NYPD Red 6

by James Patterson

  “You clocked her at nine forty-seven?” I said. “Jesus, man, it’s ten fifty-three. What part of priority did we not make clear?”

  “Take it easy. Ninety percent of the requests we get are stamped priority.”

  “How many of them are connected to a homicide? If the card gets swiped again, I need to know it real time. I also need a screenshot of the blonde in the lavender scrubs.”

  “You’ll have it in two minutes,” he said.

  We ran the picture through facial-recognition software. No hit. Meaning the woman with Edith Shotwell’s stolen MetroCard had no arrest history in New York City.

  Kylie and I went back to the diaries and stayed at it until three a.m. We found nothing of value. All in all, it was not a great night for the good guys.

  CHAPTER 66

  I slept at the station house. Soundly, but not long. My cell rang and jarred me awake at 6:50. I answered and mmphed some semblance of my name into the phone.

  It was the same cop from Transit, the one I’d chewed out the night before. “Sorry to wake you, Detective,” he said, not sounding remotely apologetic, “but you said you wanted this in real time.”

  “No problem. What’ve you got?”

  By now, Kylie, who had been sleeping in the next bed, was sitting up. I put the call on speaker.

  “I’ve got another hit on your stolen MetroCard,” Transit said. “It was swiped at booth four eighty-two on the downtown six line at Seventy-Seventh Street and Lexington three minutes ago. I just pulled the video. Same woman as yesterday, same lavender scrubs.”

  “Shoot me the best screenshots you’ve got. And thanks.”

  “Any time, Detective,” he said. “Transit is always happy to come to the assistance of the elite Red Squad.”

  His voice was rife with the attitude of someone who feels like he’s just won a pissing contest, but I didn’t care. We were closing in on a suspect.

  Last night, all we knew about the woman using the MetroCard was that she was wearing scrubs. The obvious conclusion was that she was a hospital worker, but since all three robberies involved in-home caretakers, she also might have been on her way to or from a private nursing job.

  This morning she was wearing the same lavender scrubs and was catching a train about a hundred feet from the entrance of one of New York’s major hospitals.

  “She’s catching the train at Seventy-Seventh and Lex,” Kylie said. “What do you bet she works at Lenox Hill? She’s probably a nurse or a tech pulling a night shift.”

  “I know their head of security,” I said. “Let me track him down. I bet he can search the employee database and ID her.”

  “Screw the head of security,” Kylie said. “We don’t have to ID her. We know what she looks like, and I’ll bet you twenty bucks I know where she’s going.”

  “The Sixty-First Street Woodside station in Queens,” I said.

  “Right. Which means she has to take the six train to Grand Central, walk over to the Flushing line, and catch the seven train to Queens. Even if every train was waiting for her when she got to the platform, it would still take her at least twenty-five minutes to get there. More, if we’re lucky. Let’s go.”

  She bolted out the door. I followed. Not because it was the way I would have handled it, but because my partner is a heat-seeking missile, and when she’s on a mission, I know enough to either back her 100 percent or get the hell out of her way. And I’ve never done anything but back her.

  “How long do you think it’ll take us to get to Woodside?” I yelled, following her down the stairs.

  “With you behind the wheel, Grandma? About an hour and a half. With me driving, we could stop for coffee, and we’d still be there in plenty of time to collar Blondie.”

  CHAPTER 67

  Thank you,” Kylie said as I buckled up and braced myself for the ride.

  “For what?”

  “I know how you think. If it were up to you, you’d radio ahead for backup.”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “Would you like to know what thought crossed my mind? Erin got credit for taking down Dodd, Brooklyn is throwing a steak dinner to celebrate closing the Veronica Gibbs homicide, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a bunch of Queens marines steal our collar.”

  “You’re welcome,” Kylie said.

  She made a hard right onto Second Avenue, which was just on the cusp of rush hour but still moving. There’s a traffic cop on most corners in the low Sixties. One by one, the cops spotted our flashing lights and waved us onto the Ed Koch Bridge.

