NYPD Red 4

by James Patterson

There was a pocket seating area on the wide traffic island that separated Fifth from Broadway. Jeremy bought a bottle of water from a pushcart vendor, found an empty table, and sipped slowly. The water went down easy. He could swallow. He could breathe. He could do this.

  He took out his cell and sent a text.

  It did not go well. Can I come over?

  The response came back immediately.

  No!!! Brother here. talk later.

  Jeremy fumed. Later? He drank the rest of the water and texted back.

  Pick a place NOW or I’m banging on your front door.

  It took two minutes for the answer to come back.

  Trailer Park Lounge 271 West 23. Five minutes.

  “Stupid rich asshole,” Jeremy said to the text.

  It took ten minutes to walk west to the Trailer Park Lounge. He’d never heard of it, but as soon as he walked through the door, he knew why it was the perfect spot to meet. It was the kind of intentionally tacky dive that Leo Bassett wouldn’t be caught dead in.

  Max Bassett, on the other hand, looked right at home. He was at a table in the rear, wearing jeans, a faded plaid shirt, and a ratty old baseball cap with a logo that simply said HAT. There were two bottles of beer in front of him.

  “What do you mean ‘It did not go well’?” Max said, picking up one beer and pushing the other in Jeremy’s direction. “I thought Leo gave you the cash. What did the old lady do? Hold you up for more?”

  “No,” Jeremy said. “She was drooling over the money. But the necklace she was peddling was a fake. So I pulled the plug and walked out on her.”

  Max’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You…you had the necklace in your hand, and you gave it back?”

  “You’re damn right I did. Max, it wasn’t worth a hundred and seventy-five grand, let alone eight million. I thought—”

  “Since when do I pay you to think? You were given specific instructions: ‘Buy the necklace from the old lady.’”

  “Max, I know enough about gems to be able to tell what real emeralds and diamonds look like. I took a good look at the necklace with a loupe. Annie Ryder was trying to sell me a fake—a total piece of shit.”

  “You know nothing about gems. What you were looking at was a perfectly crafted replica using cultured crystals instead of real stones. And it’s far from a piece of shit. It may not be expensive, but it’s still an original Max Bassett.”

  Jeremy tried to make sense of what Max had said, but the vise was starting to tighten around his chest again, and most of his brain was preoccupied with warding off the pain.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would you dress Elena Travers up in a fake necklace?”

  “Did you think I would trust you to steal the real one? If you ever got your hands on it, you’d be on a one-way flight to God knows where—first class.”

  “So you have the real necklace?”

  “I never let it out of my sight. And as soon as the insurance company pays me for my loss, I will refashion it and make several wealthy women extremely happy. What I don’t have is the imitation. Are you beginning to understand why I need it, Jeremy?”

  Jeremy nodded. “Yeah, I get it. You’re afraid the old lady will turn it in to the insurance company, and once they have it, they’ll figure out that the original was never stolen.”

  “You really don’t have a head for this, do you, Jeremy? The old lady can’t turn it in to the insurance company. It would be like saying, ‘Here’s what my son stole.’ And she can’t find a buyer, because who would want to buy a fake piece of shit?”

  “I can fix this,” Jeremy said. “I know where she lives. I’ll give her the hundred and seventy-five. She’ll be happy to make the deal.”

  “Is that the money in the bag?” Max asked.

  “Every penny.”

  “Let me see.”

  Jeremy slipped the bag from his shoulder and handed it to Max.

  “You won’t be needing this anymore,” Max said. “I’ll take care of the old lady.”

  “Don’t be crazy. Give me the money. I’ll be back with the necklace in two hours.”

  Max laughed. “Even Leo is not dumb enough to believe that. Good-bye, Jeremy.”

  “You want to get rid of me, fine. But you owe me. I put months into this job, and so far I haven’t been paid anything.”

  “That’s because so far you haven’t earned anything,” Max said. “You bungled the job from the get-go.”

  “Give me a break, Max. It’s not my fault Elena wound up dead.”

  “Perhaps,” Max said. “But it’s definitely your fault that Leo is still alive.”

