NYPD Red 4

by James Patterson

  Spence was in bed, staring at the ceiling, when Kylie and I entered. “Congratulations. You found me,” he said, not turning his head to look at us. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know,” Kylie said, almost playfully. “For starters, I thought I’d save your life.”

  “Who asked you? I left New York to get away from you trying to save my life. Leave me alone, Kylie.”

  “Honey,” she said, doing her best to stay composed, “I’m just trying to help you get through this.”

  He twisted his body so he could look at her. “Help? Is that what you call it when you kick my friend in the balls? Get it through your stubborn I’m-a-rock-star-detective brain, Kylie. You can’t help me. I’m an addict. I tried rehab, and it didn’t take.”

  “Bullshit!” she yelled, giving up the tolerant, empathetic wife charade that has never been her style. “You were clean and sober for eleven years. You can do it again.”

  “Don’t you get it?” he yelled back, thumping his fist on the mattress. “I don’t want to do it again. I’m a junkie, and I’m back in full-blown junkie mode. I need the high. I want the high. I don’t want to do anything except get high, and all you want to do is preach the same program bullshit. It doesn’t help, so unless you’re here to arrest me, get out and stop trying to save me. If I want to kill myself, that’s my business.”

  “You want to kill yourself, asshole?” Kylie said, spitting out the words in a low growl. She reached into her holster, pulled out her gun, and shoved it at him, butt first. “Go ahead. Blow your brains out right here and spare me the agony of another long ride in the back of a police van to identify your body.”

  Spence turned his head and looked away.

  “Not ready yet?” Kylie said. “Call me when you are. I’ll keep it loaded.” She holstered her gun and stormed out the door.

  “Don’t go,” Spence said.

  “Too late,” I said.

  “I mean you, Zach,” he said, rolling over and sitting up. “What the hell did she mean about identifying my body?”

  “Your buddy Marco went up to the Bronx last night with a wallet full of money,” I said. “Your wallet.”

  “So I lent a friend some money. Since when is that a crime?”

  “You didn’t lend him anything, Spence. You sent him on a drug run to a war zone and gave him enough cash to make him a target. It worked. Somebody put a bullet through his head. And since he had your ID in his pocket, your wife spent a couple of hours thinking it was you. She doesn’t want to go through it again. And neither do I.”

  Spence didn’t say a word.

  “You’re right about one thing,” I said. “Kylie can’t help you. I don’t think you even want help. But just in case you ever feel like you do, hang on to this number.”

  I took a piece of paper out of my pocket.

  He looked at me in disgust. “I already have your number, Zach. Don’t hold your breath waiting for the phone to ring.”

  Kylie opened the door. “Cates called. We have to roll. Now!”

  I handed him the number. “Good luck,” I said, and left the room wondering if I’d ever see him alive again.

  “I didn’t tell Cates where we were,” Kylie said as we double-timed our way down the hallway. “I just told her we’re on our way to the scene.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Another hospital robbery.”

  “If only,” she said. “It’s a double homicide, and it’s got Cates climbing the walls.”

  “And she called us in on it?” I said. “She knows we’re already stretched six ways to Sunday. Why would she dump two more bodies on us?”

  “Probably because these two have our names written all over them.”

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “No positive ID, but they’re lying on the kitchen floor of the Bassett brothers’ loft building.”

  CHAPTER 53

  “If it makes you feel any better,” I said to Kylie once we were in the car on the way back to the chopper, “you saved his life.”

  “That’s what cops do,” she said. “But this is the first time I ever felt like I owed an apology to the guy whose life I saved.”

  “You don’t owe Spence anything,” I said. “There’s nothing you can do that you haven’t already done.”

  “How about you? I saw you give him your phone number.”

  “It wasn’t my number. It was the twenty-four-hour hotline to NA right here in Atlantic City. There was a tear-off sheet on the bulletin board in the waiting room. I figured he’s never going to call his counselor in New York, but on the outside chance that Marco’s death is a wake-up call for him, maybe he’ll reach out to a total stranger.”

