NYPD Red 4

by James Patterson

  “Here they come,” I said to Cheryl. “I don’t know when I’ll be home, but I’ll text you and keep you posted.”

  “Text me?” she said, her voice suddenly sharp. “Zach, where’s your head? I’m going with you.”

  That threw me. “Cheryl, it’s a crime scene. Since when does—”

  “Since when? A police officer’s husband was murdered. It’s my job to evaluate Kylie to determine whether or not she’s fit for duty, and having done this far too many times in the past, I can tell you my best guess: she’s not.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “We’re all in shock. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  She didn’t say a word, and I wondered if I’d just undone the last two hours of brilliant fence-mending with one dumb remark.

  The convoy pulled up: two squad cars followed by a Ford van, then another two squad cars. The van stopped directly in front of us, and a uniform jumped out and slid the door open. I climbed into the back, and Cheryl sat in the center row next to Kylie. She’d been crying, and Cheryl put a comforting arm around her, although I wondered how much comfort was possible.

  “It’s my fault,” Kylie said as soon as we started rolling. “I should never have kicked him out of the apartment.”

  “You didn’t kick him out,” Cheryl said. “You checked him into rehab.”

  Kylie shook her head. “It was a day program. I could have let him live at home.”

  “Do you really think that would have made a difference?” Cheryl said, her voice consoling and without a trace of judgment. “Addicts put their lives at risk every day—it’s what they do. No one can stop them, and when it ends in tragedy, it’s never anybody’s fault but their own. I know you know that.”

  Kylie nodded her head and whispered “Thank you.” Cheryl took a quick look over her shoulder and made eye contact with me just in case I still didn’t understand why she was along for the ride.

  The traffic was thin, and the ribbon of strobe lights quickly scattered everyone in our path as we sped through Spanish Harlem and over the Madison Avenue Bridge into the southern tip of our city’s most ravaged borough.

  Back in the seventies, the South Bronx was the epicenter of murder, rape, robbery, and arson in the U.S., and the cry “The Bronx is burning” was heard across America. Today, many of the burned-out buildings have been replaced, but with half the population living below the poverty line, the area is still a magnet for gangs, drug peddlers, and violent crime.

  As we turned onto East 163rd Street, I thought about all the “safer places” in the city to cop drugs, and I wondered what drew a white-collar junkie to the dark, unwelcoming streets here in the shadow of Yankee Stadium.

  And then Cheryl’s words echoed in my brain. “Addicts put their lives at risk every day—it’s what they do.” Spence Harrington had done it once too often.

  The van pulled to a stop, the door opened, and a tall man in an NYPD windbreaker introduced himself to Kylie. “Detective Peter Varhol,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss, Detective MacDonald.”

  He led the way to the crime scene. Kylie and I had seen it many times before: a fetid patch of ground in the bowels of the city, a drug buy gone bad, a body lying under a sheet. Some cops say they’re immune to it, but for me it’s always gut-wrenching. Only this time it was personal.

  Cheryl and I stood back a respectful distance and let Kylie approach the body. A technician pulled back the sheet, and she fell to her knees. Within seconds she slumped over, and her body heaved with sobs.

  Cheryl moved closer, knelt beside her, crossed herself, and then stood up abruptly. “Zach,” she said, her head motioning toward the corpse.

  I stepped forward and dropped to my knees next to Kylie. The man on the ground had a blood-caked hole in the middle of his forehead. His eyes were wide-open, a look of utter disbelief frozen on his face.

  He was dead. Murdered in cold blood. But he wasn’t Spence.

  CHAPTER 42

  “First body I ever called wrong,” Detective Varhol said to Kylie. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Kylie said. “The first responder saw my name in Spence’s wallet. I got the call before you were even on the scene.”

  “I know, but the cop who ID’d the body is a rookie,” Varhol said. “And the vic looks enough like the picture on your husband’s driver’s license that it’s an easy mistake to make, but damn, once I got here, I should have taken a closer look.”