  CHAPTER 49

  “The only reason Leo is still alive is because he never made it to the limo,” Jeremy said, his voice an angry whisper. “How can you blame that on me?”

  “I’m not blaming that on you,” Max said, resting a hand on his chin and gently stroking his beard. “But you’ve had plenty of other opportunities since then.”

  “Opportunities? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You spent all of last night shacked up with him at a hotel.”

  “And what was I supposed to do? Shoot him in bed and leave his body on the room-service cart?”

  Max shrugged. “I’m not in charge of logistics, Jeremy. You are. All I know is that we had an agreement. I promised you a shitload of money—far more than you’re worth—and you would see to it that Leo was the unfortunate victim of a jewelry heist gone horribly wrong.”

  “And that’s exactly what would have happened. Raymond Davis was a contemptible, cold-blooded scumbag. All it took to get him to agree to kill Leo was to promise him ten thousand more than I was giving Teddy. It was a solid plan.”

  “And yet,” Max said, lifting his beer from the table and dabbing with a napkin at the wet ring it left behind, “Raymond not only failed to shoot Leo, he murdered Elena Travers and turned your solid plan into an international cause célèbre.”

  “Shit happens, Max.”

  “Apparently it happens to you more often than to most criminal masterminds. But I was willing to overlook it. Do you know why? Because I had faith that you could bounce back from your monumental blunder and get it right the second time around. I mean, after all, you still had Raymond Davis, and from what I understood, it wouldn’t take much for you to convince him to try his luck with Leo a second time. But did you do that? Did you seek out Raymond and try to motivate your handpicked employee to finish the job?”

  He slammed the beer bottle back down on the table. “No! Instead, you went to Raymond’s apartment and you killed him. And now you want me to pay you for all your hard work?”

  “Fine,” Jeremy said. “So I didn’t finish that part of the job. But I still want to be paid for stealing the necklace.”

  “Stealing it and losing it,” Max said. “Twice. First you were outwitted by a half-wit, and then you had it in your hand, and you gave it back, leaving me in a position where I will have to negotiate with a woman who is as well versed in the art of the deal as a Wall Street banker. Bottom line: you failed at every turn, and Max Bassett doesn’t reward failure. At the risk of repeating myself, good-bye, Jeremy.”

  Jeremy’s shoulder slumped. “No. Please, Max, I know I messed it up, but don’t dump me now. Give me one more chance to make it right.”

  Max folded his arms across his chest and sat back in his chair. His body language said it all. I am impenetrable.

  Jeremy countered with body language of his own. He spread his arms wide and placed his palms on the table. I am defenseless, vulnerable, and I trust you. “I know what you need,” he said in a near whisper. “Leo has been a thorn in your side your entire life. And now, with this Precio Mundo opportunity at your fingertips, the thorn has become a roadblock, a barricade.”

  Max’s head moved. An involuntary nod. Jeremy had struck the right chord.

  “I know him, Max,” Jeremy said, leaning in. “I know him intimately, and he has sworn to me that he will never give in.
Your brother will stand in the way of your dreams until the day he dies. Give me one more chance to make that day come fast. Today, if you want.”

  “How much do you want?” Max said.

  “It’s a one-time-only payment. Once I have the money, you’ll never see or hear from me again.”

  “How much do you want, Jeremy?”

  “A million dollars.” Jeremy smiled. “I realize that you could shop around and get it done for less, but you’ve been grooming me for this job for months. Leo trusts me. Just say the word, and when you wake up tomorrow morning, the destiny of Bassett Brothers Jewelry will be in your hands, and yours alone.”

  “Do it,” Max said. “I’ll go to my club for dinner and play poker till eleven p.m. Leo will be home alone. If he’s dead when I get there, I’ll wire you the million. Otherwise, you’re broke, unemployed, and wanted for murder.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jeremy said. “I won’t let you down. Thank you.”

  “Of course you won’t,” Max said, a self-satisfied smirk crossing his lips.