  “We’ve practically got eyes on her now,” Kylie said when we got to Queensboro Plaza on the other side of the East River.

  It was an overstatement. We were directly under the elevated tracks where the number 7 train to Flushing ran. But there was no train in sight.

  Kylie weaved in and out of the traffic along Queens Boulevard, then followed the tracks when they jogged to the left on Roosevelt Avenue.

  We had just passed the Fifty-Second Street station when we saw the train about a quarter of a mile in the distance. Kylie hit the gas, ran a few reds, and skidded to a stop just as a train from Manhattan pulled into the Woodside station.

  We jumped out of the car and ran up the stairs, our eyes darting left, right, and center as the early-morning commuters spilled onto the platform and headed for the exits.

  Our suspect wasn’t there.

  “NYPD runs faster than the MTA,” Kylie said, looking at her watch. “I guarantee she’ll be on the next one.”

  Seven minutes later another train rumbled into the station. We stood in the middle of the platform and flashed our shields at the conductor.

  “You can let them out of the forward cars, but don’t open the back half,” I said.

  The doors slid open in the first five cars, and about thirty people got off.

  “You see your man?” the conductor asked as we watched the passengers head toward the exit.

  “Our man is a woman,” I said. “Turn the rest of them loose, and keep it parked till I give you the green light.”

  The remaining doors opened, and I immediately spotted our lady in lavender getting off. I released the train, and Kylie and I followed her through the turnstiles.

  “Ma’am,” Kylie said.

  The woman turned around.

  “NYPD,” Kylie said, holding up her ID. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  “About the MetroCard you’re using. Where did you get it?”

  She looked confused. “Where does anybody get a MetroCard? I bought it from the machine.”

  “Ma’am, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking where you got the MetroCard you used last night at this station and then again this morning at Seventy-Seventh and Lexington Avenue.”

  I watched her eyes. The panic set in as the answer came to her. She knew exactly where she’d gotten the card, and she wasn’t eager to tell us.

  “I don’t remember,” she said. “Is that a crime?”

  Kylie was stone-faced. “Let me see some identification, please.”

  The woman’s hands trembled as she dug into her purse and pulled out a driver’s license that ID’d her as Catherine Leicester.

  “This picture looks like it was taken a few years ago, Catherine,” Kylie said, looking at the license. “The one I’ve got of you is more recent.”

  Kylie produced one of the screenshots Transit had sent us and held it close to Leicester’s face. “Now, where did you get the MetroCard?”

  Being accosted by two cops who shove a time-stamped mug shot of you in your face can be intimidating. And if you’re a basic law-abiding citizen, like Catherine Leicester turned out to be, it can be downright terrifying.

  She blurted out the truth. “I didn’t do anything wrong. My boyfriend gave it to me.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Gary. Gary Banta. Is he in trouble?”

  Kylie pressed hard. “Where is Gary rig
ht now?”

  Leicester was shaking now. “He’s at work.”

  “Where? Where does he work?”

  “He’s FDNY.”

  “So he’s a firefighter? What engine company?” Kylie demanded.

  “No,” Leicester said.

  “No what?”

  “Gary’s not a firefighter. He’s an EMT.”

  CHAPTER 68

  We took Catherine Leicester’s phone, drove her to the station, and arrested her for possession of stolen property. It was a bullshit charge. Her real crime was being Gary Banta’s girlfriend, but we needed a legal excuse to lock her up so she didn’t tip him off that we were looking for him.

  Since Banta worked for the fire department, logic might dictate that we ask for their help in tracking him down. But the FDNY is a tight-knit organization, and we knew from experience that if we reached out to them, they would immediately circle the wagons to protect their own.

  So we called the DOI. All governments have their share of crooks, and in New York City, the job of weeding out the bad apples falls to the Department of Investigation. The name is deceptively innocuous. In reality, it’s an all-powerful agency with the authority to investigate any city department, elected official, or employee.