  It was a much bigger mea culpa than the situation called for. I was thinking what a stand-up guy Varhol was when he smoothly shifted gears. “You recognize him, don’t you?” he said.

  Kylie hadn’t volunteered the victim’s name, but Varhol had good cop instincts, and he’d disarmed her just enough to catch her off guard.

  Withholding information is one thing. Lying is another. Kylie owned up. “His first name is Marco. I don’t know his last name. My husband is a TV producer, and Marco worked for the catering company that services Spence’s productions.”

  Varhol waited for more, but that was all she was going to give up.

  “Detective MacDonald,” he said, “this was a drug deal gone south. If your husband is using, that’s your problem. My problem is that I have a homicide to solve, and I need all the help I can get.”

  Kylie filled him in on what we found at Shelley’s apartment.

  “And this kid Seth,” Varhol said. “Do you know his last name?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea how I can track him down?”

  “He works at Silvercup Studios. Why don’t you swing by there first thing in the morning? They usually gear up by seven.”

  “The morning,” Varhol repeated.

  “Please,” Kylie said.

  Varhol looked at his watch. “It’s ten thirty. I guess I could wait until morning.”

  Anyone listening to their conversation would have taken them for two cops talking logistics, but I knew enough to read the subtext.

  Seth might have information that could lead to the killer, and Varhol wanted to interview him immediately. Kylie also wanted to talk to Seth, because he might lead her to Spence. But she wasn’t connected to the case or the official investigation, so Varhol gave her until seven a.m. to do what she always does: bend the rules.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “And when you find your husband,” he said, “give me a call. I have his wallet, and I’d like to know how it wound up in a dead man’s pocket.”

  He walked off to talk with his crime scene tech, leaving me, Kylie, and Cheryl to talk in private.

  “We have to find Seth and talk to him tonight,” Kylie said.

  “We can start by calling Shelley Trager,” I said.

  “No. He’s gone through enough hell with Spence. Let’s call Bob Reitzfeld. He can access the employee database, and he can keep a secret.”

  “Who’s Bob Reitzfeld?” Cheryl asked.

  “He was on the job thirty years,” I said. “Great cop, but he couldn’t handle retirement, so he got a job in security at Silvercup at fifteen bucks an hour. Now he’s running the department. Kylie is right. Reitzfeld can help us.”

  Cheryl looked at Kylie. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “I know why you’re here, Dr. Robinson,” Kylie said. “If that were Spence lying on the ground, you would take me out of the line of fire and chain me to a desk, and I wouldn’t argue with you. But it’s not Spence, so believe me when I tell you I’m okay—totally okay.”

  Cheryl nodded. “In that case, I don’t want to slow you down.” She looked at me. “Either of you.”

  “What are you going to do?” I said.

  “Me?” she said, managing to look innocent and devilish at the same time. “This place is crawling with cops. I’m going to find the best-looking one and catch a ride into Manhattan.”

  “So, then I’ll see you at home,” I said.

  She gave me half a shrug. “If you’re lucky.”

  CHAPTER 43
<
br />   I called Bob Reitzfeld at home.

  “Damn,” he said when I told him about Marco. “I liked him, but the son of a bitch was a toe tag waiting to happen. I’m glad it’s not Spence.”

  “Do you know this kid Seth?”

  “Seth Penzig,” he said. “Him I don’t like.”

  “So far I haven’t met anyone who does. Why doesn’t the studio fire him?”

  He laughed. “For a smart cop, Zach, you can ask some dumb questions. It’s show business. If they got rid of all the assholes and the snow snorters, there’d be no show and no business. Hey, Spence destroyed two sets, but you can bet he’ll be invited back as soon as he cleans up his act.”

  “First we have to find him, and to do that, we have to find Seth. Can you help us track him down? We don’t have a lot of time.”

  “I pulled up his home address while you were talking,” he said. “Six three one Thirty-Ninth Avenue in Woodside. Fast enough for you?”