  “Thanks.” She turned and stared out the window to let me know the conversation was over.

  We were almost at the helipad when my phone rang. “Oh crap,” I said as soon as I checked caller ID.

  “Sounds to me like it’s either the boss or your girlfriend,” Kylie said, “and since Cates just called, I’m guessing it’s Cheryl.”

  It was. I had hoped to be back in New York before she knew I was gone, but like a lot of people in Atlantic City, I had gambled and lost.

  “Hey,” I said, answering the phone. “It’s not even nine thirty. I thought you and your mother were at the theater.”

  “It was abysmal,” she said. “We left at intermission. I thought you’d be home by now. Where are you?”

  “Atlantic City.”

  “Atlantic—what’s Red doing down there?”

  “It’s not police business. Kylie tracked down Spence, and she needed some help, so—”

  “So you drove down there with her?”

  “Actually, we took a chopper.”

  “Are you kidding me? The department paid for a helicopter just so Kylie could pick up her husband?”

  “It’s a private charter. A guy we know was trying to help Kylie out, and—look, it’s a long story.”

  “And when, if ever, were you going to tell me about it?”

  “Cheryl, I really can’t get into this now.”

  “I’m sure you can’t,” she said. “Maybe you can find some time to get into it when you get home. When will that be?”

  “I don’t know. The Elena Travers case just heated up. We’re on our way to the crime scene now.”

  “By helicopter,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “So now you’re on police business, but you’re still using Kylie’s private helicopter.”

  “We’ll talk when I get home,” I said.

  “I can’t wait,” she said. “Have a nice flight.” She hung up.

  I smiled and kept talking. “Yeah, it looks like Spence is going to spend a few more nights in the hospital,” I said into the dead air. “Okay, I’ll tell her you send your best. Love you too.”

  The car came to a stop, and I put the phone in my pocket. “Cheryl sends her regards,” I said.

  I had no idea if Kylie bought my act, but she nodded a thank-you.

  CHAPTER 54

  It was almost ten thirty by the time Kylie and I got to West 21st Street, and once again the Bassett brothers’ urban palace was awash in flashing police lights. A perimeter had been set up, and the usual contingent of uniforms had been posted to keep out the curious.

  “That’s weird,” Kylie said, pointing at the lone figure standing outside the front door.

  It was Chuck Dryden. It has long been a given that Chuck is a weird guy, but this was particularly out of character. Instead of being in the house, fussing over a body or ruminating over a piece of evidence, he was standing outside, vaping an e-cig. Even more unusual was his reaction when he saw us.

  “Detectives,” he called out. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Sorry we’re late,” Kylie said. “Zach and I were out of the city, and—”

  “No, no, no. I wasn’t chastising you about the time,” he said, pocketing the e-cig. “It’s just that I’ve made some interesting findings, and I’ve bee
n rather anxious to get the two of you in the loop.”

  “Chuck,” I said, “we are so far out of the loop that we don’t even know who the victims are.”

  “Even better,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go upstairs and take a look.”

  We took the elevator to the third floor, where Kylie and I had met with the Bassett brothers just a few nights ago. Leo’s showpiece apartment now looked like a triage center where technicians wearing latex gloves and disposable shoe covers probed, dusted, and photographed every inch. The air smelled of wine and death.

  We followed Chuck into the kitchen. There were two bodies stretched out on the slate-gray tile. The first was short, fat, and viciously mutilated. It was Leo Bassett.

  “Twenty-two stab wounds,” Dryden said. “Most of them defensive.”

  I surveyed the room. There was broken glass everywhere: wine bottles, ceramic bowls, a crystal decanter—all of which must have been knocked off the counter as Leo tried to fight off his assailant.

  “He put up a good fight,” I said.

  “Not good enough. Here’s the winner,” Dryden said, pointing at the second body.