  Jeremy took a long, slow deep breath. The oxygen filled his lungs, and he realized how effortless it had been. He exhaled slowly. Another breath. His chest pains were gone, his focus was back. Somewhere during Max’s harangue the anxiety and the fear had turned to resolve. Max was not Leo. Max was a formidable opponent, and Jeremy was determined to crush him.

  No, he thought, staring at the sardonic smile that mocked him from across the table. More than crush him. Kill him.

  CHAPTER 50

  I underestimated Kylie. I figured she’d spend the entire day second-guessing her decision to put off rescuing Spence, but I was wrong. She was pleasant, productive, and we breezed through our shift.

  First we met with Howard Sykes. “I had a long talk with Phil Landsberg, the CEO at Hudson,” he said. “Needless to say, he’s not jumping up and down at the thought of his hospital being the target of the next robbery, but he finally caved. I’d like to tell you that it was my four decades as an advertising genius that won him over, but it wasn’t.”

  “So now you owe him,” I said.

  Sykes frowned. “Actually, Muriel owes him. I just have to break the news to her that she’ll be the guest of honor at their next fund-raiser,” he said. “I’ve done my part. What’s next?”

  “We do ours,” Kylie said. “A mammogram machine that is 40 percent more effective at detecting breast cancer is newsworthy. We’ll have our PIO reach out to the media to spread the word. Then we’ll meet with ESU and the head of security at Hudson to work out the logistics. Do you want us to keep you in the loop as we go along?”

  “Nobody likes a micromanager,” Sykes said. “You don’t have to report back to me till you’ve got those people locked up. But before I bow out, I have one message to pass on to the two of you from Phil Landsberg. He said, ‘You can let those bastards into my hospital, but whatever you do, don’t let them out.’”

  By four p.m. the plan was in full swing. All we needed was for the gang to take the bait and move Hudson to the top of their hit list. At six we left the office.

  “Did you tell Cheryl where we’re going tonight?” Kylie asked as we slogged through rush hour traffic on the FDR.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I told her you and I would be working late, but she didn’t ask me for the details, so I didn’t volunteer. Plus she’s going out to dinner and the theater with her mom, so she won’t be home until eleven. If we’re lucky, I’ll be back by then.”

  Traffic opened up after 34th, and we got to the Downtown Manhattan Heliport by 6:35. Rodrigo was waiting for us in the VIP lounge.

  “When we get to the hotel, go to the front desk and ask for your key,” he said. “Just say ‘Mrs. Harrington, room 1178.’ Your name is in the computer.”

  “I don’t have an ID with my married name,” Kylie said.

  “Don’t worry. They won’t ask,” Rodrigo said. “It gets pretty noisy once we’re in the air. Any more questions?”

  “Just one,” Kylie said. “I’ve had my IT people monitor Spence’s credit cards, but so far we haven’t gotten a hit. How did he check into the Borgata?”

  “Corporate card. Silvercup Studios.” Rodrigo was not the chatty type. “We good?” he asked, signaling an end to the conversation.

  Kylie nodded, and he led us across the tarmac to a waiting Sikorsky S-76C. According to the brochure tucked in our seat pockets, the Borgata was the biggest hotel in Jersey, with a 161,000-square-foot casino, a 54,000-square-foot spa, and a 2,400-seat event center.

  “Spence should be easy to find,” Kylie said. “He’ll be holed up in his room.”

  Thirty-seven minutes after liftoff we set down on the Steel Pier in Atlantic City. A car was waiting to drive us the two miles to the Borgata. Q had covered all the bases.

  Walking into the main entrance of the hotel, my senses were bombarded by the over-the-top grandeur of the decor and the nerve-jangling flashing lights and clanging bells of the slot machines.

  There were three clerks at the reception desk. “The one on the left,” Rodrigo directed.

  Kylie walked up to him, said a few words, and the clerk responded with a broad smile and a flat plastic room key.

  “Smooth as silk,” Rodrigo said as the three of us walked toward the elevator.

  There was a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on Spence’s door. Kylie looked at me and silently mouthed two words: Thank you. Then she took the key card, slid it into the lock, and pulled it out. A green light flashed, and she pushed the door open hard.

