because you think Hans and Gert might be the bad guys, because they’re rich and right wing.”

“Yeah, maybe. And one collects Revolutionary War muskets.”

“True. Anything’s possible but I doubt it,” Walter chuckled. “Hans and Gert are gentlemen. Why would they do something like that?”

“To change history, to be king-makers?”

“They already have and they already are,” Walter pointed out. “Courtesy of the Supreme Court, their corporations are now officially people and their cash is considered free speech. But I haven’t heard a shred of proof against them yet, Shepherd. This is still America. I certainly haven’t seen my neighbors ripping up flags.” He laughed.

“Okay, thanks for your time.”

“Eddie said you were on your way to dinner?”

“Yeah, I’m meeting a lady at L’Éveil over on the park,” I told him, bragging again.

“Great place, amazing. Enjoy,” Walter said. “Eddie can get you a cab. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

“I just wanted your opinion and you
have
been helpful. Thanks again, Walter.”

“Any time,” he said, shaking my hand.

I was more than half an hour early to L’Éveil on Central Park South. I rode a glass elevator up to the eighth floor duplex restaurant overlooking the park. My phone chimed. Mel had sent me the headlines that would be used on my exclusive, about to break on the website.

HIDDEN HOT RODS

Cops Flush Out Secret Stubby Shooters
Tea Party Animal Arsenal of Mini Muskets

I shut off my phone, knowing the restaurant had reception-blocking technology to cut off all communications. Henri would not allow anything to compete with his fabulous food. His place was world famous for cutting-edge sous vide cooking—vacuum-packed preparation at low, slow temperatures and other radical culinary techniques, including 3D food printers. The science behind it all concluded that traditional oven and stove cooking dried out food and destroyed the cells of meat and vegetables. But the cellular structure could be preserved by slowly heating food in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag at an exact temperature between one hundred twenty and one hundred fifty degrees for many hours. It sounded ridiculous but tasted much better than anything I had ever tasted before. Unfortunately, Henri charged $2,000 a plate, and that didn’t include liquor.

The cocktail lounge of the restaurant was an ultra-modern affair with a dozen tables and chairs on a shiny black marble floor, with a black marble bar on the right wall. Six bartenders were mixing colorful drinks overflowing with white fog and rippling with blue flames. Over the bar, three large screens displayed a live feed from the kitchen, famous movie food scenes—currently
Tom Jones
—and an informational video on scientific cooking. A glass wall featured a view into the busy kitchen, which looked like the engine room of the
Starship Enterprise
. The chefs worked at strange machines, which had brass labels on them like “Carbon Dioxide Foam Machine,” “Liquid Nitrogen Chamber,” “Cryo-Griddle,” “Immersion Blender,” “Thermal Immersion Circulator,” “Centrifuge,” and “Ultrasound Oven.” A large piece of equipment, labeled “3D Printer,” had arms that darted quickly left and right and back and forth, like a map plotter. On a tray, small sculptures of bright green artichokes were magically growing, as computerized nozzles built them.

I strode to the bar and ordered an arak. A pretty bartender asked my name. She went away, spoke into a phone and returned with my favorite liquor. I wished I could afford to eat here.

“Mr. Shepherd, Henri asked me to welcome you and tell you that everything is prepared.”

“Thank you.”

I took a slug of arak. Some of the other customers, especially a young lady with a flaming blue martini, looked familiar. I looked back toward the entrance. Next to that was the exit to the dining room, a grand staircase down one floor.

Henri appeared in whites and kissed me on both cheeks.

“So, Shepherd, everything is in place for you, my friend. What are we doing this evening?”

“Just a little Shanghai Surprise, Henri. I really appreciate you doing this on short notice.”

“Shanghai?”

“Just an expression. Make sure all dinners and drinks go on my paper’s card.”

“Okay, no problem. Please, what is a Shanghai Surprise?”

“A joke with two people. Like when you think a bomb is a fake but it isn’t.”

“This is a joke?”

“For one of them.”

Bryce arrived on time, in a snug black V-neck cocktail dress and black stiletto heels. She kissed me on the cheek and slid onto the bar stool by my side. She ordered a London Fog, a frosted concoction that overflowed with what looked like dry ice. She asked what we had found at the hotel but I told her it would have to wait until dessert.