  I thanked him and had the van drive me and Kylie to Queens. It was a working-class neighborhood a few miles from Silvercup. Seth’s apartment was on the second floor, over a nail salon.

  We rang the bell and were buzzed in, no questions asked.

  “He didn’t even ask who it is,” Kylie said. “He must be expecting some sort of delivery.”

  Whatever Seth was expecting, it wasn’t us. He opened the door, took one look, and tried to slam it shut. But Kylie pushed it in his face, and he teetered backward into his apartment.

  “You got no cause,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “The place reeks of marijuana,” Kylie said, “which gives us plenty of cause, and which, according to part 3, title M, article 221 of the New York penal code, is not only wrong but highly illegal. And that bong on the table isn’t going to help your case.”

  She took a step toward him, and Seth cupped his hands over his balls.

  “But don’t worry, I’m going to overlook the drug abuse,” she said, “because your buddy Marco was shot tonight, and you’ve been upgraded from crackhead to murder suspect.”

  Whatever cockiness Seth had in reserve went out the window. He sat down on the edge of a coffee table that was scarred with roach burns and shook his head. “Marco was my friend. I didn’t shoot him. I don’t even have a gun.”

  “How about an alibi? Do you have one of those?” Kylie demanded. “Where did you and Marco go after he helped you hobble out of Shelley Trager’s apartment this morning?”

  “Starbucks. We were having coffee, and Spence called me. Told us to meet him in a hotel.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know if it even has a name. It’s one of those flophouses down on the Bowery where you can rent by the hour.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Spence’s style,” Kylie said.

  “That was the point. He didn’t want to go where anyone might recognize him.”

  “What happened when you got to the hotel?”

  “Spence had some blow, but it turned out to be crap—cut with baby-formula powder. Marco said he knew about this good shit he could get up in the Bronx. Colombian—95 percent pure. Spence wanted it bad. Said he’d buy if Marco would score it for him. Marco said, ‘It’s pricey. How much cash you got?’

  “Spence was pretty wasted by then, so he just takes his wallet out of his pocket and says, ‘Take it all, and don’t come back empty-handed.’ Marco says, ‘This dude doesn’t take plastic,’ so he dumps out Spence’s credit cards, puts the wallet in his pocket, and takes off. That’s the last I ever saw him. I swear.”

  “And what about Spence?”

  “Your husband is crazy, lady. After half an hour, he was climbing the walls. Couldn’t wait for Marco to get back. Said he’s going down to the meatpacking district. He’s got VIP status in one of the clubs. Tells me to call him when Marco shows up.”

  “And then what?”

  “I waited two hours. No Marco. I figured he scored the dope, and it’s up his nose by now. And no Spence, because, hell, he’s got an Amex Platinum card, so he’s probably sucking down five-hundred-dollar bottles of Grey Goose. I bailed, took the subway to Queens, and stopped for a twelve-pack at the bodega around nine, so I got a witness who can tell you I wasn’t anywhere near Marco.”

  “Don’t move,” Kylie said.

  The two of us walked to a corner of Seth’s half kitchen, where we could talk in private and still keep an eye on him.

  “Dead end,” she said. “I don’t think he’ll be much help to Varhol either, but why don’t you call him and get him over here? Maybe Seth can come up with a name for the dealer Marco was meeting.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to call Jan Hogle and have her monitor Spence’s credit cards. Do you have any other ideas?”

  “Just one. But you’re not going to like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Stop looking for Spence and start looking for the murderers and thieves that the City of New York is paying you to look for.”

  “Good call on the ‘you’re not going to like it’ part,” she said, “but you’re right. It’s my job. Besides, I have a better chance of tracking down a killer, a gang of medical-equipment thieves, and an eight-million-dollar necklace than I do of finding my husband.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Annie Ryder could fall asleep on a rock. But not tonight. After lying in bed for over an hour, her brain was still doing laps like Dale Earnhardt Jr. at Talladega.