  The man was about half Leo’s age. The left side of his face was resting in a puddle of wine, and the front of his shirt had a similar red stain, only this one was emanating from the hole in the center of his chest.

  “Do you recognize him?” Dryden asked.

  I shook my head. “Should we?”

  He produced an iPad and brought up a photo. It was the fuzzy surveillance screenshot we had captured from Elliott Moritz’s security video the night Raymond Davis was murdered.

  “It could be the same guy,” I said.

  “I ran it through facial recognition software. It is. His name is Jeremy Nevins. The weapon came from here.”

  There was a large wooden knife block sitting on the counter. Seven of the eight slots still had knives in them. One slot was empty.

  Chuck held up an evidence bag. A bloody knife that matched the seven in the block was inside. “It wound up on the other side of the room when Nevins was shot, but his prints are all over it.”

  “Nevins killed Leo,” Kylie said. “You could make our jobs a lot easier if you also happen to know who killed Nevins.”

  Dryden beamed. He was smitten with Kylie, but he had limited social skills, so he relied on his forensic expertise to win her approval. He held up a second evidence bag. This one contained a .357 Magnum.

  “It belongs to Max Bassett. He turned it over to the first officer on the scene. Said he was upstairs, heard the scuffle between Leo and Nevins, and raced down to see what was going on.”

  “He raced down with a loaded .357?” Kylie said.

  Dryden shrugged. “I didn’t ask. I’m not a detective.”

  “For a guy who’s not a detective, you just helped us close out the Raymond Davis murder,” she said. “No wonder you were so anxious to connect with us. Thank you, Chuck.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Where can we find Max Bassett?” she asked.

  “He’s waiting for you in the den. Two officers are with him. But there’s one more thing I need to share with you before you go.”

  “Share away,” she said. “You’re on a roll.”

  He held up a third evidence bag. Inside was a diamond and emerald necklace. He handed it to Kylie.

  “Oh, Chuck,” she said, playing to his male ego. “Thank you. It’s just what I always wanted.”

  CHAPTER 55

  “Where the hell did you find that?” I said.

  “It was wrapped up in a chamois cloth in Mr. Nevins’s backpack,” Chuck said. “I’ve already verified the laser inscriptions. It’s the necklace you’ve been looking for, but you don’t seem particularly happy that I’ve recovered it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that three people have already died for that bag of green rocks and pressurized carbon. Elena Travers, Raymond Davis, and Leo Bassett. Every cop instinct in my body tells me that Teddy Ryder had the necklace—he was just too dumb to know how to unload it. But if you found it on Nevins, then Teddy’s body is probably rotting in a dumpster somewhere.”

  “Along with his con artist mother,” Kylie said.

  One of the uniformed cops approached us. “Hate to interrupt you, Detectives, but Mr. Bassett says he needs a drink.”

  “Tell him to take a number,” Kylie snapped. “Right about now, we all do.”

  The cop took a step back. “Sorry, ma’am, but he told me to tell you that his brother was murdered, he just killed a guy, and he’d like to get shit-faced, but he doesn’t want to start until he’s been interviewed by the detectives.”

  “How considerate,” Kylie said. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

  The cop escorted us to what Dryden had referred to as Leo Bassett’s den. There was nothing den-like about it. To me it looked more like the parlor of an eighteenth-century brothel, but then Leo and I didn’t share the same design sensibilities. Brother Max, wearing camo cargo shorts and an Everlast T-shirt, looked equally out of sync with the decor.

  He was standing next to a spindle-legged desk, a bottle of water in one hand. “Detectives,” he said, frowning like a customer who had to wait too long for a salesclerk.

  “We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Bassett,” I said. “Please tell us what happened.”

  “It was about nine o’clock. I was in my studio on the fourth floor, working on a new piece, when I heard Leo’s doorbell ring. Then I heard the elevator go up and stop on three. I didn’t think much about it. Leo gets quite a few late-night visitors. After that I got lost in my work, so I’m not sure how much time went by before I heard the yelling.”