  There were six NYPD detectives working at the DOI. Any one of them could have helped us track down Banta, but when you’re investigating a uniformed member of the FDNY, you want a detective who will ask very few questions. That was Joe Donahue.

  Five years ago Joe had been shot in the line of duty. At least a dozen detectives were assigned to look for the shooter, but I’m the one who collared him. I remember the day I walked into Joe’s hospital room and gave him the good news. He never said, I owe you one. He didn’t have to. The gratitude was in his eyes, and the bond was formed. After Joe recovered, the PC offered him a safe spot at DOI, and he grabbed it.

  I dialed his direct line. As usual, he was happy to hear from me. I did about ten seconds of the usual long-time-no-see foreplay, and then I asked if he could run a check on EMS tech Gary Banta.

  I listened as his fingers tapped away on the keyboard.

  “Got him,” he said. “He’s with division two out of the Bronx. Been on the job sixteen years. Decorated twice, once for rescuing a woman and two kids from a submerged vehicle after a flash flood.”

  “You got a photo ID and maybe a home address?” I said.

  There was only so far I could push before Donahue did his job and pushed back.

  “Zach, every keystroke I make on this computer is recorded. I didn’t have a problem with searching for a name, but I start digging deeper, and I’ve got to justify it to my boss. What are you looking at him for?”

  I told Joe about the home invasions that had led to a homicide and the stolen MetroCard that had led us to Banta.

  “Shit, man,” Donahue said. “This guy’s a hero. Are you positive it’s him?”

  “The only thing I’m positive of is that if word gets out that NYPD is looking to question a decorated member of FDNY, this whole thing will turn into an intramural shit-show. Look, Joe, I don’t want to jam you up with your bosses, but if we don’t keep this tight…”

  I let the possible consequences hang in the air unspoken.

  I heard the clack of Donahue’s keyboard.

  “Today is his day off, but he signed up to work the day game at Yankee Stadium,” Donahue said. “They’re playing the Red Sox, which is always a clusterfuck, so they heavy up on cops to deal with the drunks and double up on buses to cart away the bleeders.”

  “When does he start?”

  “A few hours before the game, so he should be out there now. Hold on. All these units have GPS.” A brief pause, and then he was back. “I’ve got three buses parked at the corner of One Hundred Sixty-First Street and River. They’re probably having coffee and shooting the shit, waiting for batting practice to start.”

  “Joe, we’re on the way up to the Bronx now. I know Banta’s name is on his uniform, but anything else you could mention to help us…”

  Again, I left it open-ended.

  “He’s driving bus number three fourteen. I’ll shoot you a copy of his ID.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I owe you one.”

  He came back fast. “No, you don’t. Good luck. And Zach, one more thing—for Banta’s sake, I hope that you’re wrong.”

  “I know, Joe. And for your sake, I hope that I’m right.”

  CHAPTER 69

  Why?” Kylie said as we barreled along the FDR Drive toward the Willis Avenue Bridge. “Why would a public servant with a stellar track record suddenly start robbing old ladies? Gambling debts? Drug addiction? Medical expenses for his family?”

  “If it were just Banta I would say any one of those could drive him to that kind of desperation,” I said. “But he’s not alone. He’s got two partners that we know of. Three EMTs can’t all be drowning in gambling debts or have kids who need kidney transplants. They’ve got to be in some serious financial shit together, and they decided that this is the only way to dig themselves out.”

  We hopped on the Deegan and headed north to the Bronx.

  “There are three buses at the stadium,” Kylie said. “Guaranteed that Banta is with at least one of his partners in crime. The problem is FDNY won’t have a record of who he was riding with because he pulled the robberies on his days off using a phony ambulance.”

  “Don’t think about the others,” I said. “Focus on Banta. DOI will pull their cell numbers and tell us who pinged off the towers in the robbery locations. All we have to do is get Banta, and we’ll get them all.”

