NYPD Red

by James Patterson

“We’re all out of coffee to go,” she said. “We only have coffee you can drink here.”

  I looked at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, Zach. I’m meddling. It’s what I do. Now go sit in that corner booth over there till that gawjus lady shrink comes out of the restroom. She just ordered breakfast.”

  I sat at the booth and two minutes later the restroom door opened and the shrink stepped out. I had to agree with Gerri. Cheryl was gawjus.

  “You again,” she said, sitting across from me. “I saw the mayor’s press conference last night, so I’m not surprised you didn’t get much sleep.”

  “It wasn’t the mayor who woke me up at four in the morning,” I said.

  “Don’t tell me your new partner is still keeping you awake.”

  “No,” I said, “this time it’s her husband.”

  I told her Spence’s middle-of-the-night theory, sparing no detail. “And when I finally said to him that the actual city of Los freakin’ Angeles can’t be the criminal mastermind behind these murders, and I asked him if he’s got a lead on a human suspect, guess what he says?”

  She smiled. “I’m going to go with…‘That’s your job, Detective Jordan.’”

  I pounded my hand on the tabletop and the silverware jumped. “That’s exactly what he said. Damn, you’re good.”

  “Thanks, but that was too easy. The way you set it up, there was only one answer.”

  “So what do you call that—you know, what Spence is doing?” I asked. “Is it passive-aggressive behavior?”

  “I don’t think so. He sounds pretty genuine. I think he really wants to help.”

  “I appreciate it,” I said, “but there are four million people in LA. Why doesn’t he call me once he’s narrowed it down?”

  “The mayor made the usual promises last night about working around the clock, blah, blah, blah, and bringing about a swift conclusion to this tragedy,” she said. “Where are we really?”

  “Somewhere between desperate and deep shit. We don’t even have enough on this guy to ask you to do a profile.”

  “I’m sure you’ve already figured out that he’s someone on the periphery of show business who hates the business and everyone in the inner circle,” she said. “Which narrows it down to every actor, writer, and waiter in the Tri-State Area.”

  “Unless Spence is right,” I said, “and he’s on loan from the LA Chamber of Commerce.”

  “Can I change the subject for a minute?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “How do you feel about opera?”

  “Sounds like one of those trick shrink questions,” I said. “If Zach is a cop, and he likes opera, then he’s got as much chance of cracking this case as he has of finding a vegetarian pit bull.”

  You keep working at it, you get the million-dollar smile. I got it.

  “A friend of mine had to go out of town and she gave me two tickets to see La Traviata,” she said.

  “And let me guess—you love opera, but none of your friends do.”

  “Actually, I hate opera…I take that back. I only went once, twelve years ago, and I walked out after three hours, and I think they still had another seventeen and a half hours to go. But I’ve got these tickets, and I’m trying to broaden my cultural horizons. Kind of a post-Fred renaissance.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I have to be honest with you. I’ve never been. I know all the clichés like ‘it ain’t over till the fat lady sings,’ but I’m a virgin.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “I couldn’t possibly ask someone who loves it. I’d be stuck there. But if you go, we can make a deal. If one of us hates it, we’ll stay—at least for a while. If both of us hate it, we bail out, and go bowling, or find a tractor pull somewhere.”

  “In my case, a tractor pull would actually broaden my cultural horizons. When?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “If I’m not still chasing maniacs, it’s a date.”

  We sat and talked for another half hour. By the time I had to leave, I was sure of one thing—Cheryl Robinson was ready for her post-Fred renaissance. I just wasn’t sure I was ready to be part of it.

  Chapter 37

  GABE WAS NERVOUS. The director always refers to a big important scene as the money shot. But this one really was the money shot. He couldn’t afford to get it wrong—the ending of the movie was hanging on it.

  The good news was that the production trailer was on a relatively quiet street, and it was only 6:00 in the morning, a solid hour before the foot traffic picked up.

  The bad news was that he was right smack between Columbus Circle and Lincoln Center, an obvious target for terrorists. That meant there would be eyes—both human and electronic—all over the place. Add to that the fact that his getaway car was the D train, and his accomplice was a rank amateur, and he came to the conclusion that a guy would have to be crazy to pull a stunt like this.

  Fortunately for me, he reminded himself, I am crazy.

  There was no time for an elaborate disguise, so they decided to go commando. Ski masks.

  The train stopped at Columbus Circle and they went upstairs and headed uptown on Broadway. When they got to 62nd, they walked west. They crossed Columbus Avenue, and there were the trailers—three of them—parked in a No Parking zone, blue film commission permits taped to their doors.