  Spence, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a single sock, was lying on the carpet, faceup, a trail of wet vomit trickling from the side of his mouth.

  His drug kit had spilled onto the floor, and an empty syringe was only inches from his motionless body.

  CHAPTER 51

  The number of heroin overdose deaths among young white males has skyrocketed in recent years, and from the looks of him, Spence Harrington was well on his way to becoming the latest statistic.

  His lips had a blue tinge, his pupils were black pinholes, and the ominous death rattle that came from the back of his throat was a sure sign that his respiratory system was shutting down permanently.

  Kylie dropped to her knees and tried to breathe for him, but he was unresponsive. “Narcan!” she yelled. “My bag.”

  I grabbed her black leather handbag, turned it upside down, and everything poured out: money, makeup, tampons, keys, and then a small blue pouch with large white letters printed on it.

  OVERDOSE PREVENTION RESCUE KIT

  PREVENCION DE SOBREDOSIS EQUIPO DE RESCATE

  In the war against drugs, Narcan—naloxone hydrochloride—is saving lives one junkie at a time. Normally it’s issued to 911 responders, but Kylie had had the presence of mind to grab a kit at the station before we left.

  I tilted Spence’s head back while she loaded the syringe, inserted one end into Spence’s nostril, and sprayed half the liquid up his nose. Then she switched to the other nostril, gave another short, vigorous push on the plunger, and shot the rest of the naloxone toward his brain receptors.

  It worked instantly, and Spence bolted up, coughing, cursing, and fighting us off. There was no gratitude, just anger—the addict’s natural reaction when you screw up his high.

  “Rodrigo,” Kylie said, “this stuff wears off in less than an hour. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

  “I’m already on it, boss,” he said, cell phone to his ear. He swept his hand across the room. “This is nasty shit to leave for the chambermaid.”

  Kylie grabbed Spence’s overnight bag from the closet and began picking up the drug paraphernalia.

  I bent down to give her a hand.

  “Don’t!” she said.

  I backed off. She was destroying evidence at a crime scene, and she didn’t want me to help. “But you can put my stuff back in my bag,” she said.

  There was a loud knock at the d
oor.

  “Housekeeping,” a deep male voice said.

  Rodrigo opened the door, and three stone-faced men in dark suits entered, one pushing a wheelchair. Without a word, two of them lifted Spence up off the floor, plopped him down in the chair, and seat-belted him in tight.

  I retrieved Kylie’s belongings while the extraction team helped her scoop up Spence’s shoes, pants, and whatever might connect him to the makeshift drug den. Less than thirty seconds after they arrived, they ushered us out the door. Dark Suits One and Two led the way down the long corridor, followed by the man pushing the wheelchair, then Kylie, then me. Rodrigo brought up the rear.

  Spence was ranting about his rights, but none of the suits cared enough to shut him up. A young couple passed us in the hallway and barely looked at us. I got the feeling that seeing a phalanx of people remove a crazy man from an Atlantic City hotel was not all that unusual.

  The entire operation was perfectly choreographed: service elevator to an underground garage to an unmarked van for the two-mile drive to AtlantiCare Regional Medical Center. As soon as they handed Spence over to the ER docs, the rescue team from housekeeping disappeared, and Rodrigo escorted us to a VIP waiting room.

  Forty-five minutes later, a bleary-eyed young resident walked in and said, “Harrington.”

  Kylie stood up. “How is he?”

  “Lucky to be alive,” the doc said, his tone clearly unsympathetic to those who clutter up his ER with self-inflicted wounds. “He has bilateral pneumonia. His lungs were compromised by the vomit he aspirated, so we’re keeping him on an IV antibiotic drip for the next seventy-two hours.”

  “But he’ll be okay,” Kylie said, looking for reassurance.

  The doctor shrugged. “This time around.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “He said he’d rather not have any visitors.”

  Kylie flashed her shield. “I’m a cop. He’s a junkie. Take me to his room.”

  CHAPTER 52