Red Alert_An NYPD Red Mystery

by James Patterson

  “Sorry to bust in on your breakfast,” he said, “but I went to the precinct, and they said you’d probably be here.”

  “No problem. Kylie and I were going to call you this morning. We are so sorry about Mr. Zimmer. We’ve been on the case since it happened.”

  “Well, I can tell you who did it,” he said. “It was the same guy who killed Del.”

  He shoved his body into the booth and sat across from me. His breathing was labored, and his hands were trembling. He leaned forward and whispered, “And I’m next.”

  CHAPTER 26

  I called Kylie and filled her in. By the time I brought Hirsch back to the house, she was waiting for us in an interview room.

  As soon as I opened the door, he balked. “Lose it,” he demanded, pointing at the video camera.

  “It’s just for internal use,” Kylie said. “Our captain’s not in yet, and she’s been very involved in the—”

  “Can it, Detective,” he said. “I’m about to give you the name of a mass murderer. If he finds out I’m the one who gave him up, he’ll have me killed even if he’s rotting away in prison. The only way we’re going to do this is if I have total anonymity.”

  Kylie nodded and capped the lens. He took a seat at the table, and she sat down across from him. I stood.

  “In your own words, Mr. Hirsch,” she said.

  “Look, I broke a few laws when I was a kid, but whatever I tell you, the statute of limitations ran out long ago.”

  “Statutes run out,” Kylie said. “Grudges are forever. Who’s coming after you?”

  “Did you ever hear of Zoe Pound?”

  After years of dealing with the superrich, I’ve come to appreciate a certain subtle sophistication about them. They live inside a bubble, and the veneer of privilege and class always seems to remain intact, even when they’re caught up in the most nefarious crime imaginable.

  There is nothing subtle or sophisticated about Zoe Pound. Spawned in the Little Haiti section of Miami in the nineties, they’ve evolved from a violent street gang into one of the most ruthless and feared criminal enterprises in the United States. I couldn’t imagine how this middle-aged, puffy, pasty white man could be a target of an organization known for drug trafficking, arms dealing, robbery, and contract killing.

  “Zoe Pound,” I repeated. “The Haitian drug cartel out of Miami.”

  “Their New York branch runs a thriving drug business out of Brooklyn,” Hirsch said.

  “And why would they want to kill you?” Kylie asked.

  “The grudge, as you called it, goes back twenty years. We were in college.”

  “We?”

  “The four of us: me, Del Fairfax, Arnie Zimmer, and Princeton Wells. We were…let’s say customers in good standing.” He paused. “That’s an understatement. The reality was, we bought a shitload of coke from them.”

  “To sell?”

  “To snort. And to share with our friends—especially our lady friends. I wasn’t blessed with the fine patrician features of Princeton or Del, but you’d be amazed how easy it is for a fat boy with unlimited blow to wind up in a threesome, a foursome, or whatever the hell else I wanted.

  “We were spending a fortune on dope, but our parties were legendary. We were kings. Then one day Princeton has this brilliant idea. We were flying off for winter break—senior year, our last big hurrah. We’d smuggle some heroin back into the country for Zoe, and they’d pay us off in cocaine.

  “Princeton set up a meeting with Dingo Slide. He was the undisputed boss back then. Dingo thought it through like he had a PhD in economics. On the downside, he’d be losing some good customers, but he knew no matter how much coke he gave us, we’d go through it fast. On the upside, the Feds had just shut down one of his supply channels, and he needed product. Malique La Grande, one of his lieutenants, was against it, but it was Dingo’s call. The cartel fronted us a hundred grand, and we took off on an all-expenses-paid drug run.”

  “You were mules,” Kylie said.

  “Rich mules with a corporate jet at our disposal. Princeton’s father had three of them, and if a plane was just sitting around, he’d ask Daddy for a flight crew, and off we’d go. It was before 9/11. Private aircraft like that were almost never searched.” He paused. “Emphasis on the word almost.”

  “You got busted,” I said.