The maître d’ appeared with two menus and Bryce slid her hand into the crook of my elbow as we followed him down the grand staircase. The lower floor of the restaurant was decked out like a movie set, with giant potted palms, huge red velvet drapes, large Ming vases, round tables covered with white cloths, and burgundy leather chairs. It was done up like a Victorian gentlemen’s supper club, set inside a giant greenhouse.

The waiter seated us in comfortable armchairs and left us with the menus. I noticed several familiar faces. Random celebs.

“This place is amazing,” Bryce said. “It smells great in here.”

“That may be your menu. It’s edible.”

I took a nibble off the corner of my menu. It tasted like French cheese, but crunchy. God knows what it really was. I sampled some of the green lettering and got a taste of basil pesto. Inside, there were sections for sous vide. It was best not to think about your shrink-wrapped duck entrée being bathed in lukewarm water for a few days before you got there. Better to just let your mouth enjoy the orgy.

We had a caviar appetizer of translucent red globes, with tiny egg white balls in the center. The salads were crunchy green pine cones that tasted like arugula and were topped with maple ginger sauce and fruit. Maybe. I had a duck that was incredible. The fat had been removed between the skin and the muscle and replaced with bittersweet chutney potato foam. Bryce went wild for her salmon and said it was the best she had ever eaten. We had more drinks. I talked about my big stories. She talked about the famous people who came to her hotel.

“This is totally swag but I can’t wait anymore,” Bryce said. “What did you find in the rooms today?”

“Hold on one minute,” I told her, waving to a nearby table. “I see someone I know.”

Izzy and Phil, already on their coffee, waved back and came over. Bryce looked confused. I quickly signaled our waiter, who nodded.

“Bryce, you remember Lieutenant Izzy Negron and Detective Sergeant Phil D’Amico?”

“Yes, I think so,” she said, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“What’s new, guys?” I asked them.

We were interrupted by the magical arrival of our coffee and desserts. Each chocolate dessert was a perfect replica on a white plate—an octagonal gray tube, artfully garnished by a little square of yellow silky material, a neat pile of black granules and a shiny silver ball. On the white plate rim, spelled out in blood red letters, was her name.

Bryce jumped out of her chair, her napkin falling from her lap.

“What is that?” she tried.

“You tell us,” Izzy suggested. “You reacted as if it were a rattlesnake.”

“I don’t know what it is.”

“Sorry I frightened you, Bryce, just a little joke,” I said, reaching out across the tabletop for her hand. I took her by the wrist and turned her hand over. With my other hand, I grabbed my chocolate tube and fitted the butt end perfectly into the injured pattern on the heel of her hand. She jerked her hand back.

“We found five weapons just like that today,” I told her. “Except they weren’t made out of chocolate.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snipped, her cool returning.

“So you say,” Izzy said. “We’ve been questioning a guy named Norton Pyle. You may know him, Miss Draper—he’s a handyman at your hotel.”

“Oh… yes, the name does sound familiar. Why are you questioning him?”

“Because he had access to the toilets at the crime scenes, of course. He lied at first but he quickly admitted installing six sets of double clips inside the toilet tanks,” Izzy told her.

“So you’re saying some kind of weapon was hidden in the bathrooms and one of our people was involved? That’s awful. I should inform management.”

“We already have, Miss Draper,” Izzy said. “We understand you were working the overnight shift at the hotel the night Chesterfield and the others were murdered?”

“Yes, I was,” she said, digging into her tubular treat.

“Anything unusual happen that night, Miss Draper?”

“You mean other than five murders?” Her cool was totally restored. “Shepherd, this is really yummy.”

“How many breaks do you get on your shift?” Phil asked.

“Two,” she answered, “at three and six. Why?”

“Where did you go on your breaks?” Phil pressed. “What did you do?”

“I don’t remember. Probably to the bathroom, the lunchroom.”

“Have any witnesses?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong but aren’t you supposed to prove people guilty, as opposed to people proving they are innocent?”

“So you have no witnesses,” Izzy snapped. “What are your politics, Miss Draper?”

“I’m a registered Independent,” she said, rolling the silver ball in the red sauce. “I’m currently undecided. This crunchy gunpowder is amazing. The green square is banana and something else. Is the silver ball white chocolate and amaretto?”