  We got off the Deegan at Jerome Avenue, turned right on East 161st Street, and pulled up to Babe Ruth Plaza where two EMS buses were parked. Four uniformed technicians were hanging out, having coffee. None of them looked like the picture of Banta that our man at DOI had sent us.

  We were in an unmarked car, but these guys could have spotted a Crown Vic Interceptor in a crowded parking lot. We could almost see their antennas go up.

  “You think they made us for cops?” Kylie said, a big grin on her face.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you go over there and try to sell them some Girl Scout cookies? See if they fall for it.”

  “The four of them are just staring, waiting for us to make a move,” she said. “If we both get out of the car, they’ll know we’re here on business and get spooked, and one of them will radio Gary. One cop is a lot less intimidating than two.”

  “Be my guest,” I said.

  “I’d do it, but Gary already has a girlfriend. Besides, you’re not nearly as intimidating as I am.”

  I opened the car door, but I didn’t get out. “Laugh it up,” I said. “Like I’m telling you a story about my old pal Gary.”

  “Zach, we’re running a scam here, not putting on a show. Just go, and try not to screw it up.” And then she laughed.

  I laughed back and sauntered over to where the four EMTs were hanging.

  “What’s up, Detective?” one of them asked. He was white. The name on his shirt said HUNTER. “Are we in a no-parking zone or something?”

  His buddies laughed. I laughed with them and held up both hands. “Trust me,” I said, “I come in peace. I saw a couple of buses parked out here, and I thought I’d see if a friend of mine was working the game today. But I guess he’s not.”

  “What’s his name?” Hunter said.

  “Banta. Gary Banta.”

  “Gary’s around.”

  “I can’t stay long. My partner’s all antsy about getting back, but I’d love to catch him for a few minutes. I haven’t seen him in a while. I used to run into him all the time when I was at the Five Two.”

  “Well, then, you know he never drinks coffee,” Hunter said. “He took a run over to the juice bar to pick up a spinach smoothie or some healthy crap like that.”

  “That’s Gary,” I said. “He’s going to outlive us all.”

  “What’s your name? I can raise him up on t
he radio for you.”

  “I’m Zach. But do me a favor, don’t radio him. Do you know which juice bar? I want to see the look on his face when I surprise him.”

  “It’s the one over on Gerard Ave. next to the Foodtown. There’ll be a big red and white bus in front of it with FDNY plastered across the side. You think you can find it, Detective?”

  The other three laughed again. “You guys are bigger ballbusters than Gary,” I said, laughing with them.

  I thanked the EMTs, walked back to the car, and got in. “Gary’s at a juice bar,” I said, pulling up Google Maps. “Go straight and make a left on Gerard. At least we get to arrest him without the four of them giving us a hard time.”

  Thirty seconds later Kylie made the turn onto Gerard, and I could see the Foodtown. What I didn’t see was a juice bar. Or an FDNY ambulance.

  “Shit,” I said. “I’ve been suckered.”

  I was about to call Joe Donahue at DOI, but my cell rang. He’d beat me to it.

  “Zach,” he said, “did you make it to the Bronx yet?”

  “Yeah, but Banta’s crew sent me on a wild-goose chase. By now, I’m sure they radioed him and told him we’re coming.”

  “That would explain why he left the stadium and is headed north on the Deegan doing eighty miles an hour.”

  CHAPTER 70

  They say that police work, like war, is hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. The monotony of filling out DD-5s and sifting through surveillance videos was suddenly behind us, and while the prospect of a high-speed chase produced more adrenaline than terror for me, knowing that Kylie was behind the wheel was not without its sense of dread.

  “Buckle up,” she said, firing up the light bar and hopping onto the sidewalk to make a U-turn. She gave the siren a couple of whoop-whoops, yelled, “Out of my way, people,” to pedestrians and drivers who needed no verbal warning, and barreled the wrong way down a crowded one-way street.

  By the time I grabbed the radio and turned it to a citywide channel, we were tearing across Jerome Avenue toward the service road to the Deegan.