  “Big-time. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Luckily, cops and judges are as corrupt as drug dealers. We bribed our way to freedom, only to find out that Malique wanted to kill us when we got back to the States. More money changed hands. Princeton cut a deal with Dingo. We paid them two hundred fifty thousand dollars and Dingo told Malique to stand down.”

  “That was a long time ago,” I said. “Why would they suddenly change their mind and come after you now?”

  “Dingo Slide died last month. Malique La Grande is running the show now. He doesn’t have any of Dingo’s business instincts. He’s a born killer.”

  “And you think he’s out to settle a twenty-year-old grudge,” I said.

  “Yes. And I need you to stop him before he kills me.”

  “What about Princeton Wells?” I asked.

  “What about him?” Hirsch snapped.

  “If what you say about La Grande is true, then Wells is on his hit list, too.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “He’s your friend. Don’t you think you should at least warn him?”

  “Fuck him. He’s the friend who got us into this mess in the first place. Besides, if I tell him that Zoe Pound is out there looking for revenge, he’ll hop on his private jet and disappear on an extended business trip to God knows where.”

  “But—”

  “There is no but, Detective. Malique is picking us off one by one. I’m trying to save my own ass, and the last thing I’m going to do is help him get to me faster by thinning out the herd.”

  CHAPTER 27

  “The Silver Bullet boys have come a long way in a short time,” Kylie said as soon as Hirsch left.

  “How so?” I said.

  “When we first met them, they were friends for life and beloved by one and all. Now two of them are murdered, and Survivor One is willing to throw Survivor Two under the bus to save his own skin.”

  “I guess you never know who your real friends are until you come face-to-face with a Haitian drug lord who’s threatening to put a bomb under your ass.”

  My landline rang.

  “Speaking of bombs,” I said, “it’s Howard Malley.” I put him on speaker. “Agent Malley, you’ve got us both. What did you come up with?”

  “No surprises. The two bombs were identical. The second one has the same Flynn Samuels signature touches as the first.”

  “But Mr. Samuels couldn’t have built the bombs because he’s still in a prison in Thailand,” I said.

  “He’s got a lifetime commitment, and as far as we know, he’s never taught anyone the tricks of his trade.”

  “Any chance he may have a secret Haitian apprentice?” Kylie said.

  Malley laughed. “An Aussie bomb maker in a Thai prison with a Haitian groupie. Sounds like you guys have cracked the code.”

  “You’re not funny, and you’re not helping, Malley,” Kylie said.

  “Then my work is done. As we say at the Bureau, ‘We’re not happy till you’re not happy.’”

  He hung up.

  “There may not be a connection between Malique La Grande and Flynn Samuels,” I said, “but Hirsch’s story about a twenty-year-old drug deal gone south is the first time we’ve even heard a viable motive for these killings.”

  “Or it could be the delusions of a paranoid lawyer. The only one who can confirm or deny what Hirsch said is La Grande, and guys like him pay lawyers a lot of money to keep guys like us from asking questions.”

  “It couldn’t hurt to give it a try,” I said, reaching for the phone.

  “Great. Do you have him on speed dial, or did you Google heroin distributors Brooklyn?”

  “
It’s a long shot, but I think we have a connection,” I said, dialing the landline and keeping it on speaker.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Danny Corcoran.”

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Danny, we need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “You worked Narcotics in Brooklyn, right?” I said.

  “Five glorious years.”

  “Kylie and I need a sit-down with Malique La Grande.”

  “No problem, Zach. Malique is having dinner with me, Angela, and the kids tonight. Why don’t you guys swing by?”

  “Danny, I know this is a big ask.”

  “Bigger than you think. Malique and I have an ugly history. I can’t exactly pop by and ask if he wants to chat it up with two of my cop buddies.”

  “You bust him?”

  “Just the opposite. I could never get him dirty, so I spent years fucking with him. Booting his car, hauling him in on every candy-ass charge I could come up with, and one time I got a snitch to tell me where his stash was, and it cost him a bunch of guns and eighty ten-dollar bags. We’re not exactly Facebook friends, Zach. When did you start talking to drug dealers?”

