THE SKY had knitted over again in a gray foil, as if the storms of yesterday had come back to tease the city with the promise of rain. But the heat and humidity held on with sticky fingers and if Hemingway didn’t get a shower soon, her blouse could be used as a biological weapon.
She hoped that the weather would stay ugly and they could forget about the final track-and-field day at Randall’s Island. The place seemed tied to everything that had happened so far, from Deacon using it as a spectator and drug-buying hangout, to all the schools of the dead children using it as their physical education grounds.
Phelps’s voice brought her back to the present. “There. Up ahead on the left. Green awning.”
She glanced in her mirror, then over her shoulder, and cut across three lanes, pulling the truck into the fifteen-minute loading zone in front of the Fifth Avenue apartment.
After what felt like their hundredth ride of the day in a lushly appointed elevator, the apartment door was opened by a small woman in a perfectly tailored Chanel suit. She introduced herself as Carmen, said she was the Morgans’ personal assistant, and that she would be happy to take their drinks request.
They thanked Carmen, told her that coffee would be fine and that they had very little time.
Lincoln hadn’t been far off with his Keith Richards bedroom crack—the place looked like Donald Trump’s with less restraint. Everything was animal print, gold leaf, and sparkled.
Carmen led them through a wall of floor-to-ceiling bronze-framed doors, out onto a stone terrace that wrapped around the corner of the building. The haze of Manhattan spread out like the world’s largest canvas—the Morgans owned at least half of the top floor. They rounded the corner and Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were at a wrought iron table, wearing matching robes and having breakfast even though it was coming up on eleven o’clock.
“Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, I’m Detective Alexandra Hemingway. This is my partner, Detective Jon Phelps. Thank you for making the time to see us.”
Everything about Mr. Morgan said self-made. He was a heavyset man who sported a pair of floral swim trunks and a diamond-encrusted Rolex that pinched his pink wrist. He stood up and shook hands. When he was standing he wasn’t much taller than when he was sitting. “Glad to do it, detectives. Glad to do it. Call me Ace. The little lady’s Cindy.”
Mrs. Morgan was in her thirties and had the tight toned body of a gym bunny. Her skin was tanned the color of maple syrup and her blond locks were the best weaves that Hemingway had seen outside of Charlie’s Angels. She giggled when she shook hands, and a good sixty carats of stones jingled on her wrist in a coil of tennis bracelets. Every movement she made seemed to be done with the intention of jiggling her breasts and it was obvious that even the Iron Giant had a hard time keeping his eyes off of them.
“You guys want some food? Bacon’s flown in from Texas—double smoked. And we got some great cheese—smells like turds—but it’s the best there is.”
Phelps shook his head and gestured to Hemingway. “Detective Hemingway, are you hungry?”
She ignored him. “Thanks. No.”
“Well, it’s there if you change your mind. What’s this shit with the kid?” Ace asked, and went back to eating.
The table was set with gold-plated flatware and water lilies floated in a low crystal bowl shaped like a woman’s face. There were bagels and rolls and an assortment of fruit and cheeses that seemed to be there purely for presentation; Ace’s attention was nailed to a plate piled high with bacon. A big cigar smoldered in an ashtray at the edge of the table.
Phelps smiled. It seemed like the Morgans were his kind of people. “As we went over on the phone, the boys who have been killed share the same biological father as your son. We think that Miles might be in danger.”
At that Ace threw his head back and guffawed. “Shit, you haven’t met little Miles.” Mr. Morgan reached over and picked up his wife’s cell phone in the rhinestone case on the table. He tapped the screen and said, “Oh Jesus fucking Christ, Cindy, what’s with this password bullshit? I can’t ever find my phone and you know I don’t give a sweet flying fuck if you have a boyfriend just as long as he ain’t got some disease that I can catch from your coochy-poochy. What’s the fucking password?”
Cindy’s nose crinkled up. “Don’t swear so much, Daddy. It’s two-two-two-two.”
