Chapter 41
WE WERE OUT on Columbia’s sprawling Low Plaza, heading over to the bursar’s office to get Dan Hastings’s personal info, when my phone rang.
“Mike,” Detective Schultz cried. “Get over quick to the vice president’s office at the Low Memorial Library. We need your help. You’re not going to believe this.”
I met a frustrated-looking Schultz and Ramirez in a hallway on the second floor of the college’s iconic domed building. The administration was denying them the tapes from the Campus Security cameras due to “privacy concerns.”
“These wackos are acting like we’re the KGB rounding up people for the gulag instead of trying to save the life of one of their kidnapped students,” Ramirez said wide-eyed.
After twenty minutes of arguing, it finally took the threat of both a city and federal subpoena to get the officials to release the tapes, along with Dan Hastings’s personal information.
“Only in New York,” Agent Parker said as we went out toward the Broadway gate and the Crown Victoria that the FBI’s New York office had dropped off for her.
“Or any Ivy League college campus,” I said.
The victim’s father, Gordon Hastings, lived way downtown on Prince Street in SoHo. As Emily drove, I listened to a 1010 WINS report that was already being broadcast about him. Gordon Hastings used to work for Rupert Murdoch and now had his own business buying radio and TV stations, mostly in Canada and Europe. His wealth was estimated at eight hundred million dollars. I couldn’t even imagine that kind of money. Or what the man had to be going through, knowing that his disabled son had been abducted.
As she drove, Emily called the New York office and ran Gordon Hastings through NCIC and other federal databases.
“He was born and raised in Scotland,” she said, hanging up a few minutes later, “but became a U.S. citizen a couple of years ago. He’s clean, though the IRS has an open case on him due to some remarks he made about offshore accounts in a Vanity Fair interview.”
“Imagine that,” I said. “And all my Vanity Fair interviews always go so swimmingly.”
I let out an angry snort a moment later as we turned off Broadway onto Prince.
Half a dozen news vans had beat us to Hastings’s cast-iron building. Cold-eyed camera lenses swung on us as we double-parked. I swung my cold-eyed Irish face right back at them.
“No goddamn comment,” I yelled at them as I got out. “And get that goddamn eyewitness van away from that fire hydrant if you ever want to see it again.”
“Now, that’s what I call media savvy,” Emily said with a grin as we waded through the newsies on the sidewalk. “If you ever make it down to DC, you should toss your résumé into the ring for White House press secretary.”
“You thought that was bad,” I said. “I was being restrained. I usually just empty a magazine into the air.”
It actually turned out that the ride we had taken downtown was for nothing. The luxury building’s handsome but seemingly stoned concierge stifled a giggle when we asked to speak to Gordon Hastings.
“C’mon. Where you been, man? I thought everyone knew that only Mr. Hastings’s second wife and new baby twins get to live in the penthouse duplex during the divorce proceedings.”
“Could we speak to the soon-to-be ex–Mrs. Gordon Hastings, then?” Emily said before I could ask the guy for a urine sample.
“I wouldn’t think so,” the spaced-out model look-alike said. “Unless, of course, you’re planning a trip to Morocco, where her Italian Vogue shoot is.”
The only useful thing we learned was that the mogul’s mail was being forwarded to somewhere called Pier Fifty-nine, at Twenty-third Street and the Hudson River.
It turned out to be the Chelsea Piers Sports Center. We stared at the kids Rollerblading and the men with golf bags on the sidewalk in front of it.
“That kid was even higher than he looked. How could this guy live at a sports facility?” Emily said as we pulled up.
“That’s how,” I said as I pointed to the yacht-filled marina beside the netted driving range.
Chapter 42
OVER TWO HUNDRED feet long, Gordon Hastings’s yacht, the Teacup Tempest, turned out to be the largest one at the marina. Ten minutes later, we sat waiting to meet the mogul at the rear of its massive cherry-paneled forward salon.
There were antiques and paintings. There were also row upon row of flat-screen TVs. Smaller computer screens on scattered desks showed investment graphs. In addition to the ship’s crew, there were eight or nine businesspeople, Hastings’s corporate team that actually worked from the ship. Like us, they were just standing around waiting, with stressed-out looks on their faces.
The captain of the vessel, John McKnight, who’d escorted us on board, told us about the accident that had crippled the abducted Columbia freshman.
“It was on a mountain-biking trip in Asia that was all Mr. H’s idea,” the captain said in a low voice. “He completely blames himself. That’s what led to his divorce, if you want my opinion. Now with Dan being abducted, it’s just unbelievable. Unbearable. For all of us. Dan was the most down-to-earth, lovable kid you ever met. He took the accident like it was nothing. He was inspiring.”