  She wasn’t worried about Jeremy. He wanted the necklace; she wanted the money—that would be easy. Annie wrestled with the hard part. What next? Where do Teddy and I go? What do we do?

  She got out of bed, made some tea, and laced it with cognac. But the answers didn’t come, and the questions refused to go away. She went to the living room and lifted Buddy from the sideboard.

  “This is why I didn’t scatter you all over Vegas,” she said, carrying him into the bedroom. She set him down on the night table and pressed her hands against the sides of the bronze urn. “Sorry to disturb your eternal rest, but one of us has to worry about our son. You take the night shift so I can get some sleep.”

  A warm tingle let her know that Buddy was on the job. She kissed him good night, turned off the light, and fell asleep in minutes.

  In the morning she gave Teddy a short list of things to do and a long list of things not to do.

  “Why can’t I go with you?” he asked as Annie changed the bandage on his wound.

  “Let’s see. Because you’re cat-sitting, because you need your rest…and I’m trying to remember…there was a third reason. Oh yeah.” She gave him a motherly whack on the back of his head. “Because you’re wanted for armed robbery and the murder of Elena Travers.”

  “I can wear a disguise. Otherwise, who’s going to protect you on the subway?”

  “Don’t worry. I am not about to risk carrying an eight-million-dollar necklace on the N train—with or without someone to protect me. I asked Tow Truck Bob to drive me to Manhattan, wait for me, and then drive me back.”

  “Tow Truck Bob?” Teddy said, frowning. “I don’t know, Ma. You think that’s such a good idea?”

  “Relax, kiddo. Bob is one of those guys who never asks any questions. As far as he’s concerned, he’s giving me a ride into the city to pick something up. That’s all he knows, and believe me, that’s all he wants to know. I trust him.”

  “I trust him too, but don’t you think it’s kind of crazy to go by tow truck? You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Annie sighed. This was why Teddy needed her. Like Buddy always said, “The poor kid couldn’t think his way out of a room with four doors if three of them were wide-open.”

  “No, sweetie,” she said. “That’s just his nickname. He retired from the towing business a few years ago.”

  “Gotcha,” Teddy said. “What does he drive now?”

  “A Jeep Cherokee.”

  Teddy’s eyes lit up, and Annie knew what was comin
g next.

  “From now on we should start calling him Jeep Cherokee Bob.”

  “Smart thinking, kiddo,” she said, putting the finishing touch on his fresh bandage. “I’ll tell him.”

  Annie sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She still hadn’t figured out where she and Teddy should run off to once they had the money, but there was one thing she was sure of: he wasn’t smart enough to survive in New York on his own.

  She hustled him along to the other apartment and went over his things-not-to-do list one last time.

  “What time will you be back?” Teddy asked.

  “I’m meeting Jeremy at noon. If it all goes the way it’s supposed to, the whole thing should take ten minutes. Then we’ll hop on the BQE, and there’s not a lot of traffic at this hour, so I should be home by one o’clock.”

  “Cool,” Teddy said. “Could you bring me back some lunch?”

  “Sure. What would you like?”

  “Let’s see. A pastrami sandwich, a cream soda…and I’m trying to remember…there was a third thing I wanted. Oh yeah.” He tapped his forehead. “A hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.”

  Annie laughed out loud. Sometimes the kid wasn’t as dumb as she thought.

  CHAPTER 45

  When I got to work the next morning, Kylie was at her computer. “Your girlfriend ratted me out to the boss,” she said, not looking up at me.

  “If what you’re trying to say is that Dr. Robinson sent a report to Captain Cates about our late-night excursion to the Bronx, I know all about it,” I said.

  “Cheryl told you?” she said, finally deeming me worthy of eye contact.

  “Only after the fact. She gave me a heads-up as we were on our way to work this morning.”

  “Why would you need a heads-up?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe just in case I got to the office and you were in a pissy mood. But I’m happy to see you’re nothing but sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.”

  She lifted one hand from the keyboard and gave me the finger.