  “He may have a connection to the multiple-bombing case we’re working.”

  “Bombs aren’t Malique’s style.”

  “Zoe Pound is the only lead we have.”

  “I wish you had called me a month ago. I had a better relationship with his former boss, Dingo Slide.”

  “I heard Dingo is dead, and Malique took over.”

  “Whoever told you that left out some details. Dingo died of natural causes: lung cancer. His heir apparent was a nephew, Kervin Blades. But Blades died three days after Uncle Dingo—unnatural causes: lead poisoning. Then Malique took over.”

  “Work your magic, Danny. We need this.”

  “It would be easier if you needed an audience with the Pope or Springsteen tickets, but give me a day, maybe two. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I thanked him and hung up.

  “I’m impressed,” Kylie said.

  “Hey, every now and then I have a good idea,” I said.

  “Not with you. I’m impressed that Corcoran can score Springsteen tickets.”

  A rookie opened the door. “Detectives, there’s a guy out front who wants to see you—both of you—but he won’t come in the building.”

  “Did he give you his name?” Kylie said.

  “No, ma’am. He just said he’d be waiting for you in his car.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A Benz. Silver S550. Totally badass.”

  “Q,” I said to Kylie. “Judge Rafferty accused him of blackmail, and we never got back to him.”

  “Tell the guy in the badass Benz that we’ll be down in a few minutes,” Kylie said to the rookie. “It’s not like we have anything else to do.”

  CHAPTER 28

  The Benz was double-parked, engine idling, rear door cracked open. As soon as we joined Q in the back seat, Rodrigo, his driver, started rolling. Q is too circumspect to conduct business in front of a station house.

  “Detectives,” Q said, “I know how busy you are, so I took the liberty of showing up without calling you.”

  “We also know how busy we are,” I said, “so even though you’ve got an angry judge on your hands, we took the liberty of not calling you.”

  “I’m hurt,” he said, putting both hands to his powder-blue cashmere sweater and pressing them to his heart. “Do you know why I’m here this morning?”

  “Yes. You’re here to call in a favor.”

  “Zachary,” he said. “That’s harsh. I thought your unit had the sensitivity training to deal with New York’s most affluent citizens. Certainly you know that I’m one of them.”

  “Red was created to serve and protect New York’s most affluent taxpayers,” I said. “Are you one of them?”

  “I plead the Fifth,” he said.

  “But I’m sure the Cayman Islands cops are very sensitive to your needs.”

  “Allow me to get to the purpose of my visit,” Q said. “Yesterday you asked me to see what information I could gather on the Silver Bullet Foundation.”

  “And did you find anything?”

  “Since we spoke, a second one of them was blown up. It was in all the papers, so I’m sure you’re aware of it.”

  “Thank you very much,” Kylie said. “It’s on our radar.”

  She looked at me, her eyes smiling. Q Lavish enjoyed dicking around with us, but only when he had something we needed. If he was only here to call in a chit, he’d have asked by now. He knew something, and the more he jerked us around, the bigger the prize.

  I played along. “Did you come up with anything else on the Silver Bullet case?” I said.

  “Alas, not a thing.”

  He looked out the window and then tapped his driver on the shoulder. “Rodrigo, we’re almost done here. Why don’t you swing up to Fifth and head back downtown.”

  There was a black briefcase on the seat next to him. He picked it up and put it on his lap. “Ostrich,” he said, stroking the leather.

  He opened the case and pulled out a silver MacBook Air. “You remember yesterday I told you that a member of the judiciary accused me of blackmail?”

  “Judge Rafferty,” I said.

  “He’s a longtime client who enjoys role-playing. What I have here on my computer is a video of His Honor doling out some punishment to a lovely felon, who apparently showed up in his chambers wearing nothing but a pair of handcuffs. It’s only a three-minute clip, apparently just a trailer for the feature presentation. Would you like to see it? Spoiler alert: Rafferty is, like, a hundred years old, and as ugly as he can be in court, he’s even more grotesque without his robes on.”