Ace smiled. “Sure you can remember that?” He punched it in.
“I think so.”
A man in a black suit and tie showed up carrying a silver service of coffee. He laid it down on an iron server and filled two cups for the detectives. Then he disappeared as silently as he had come.
Ace tapped around on the screen and returned the phone to the table. “Just don’t sleep with any Democrats—I hate those fucking pussies. Fuck a real man, for Chrissake.”
“Yes, Daddy,” she said, and went back to picking at her low-fat cottage cheese.
Ace turned back to Phelps who had lost the look of comfort from a few minutes earlier. “All right, so we disagree that my son’s in danger. I texted him—he should be here in a minute. What next?”
“Mr. Morgan—”
“Ace! I told you to call me Ace!”
“Ace. Yeah. Sure. We’ll need a list of anyone your son knows—everyone from his hairdresser to—”
“Barber,” Ace interrupted. “My kid does not go to a hairdresser, detective. He ain’t no fag.”
“We’d be grateful for a list of everyone in his life: his teachers; tutors; anyone who drives him around; friends he sees on a regular basis; parents of friends where he does sleepovers or playdates; stores you take him to; tradespeople you may have had in the house.”
“Goin’ back how far?”
“Three years would be good. Can you think of anyone who seems odd or suspicious?”
“All of her friends,” Ace said, nodding at his wife. “They’re a bunch of freaks.”
Cindy slapped him on the arm. “Don’t be mean, Daddy. You like Jezebel.”
At that Ace nodded with the corners of his mouth turned down. “You got a point. I do like her.” And he winked at Phelps.
Hemingway was about to stand up, to tell Phelps that they had to leave, when a little boy appeared at the edge of the table. He had come silently up on them and was standing there, arms crossed, staring at Ace. “You texted me, Father?”
She had yet to see one of Selmer’s boys alive. Lincoln’s comment about him being a goof was pushing it, but it was obvious that the kid wasn’t like the other children on the list. He was heavy, stood with his mouth open, and had a dull expression on his face. Other than the brown hair and eyes, he didn’t look like he had anything to do with Dr. Brayton’s Boys of Brazil program.
Ace put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Detective Phelps and his partner, Detective Hemingway.”
The boy turned and extended his hand, first to Phelps, then to Hemingway. “Miles Morgan, a pleasure to meet you both.” He had a good handshake but looked like he would rather be somewhere else.
Ace went on. “They tell me that there’s a bad man out there running around killing little kids and that you might be in danger. Does that frighten you, son?”
The boy shook his head.
“And why not?”
With the speed of an adder, Miles Morgan’s hand flashed up and he had a knife to Phelps’s throat. It was an airframe knife with a black carbon blade that dented Phelps’s skin. The boy backed up, flicked his wrist, and the knife was gone. “Though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, I fear no evil because I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley, sir.”
Phelps stared at the child.
Hemingway’s hand was on her pistol. “Don’t you ever draw a weapon on a police officer, Miles.”
Miles looked her in the eyes. “I was answering his question.”
“I don’t care. You do that to a police officer and you can end up dead.”
The boy looked over at his father, searching for some kind of qualifier to Hemingway’s lesson.
“She might have a point, son.”
And with that the boy smiled. “Is that all?”
“You ever get into any kind of trouble at school, Miles? Fighting?” she asked, looking at the bandage over his nose, his two black eyes.
“Fighting isn’t trouble. Fighting’s fun.”
After Miles had walked away, Ace threw a few more strips of bacon down his throat, then opened up his hands. “When you want that list?”
Hemingway pulled out her three-by-five and a pen. “We can go over it right now. If you think of anything later, we can add it.”
Ace eyed her for a second. “You know, you’re pretty hot for a cop.”
At that, Mrs. Morgan dropped her head and stared over the top of her sunglasses. She nodded. “You are.”
Hemingway didn’t bother smiling. “I get that a lot.”