Georgia had expected to find Sloane Michaels on a yacht in the Hamptons on a Saturday afternoon. Or playing squash in TriBeCa. Or perhaps opening a new art exhibit at the Guggenheim. Instead, when she called his beeper, an assistant told her she could meet up with Michaels in the basement of the Knickerbocker Plaza Hotel. Gallagher dropped her off in front of the hotel. He looked beat.
“Go home,” she told him. “You’ve done enough.” Georgia planned to take the subway back to Queens from here. “Are you coming over for dinner tonight?”
“That I am, love.”
Georgia kissed him on the cheek. He blushed.
“Tell Ma I won’t be late.”
“Ach, sure you will.” He frowned, then drove off.
In the hotel, Georgia was directed to a private bank of elevators that led down to a small garage-level room with brass lamps, a beige linen couch, and a television. A middle-aged black man in a chauffeur’s uniform got up from the couch as Georgia approached. A college basketball game was on behind him.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Mr. Michaels.”
From the corner of her eye, she spotted a figure emerging from behind a steel door. It was a man dressed in grease-stained blue pinstripe coveralls opened halfway to a faded black T-shirt. The T-shirt sported a Harley-Davidson insignia across the front. Georgia took in the face now and stared, dumbfounded, as the man wiped his hands on an oil-smeared cloth. His brown eyes stared back, equally surprised. She’d forgotten how bad her bruises looked.
“Marshal, what happened? Are you all right?”
“Occupational hazard.” Georgia shrugged. “It comes with the turf.” She nodded to Sloane Michaels’s grimy hands. “So, you’re a closet mechanic, huh?”
He grinned. “You caught me.” He motioned for his chauffeur to sit down. “I’m not leaving yet, Charlie. Maybe ten minutes, okay? Relax, enjoy the game.”
“Yessir, Mr. Michaels. Thank you, sir.”
Michaels turned to Georgia. “When I’m not riding, I tinker. I’ve done a lot of the custom work myself. Would you like to see my bikes?” he asked eagerly.
She hesitated. “I’m not here for a social visit…”
“Good. On my own time, I’m not very social. C’mon.”
Michaels ushered her through a steel door with a small window in it. On the other side was a large, L-shaped room, separated from the rest of the underground parking garage by tinted windows. Georgia could see out—at the parking attendants, the rows of Mercedeses, Jags, and BMWs. But no one, she guessed, could see in.
“I’m shocked you’re not out playing cricket or flying a Lear jet or something,” she said.
Michaels made a face, retrieving a wrench he’d casually tossed on a grease-stained tool bench. “You know, I’m not the rich prick you seem to think I am. I grew up very modestly. Most of the stuff I do, I do because I have to. This is how I relax.” He led her around a corner to a room as well equipped as any mechanic’s garage. There were shelves full of spark plugs, motor oil, nuts and bolts. There were tanks of compressed air. And in the middle of all this sat the bikes. In the presence of their gleaming chrome, their lace wheels, their customized engines and jazzy paint jobs, Sloane Michaels seemed more relaxed than Georgia had ever seen him.
“This”—he gestured—“is my freedom. My escape.” Georgia couldn’t have said it any better. She stepped closer, oohing and aahing over a big red Harley Ultra Classic with custom bodywork, a light, nifty pearl-blue Ducati, a delicate Bimoto—another Italian racing bike—in violet. And, set up on custom-made supports, a retro-stylish Vincent Blackshadow shimmering under track lights. She’d heard that the Blackshadow, an English motorcycle from the 1950s, was so rare and coveted that it could fetch as much as $100,000 on the open market.
“They’re beautiful,” said Georgia.
“I can tell by your face you mean it.” Michaels toyed with his wrench. “But you’re not here to discuss bikes, are you?”
“No…” She sighed. “What’s your connection to Concerned Citizens of Yonkers?”
He pocketed the wrench, then leaned against the tool bench, folding his arms. “I grew up in Yonkers. Met my wife, Amelia, there,” he explained. “A local citizen’s group was having a problem with the county and I forked over a very small sum to buy some land and help them out.”
“You bought the land anonymously?”
“Yes, Marshal. I help out a lot of causes anonymously. I’m not looking to have three hundred charities lined up at my office door every morning, begging for money.”
“You knew the building burned down.”
“So I’d heard.” Michaels ran a hand against the grain of his close-cropped beard. “I didn’t get involved with the purchase until after the building had burned. I had nothing to do with it before. The land was county-owned.”
“But you knew the dead firefighter, Terry Quinn?”
“In passing. His widow, Kathleen, is a nurse. She took care of Amelia for a time at our apartment on Sutton Place before my wife needed round-the-clock hospitalization.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”
“I didn’t think it mattered. And more to the point, it seemed rather tacky after Quinn died to be boasting about how I’d given money to help out his neighborhood.” He stroked his beard and studied her now. “Is that what this is all about? You’re upset because I didn’t tell you I knew Terry Quinn?”
“I’m not upset, Mr. Michaels. What I am is concerned. That you don’t tell me things until it suits you—about your brother, about your relationships with people.”
“You’re right.” He shrugged. “My apologies. How ’bout we change that?” He opened up a cabinet above his tool bench and unfurled a set of blueprints. “Do you know what these are?” he asked her. “They’re plans for turning that land up in Yonkers into Quinn Memorial Park. I was going to announce the groundbreaking tomorrow. I’ve already hired architectural and landscape firms. So I’m hardly hiding anything.”
Georgia took in the blueprint notations for playground equipment, benches, and fountains to be installed. She nodded with satisfaction. It promised to be a beautiful park. “I’m sure Terry’s family and community will appreciate the generous gesture. Sorry to bother you.”
“Never a bother.” He rolled up the plans and walked her to the elevator.
“Just one last question,” said Georgia. “Your brother lived in the basement of Spring Street, is that right?”
“Illegally, yes. Don’t shoot me for it, okay?”
“Did he have a phone?”
Michaels started. “Of course.”
“Did you know his phone number?”
“Sure. 212-673-1702. Any special reason you need it?”
Georgia jotted it down. “Just being thorough.”