  “Keep walking,” Gabe said.

  Jimmy’s bike wasn’t there yet.

  They walked to the corner of Amsterdam and waited.

  They didn’t have to wait long. Jimmy Fitzhugh’s Suzuki came up Amsterdam, turned right on 62nd, and stopped at the first trailer half a block away.

  “Walk fast,” Gabe said.

  Jimmy chained his bike to the trailer hitch and headed for the steps.

  “Masks,” Gabe said.

  The masks went on and they got to the trailer just as Fitzhugh was unlocking the door.

  Gabe followed him up the three steps and shoved him inside. Lexi followed and slammed the door behind them.

  They were in. He couldn’t believe it, but they were in.

  Gabe pointed the gun in Jimmy’s face, and, as expected, there was zero resistance.

  “I got about five hundred bucks in my pocket,” Jimmy said. “It’s all yours. No problem.”

  Silence.

  Gabe kept the gun pointed at Jimmy, then reached around with his other hand and poked Lexi.

  Even with her mask on, she appeared to be petrified. Frozen. This was her big scene, and she forgot to say her lines.

  Chapter 38

  FOR TEN SECONDS the three of them just stood there. A silent tableau. Gabe waiting for Lexi to say something. Lexi forgetting that she had something to say. And Jimmy Fitzhugh trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Finally, he made a stab at it.

  “Yo tengo dinero,” Jimmy said. “Cinco. Cinco hundred dollars. No habla español, but I got five hundred bucks.”

  Gabe pointed his gun at Fitzhugh, then at a desk chair.

  “You want me to sit down?” Fitzhugh said.

  Gabe nodded, and Fitzhugh sat.

  He was in his forties, but athletic—not one of those three-hundred-pound bikers you see riding on the Thruway. He was an aging jock and proud of it—a gym rat who played tennis, squash, and Broadway League softball. Gabe had no doubt that given the chance, Fitzhugh would pounce on him in a heartbeat and take him down.

  With the Walther trained on Fitzhugh, Gabe backed up to where Lexi was standing and got as close to her ear as possible.

  “Say your lines,” he whispered.

  “Oh, shit,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  She turned to Fitzhugh. “We want the money.”

  “You speak English?” Fitzhugh said.

  “Of course I speak English,” she said. “What kind of a stupid question is that? I repeat. We…want…the…money. Now.”

  “I’ve got five hundred in my wallet. It’s all yours. Let me just reach into my pocket, and—”

  “You th
ink we came all the way up here to get your wallet?” Lexi said. “We want the drug money. Open the safe.”

  Gabe could feel his chest tightening. Open the safe was in the script. We want the drug money was not.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Fitzhugh yelled. “Do you work for Monte? Did he send you?”

  “We work for ourselves!” Lexi yelled back. “Now open the safe.”

  “I don’t have the combination, and I don’t know anything about drug money.” He stood up. “And if you want to know what’s good for you—”

  Gabe slammed him across the face with the butt of the Walther. Fitzhugh fell back in the chair, both hands pressed hard to his bloody cheek.

  “Open the safe now or die!” Gabe screamed, waving the gun at him and hoping that the pain and the fear would prevent Fitzhugh from recognizing his voice.

  Fitzhugh was moaning. “Okay, okay. Please don’t shoot. I got two kids.”

  He dropped to his knees and wiped his bloody hands across his shirt.

  “Keep watch!” Gabe yelled at Lexi, hoping that two more words wouldn’t make a difference.

  Lexi went to the trailer window and parted the blinds with her fingers.

  “There’s people walking out there,” she said. “Hurry.”

  Fitzhugh opened the safe and backed up. Gabe looked inside. No weapons. No nothing, except for a gray metal lockbox.

  “The key is in my desk drawer,” Fitzhugh said.

  Gabe waved him toward the desk with the gun.

  “Hurry!” Lexi yelled, stamping her feet. “I think someone’s coming.”

  Fitzhugh opened the top desk drawer and took out a small key. Then he pulled the lockbox from the safe.

  “There’s enough in here for three separate buys,” he said. “Let me give you a piece of advice. You take a bundle, and I guarantee you nobody will chase you. You take it all, and Monte will hunt you down, rape your girlfriend, slit her throat, and put her in a coffin. She’ll be the lucky one, because you’ll go in after her—still breathing. Then he’ll bury the box and forget where he left you.”

