“My technological expert will meet you,” he said. “Midnight at Icon. He’ll be in the VIP lounge.”
I cast a quick glance at my dad and spoke very quietly. “Name?” I said. “Description?”
“The hostess will bring you to him,” Desmond said. “Ask for Swinging Dick.”
Twenty-three
Icon was known as one of the hottest nightclubs in Boston, but that didn’t impress me. I’d never been much of a nightclub person, even in my youth. The flashing lights, the noise, the loud music, the overpriced, watered-down drinks…Give me a healthy pour of twelve-year-old scotch in a discreet hotel bar with good acoustics—one where you didn’t have to scream out your drink order—and I was content. Desmond’s hacker seemed to prefer a different type of ambience. But what would you expect from a guy who called himself Swinging Dick?
After hanging up with Desmond, I’d made up a quick excuse involving Melanie Joan and headed home to walk Rosie, shower, and change. It had taken me a little while to pull together an outfit that struck the right balance between club-appropriate and age-appropriate. I’d settled on jeans, JimmyChoo kitten heels, and a sleeveless Courtney Zheng blouse in beige silk that felt expensive without being flashy. I’d shifted my wallet, phone, and .38 into a smaller shoulder bag, kissed Rosie goodbye, and hurried out the door, arriving at my destination with minutes to spare.
As nightclubs went, Icon was impressive. Two big rooms packed with gorgeous people, a different DJ in each room, and enough multicolored strobes and disco balls to necessitate a seizure warning. It was just after midnight. I’d bypassed a round-the-block line and even the bag search to get in, explaining to the bouncer, and then to the hostess, that I was here to see Swinging Dick. Miraculously, I’d been able to keep a straight face both times.
The thing was, his real name was perfectly normal. Desmond—who’d only just started collaborating with Mr. Dick—had given it to me, adding that the hacker had spent some of his youth in our city, “but that’s not necessarily reason to trust him.”
You mind if I ask around about him?I’d said.
I’d consider it a favor,Desmond had said.
Far be it from me to deny my once and future father-in-law a favor. On my way home from my parents’, I’d called Gina Delvecchio, an old friend from my days on the force. She was semiretired now, but had spent twenty-five years with the BPD as a juvenile officer. She’d told me that Swinging Dick’s real name sounded familiar, and that she was more than happy to make a few calls. I’d thanked her, adding that I didn’t normallyassociate with criminals, and she’d replied,That reminds me, how’s Richie’s family?
Gina had always been kind of a smart-ass.
I was thinking about Gina now—her smart mouth and her excellent memory—as the hostess led me through the second of the two enormous rooms, bobbing and weaving her way around patrons.
She raised a tattooed arm above the fray and pointed to the VIP section, situated at the edge of the dance floor and up a small flight of stairs. It was a lot quieter there. I followed her to a corner banquette, where a man sat with his back to us. He wore a dark, shiny suit. It strained against his body, which was roughly the size of a vending machine.
He seemed to be alone at the table. But when I got closer, I saw a boy sitting beside him. He wore a backward baseball cap and his head was down. He may have been asleep. I told myself not to make any snarky “father of the year” comments.
On the table, there was a bottle of champagne on ice. I waited for the hostess to leave, then walked up to the human vending machine. “Swinging Dick?” I said.
The little boy lifted his head. “Sunny Randall.” His voice was deeper than I’d expected. Looking at his face, now illuminated by the glow of the sleek tablet on the table in front of him, I saw that he was an adult. Barely. He had big doe eyes and freckles across his nose and a sweet little peach fuzz mustache.
“You’re Swinging Dick?” I asked him.
He nodded. “This is Ralph.”
“Hi, Ralph,” I said.
The vending machine said nothing.
“Ralph doesn’t talk,” said Swinging Dick. He scooched a little closer to his enormous pal. “Join us,” he said.
I perched at the edge of the banquette, across from Ralph. I hugged my bag close to my side. My phone vibrated with a text.
Swinging Dick poured out a glass of champagne and slid it in front of me. “Cristal. 2015.” He said it like he expected me to swoon.
“Maybe later,” I said. “If I feel like we have anything to toast.”
“I got something for you to toast,” Swinging Dick said with a painstaking wink.
“I highly doubt it,” I said.
“Hey, be nice,” he said. “I’m a delightful person, once you get to know me.”
I was getting tired of this conversation. “I’m assuming Mr. Burke told you what I need.”
“Yeah.”