  “Who was yelling?”

  “Leo. I told you when you were here the other night that my brother is a total diva. He’s been throwing hissy fits and teary-eyed tantrums for sixty years. I’m immune to it.”

  “Could you make out what he was saying?” I said.

  “Not at first, but then it got louder, and I heard the other guy scream ‘a million dollars,’ and my ears perked up. Leo has had more than his share of noisy breakups with boyfriends, which is none of my business, but this was about money—a lot of money—and if Leo is spending it, that is my business.

  “I was deciding if I should go downstairs and find out what was happening when I heard glass break. Then Leo yelled, ‘Max, help! He’s got a knife!’ After that, it was chaos. More glass shattering, and Leo screaming these horrible, ghastly shrieks and calling my name.

  “I grabbed a gun and ran down one flight of stairs, but by the time I got to the kitchen, Leo was on the floor, the blood pouring out of him. Then this maniac came at me with the knife. I didn’t hesitate. I’m an expert marksman, Detective. One shot, and it was over. I ran to my brother, but the knife must have severed one of his arteries. He was dead before I could even dial 911.”

  “Do you know the man who stabbed him?”

  “I’ve met him a few times. His name is Jeremy Nevins.”

  “We showed you his picture yesterday,” I said. “How come you didn’t recognize him then?”

  He stiffened. “Maybe because all you showed me was an out-of-focus black-and-white that looked like it was shot by a convenience-store camera sometime before the turn of the century. Of course I didn’t recognize him from that picture. Hell, Leo had a schoolboy crush on the man, and he didn’t even recognize him.”

  “Do you know what he and Leo were arguing about?”

  “I told you that except for the phrase ‘a million dollars,’ I couldn’t make out the dialogue.”

  “You know them both. What do you think they may have been arguing about?”

  Bassett’s eyes widened. “I didn’t send for my lawyer because I want to help, and because I have nothing to hide. But if he were here, and you asked me to theorize what someone’s motive was for killing my brother, he’d pull the plug on this interview in a heartbeat. Now, are there any more questions?” He spun the
word so that it was clear he meant “stupid questions.”

  “Just one,” Kylie said. “How did Nevins get involved in your company?”

  “He wasn’t involved. He showed up one night about six months ago with Sonia Chen. She’s the company’s publicist. Nevins was her boyfriend.”

  “We’d like to talk to her. Do you have an address?” I asked.

  “Sonia is upstairs in my apartment. She’s drafting a statement.”

  “What kind of a statement?” I said.

  “Leo loved the limelight, and over the years, he managed to become a bit of a celebrity,” he said, making it sound more like an affliction than an achievement. “Frankly, I doubt if he’d even qualify for the D-list, but since I shy away from publicity, he became the face of the company, and he reveled in it. It’s now fallen on me to make a statement to the press and to Leo’s many fans that he’s gone. I know that a lot of people will be heartbroken to hear of his death.”

  From the faint smile on Max Bassett’s face I was sure that he wouldn’t be one of them.

  CHAPTER 56

  Leo’s triplex ended on the third floor, and Max’s began on the fourth, but the trip up the single flight of stairs was like a journey across the great cultural divide. If Leo’s apartment looked like it was decorated by Marie Antoinette, Max’s looked like Ernest Hemingway’s man cave.

  A young Asian woman was sitting on the floor, her back against a weathered leather armchair, a laptop propped on her knees. She stopped typing as soon as we walked in.

  “Hi, I’m Sonia Chen,” she said, standing up.

  We introduced ourselves, and she forced a polite smile, but it didn’t hide the fact that her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

  “Max texted me and said you wanted to ask me some questions.”

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” I said. “We know you had a close relationship with both of the victims.”

  She nodded. “Leo’s been my boss for three years. I adored him.”

  “And Jeremy Nevins?” Kylie said.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a relationship.”