  “Spare us,” I said. “Just tell us what we can do.”

  “The flash drive with the video was delivered to Rafferty anonymously with a note—‘$100,000 or it goes public.’ He immediately rushed to judgment and accused me of being the blackmailer.”

  “That’s not your style,” I said.

  “That is precisely what I told His Honor. In addition, the woman in the video is not one of my girls. I didn’t know who she was, and I didn’t care who she was. Until this morning when I picked up the Post. I know you don’t want to screen the video, but I do have to subject you to a single screenshot.”

  He tapped a key on the laptop, and a picture popped onto the screen. It was definitely not the kind of porn anyone would pay for. It was a naked couple going at it doggy-style. The man, his chalk-white skin wrinkled, sagging, and liver-spotted, had rear-mounted a much younger woman.

  “Holy shit,” Kylie said. Not because she recognized Michael J. Rafferty. We’d been prepared for that. What we hadn’t expected was the woman bent over the judge’s desk, cuffs around her wrists.

  “I take it you recognize her,” Q said.

  “Hell, yeah,” Kylie said. “We met her a few nights ago on Roosevelt Island. Her name is Aubrey Davenport.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “Men and their dicks,” Kylie said after we’d screened a dupe of the Rafferty-Davenport sex video.

  “Yeah, well, women and their…” I groped for a passable retort.

  “Evil, scheming, blackmailing ways?” Kylie said, helping me out.

  “Technically, Aubrey’s not the blackmailer,” I said. “She was probably going to use it as leverage against the judge, but he didn’t get the extortion demands until a full day after she was found tied up in knots.”

  “So Janek killed her, took her computer, found the video, and saw an opportunity to cash in.”

  “No,” I said. “His brain is too fried to pull this off. Plus Q told us that the judge got a phone call late last night with instructions for delivering the money. By that time, Janek was already in lockup.”

  Kylie took a few seconds to let it sink in. “So either Janek is our killer, and somebody else is our blackmailer, or…someone else is behind it all, and
we arrested the wrong man.”

  “Let’s not take all the credit,” I said. “Mayor Sykes and ADA Kaplan helped.”

  “We better take this to Cates. I’ll grab the video. Why don’t you make us some popcorn?”

  “Shit floats up,” Cates said as soon as we stuck our heads into her office. “And from the looks on your faces, you’re here with a lapful.”

  “Have you got a couple of minutes to screen a short film?” Kylie asked.

  “What’s the subject?”

  “Geriatric porn.”

  We filled her in on our meeting with Q and then ran the video.

  “Good Lord,” Cates said when it was over. “If that old buzzard won’t pay the hundred thousand, we should pass the hat around the department just to keep young people from ever seeing it. If I were a teenager, I think it would scare me into a lifetime of abstinence.”

  “He’s pretty scary from the bench, too,” Kylie said. “I’ve testified in front of him more than a few times. He’s got this lecherous stare that creeps women out. He’s smarmy, and he doesn’t try to hide it.”

  “It looks like he doesn’t care about hiding anything,” Cates said. “He was right there in his chambers, going to town on that woman like a rutting pig.”

  “According to Q,” I said, “Rafferty confines all of his sexual dalliances to the courthouse after hours. It’s not as crazy as you might think. A hotel is public, very high-risk. His office is safe. At least that’s what he thought.”

  “So clearly he had no idea he was being recorded,” Cates said.

  “None. Aubrey must have hidden a minicam in her purse.”

  “And we know she didn’t shoot it so she could post it on Instagram,” Cates said. “This has classic extortion racket written all over it.”

  “Except that in this case, somebody murdered Aubrey before she could ask for hush money,” Kylie said, “and either the killer or someone else saw the value of the video and decided to cash in.”

  “Worst-case scenario, this may be the tip of the iceberg,” Cates said. “If Davenport made one hidden-camera video of her having sex with an unsuspecting man, there may be more. And whoever is doing the blackmailing is going to go after every one of them. Have you looked at all her video files?”