  “Open it,” Gabe growled, more concerned with getting out than being recognized.

  Fitzhugh unlocked the box and flipped the top.

  Three neat stacks of bills. Hundreds on top of each stack. Not very thick, but drug bundles didn’t have to be thick. They’d all be hundreds.

  “Trust me,” Fitzhugh said. “You really don’t want to take them all.”

  The Chameleon picked up one of the packets, then hesitated.

  “I’m not kidding, Gabe—hurry up!” Lexi yelled frantically from her spot at the window. “I swear to God someone is really coming.”

  Fitzhugh stood up. “Gabe? The extra? The guy with the Kawasaki Ninja? Are you out of your mind? Do you really think you’re going to get away with this?”

  The Chameleon had no choice. He pointed the Walther at Fitzhugh’s chest and squeezed the trigger.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit!” he bellowed as Fitzhugh fell backward onto the desk chair.

  If Lexi had an ounce of composure left, it was gone. “Are you crazy?” she screamed. “People outside heard that. He gave you the money. Why did you shoot him?”

  “You told him my name!” Gabe screamed back.

  “No I didn’t. I swear.”

  Gabriel grabbed the other two stacks of bills and shoved all three into the pocket of his windbreaker.

  Then he yanked Lexi by the arm and dragged her to the door.

  “Mask,” he shouted.

  They each pulled off their ski masks and left the trailer.

  They walked east toward Broadway. Ten minutes later they were sitting in the last car of the downtown D train.

  “I’m sorry, Gabe. I’m sorry,” Lexi said, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Do me a favor,” he said, barely parting his lips as he spoke. “Just shut the fuck up.”

  Chapter 39

  THERE WAS A large coffee and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts sitting on my desk with a note taped to the top.

  Sorry about Spence. He means well. Xxx, K-Mac

  Kylie was sitting at her desk munching on the last few morsels of a glazed doughnut. “I took one,” she said, washing it down with coffee. “The other eleven are all yours.”

  “I appreciate the gesture, but don’t you think that’s profiling? Cops and doughnuts?”

  “For the record, I did not give Spence your number,” she said. “He found it in my cell.”

  “Did he share his theory with you, or shall I?”

  “He laid it on me this morning,” she said. “The powers that be in Los Angeles come up with a devious plan to cripple film production in New York.”

  “Devious and dastardly,” I said. “The kind of scenario where you definitely expect to see Lex Luthor.”

  “I know it’s off-the-wall,” she said, “but at least you have to give him points for creativity.”

  “Creativity? No wonder I can’t crack this case. Like an idiot, I’ve been trying to connect the facts.”

  “That’s the difference between police work and the television business,” Kylie said. “As far as TV people are concerned, reality is highly overrated. They would never let it get in the way of their thinking.”

  “Yesterday was only our first day working together,” I said. “But now that I have some insight into your husband, I’m wondering how many times a week you had to buy doughnuts for your former partners.”

  “Believe it or not, you’re the first one Spence ever called.”

  “I’m flattered. Sleep-deprived, but flattered.”

  “You know Spence. He’s always been fascinated with cops, and he loves that you get to combine cop stuff with show business. He told me last night that you have the coolest job, and he’d trade places with you if he could.”

  Spence Harrington wants to trade places with me? I didn’t know how to begin to respond. I never got the chance.

  “Zach! K-Mac!” Captain Cates was striding toward us, barking orders as she walked. “Robbery-homicide, West Sixty-two between Columbus and Amsterdam.”

  I knew the area well. It was a pretty quiet neighborhood. “What’s there?” I said.

  Cates stopped in front of us. She looked like she hadn’t slept much last night either. “A film production trailer,” she said. “And a line producer with a bullet in his chest.”

  Chapter 40

  GABE AND LEXI crashed through the front door, knocking over the brass umbrella stand that she had picked up at a flea market for twelve bucks.

  They hadn’t spoken the entire subway ride home. They had walked in silence to the apartment building, him fuming, her sobbing.

  When they got to the lobby, she just stood there waiting for the elevator, shoulders slumped, eyes red, spirit broken.

  Finally she spoke. “You’re never going to love me again, will you?”

  She meant it. That’s how her mind worked. You fuck up; you get abandoned. Her parents had done that to her.

  “Don’t be…” He swallowed the word stupid. “Don’t say things like that,” he said.

  The elevator doors opened. She stepped in and stood in the corner, tears streaming down her cheeks, hands clenched at her sides.

  “Lexi,” he said, following her into the elevator, “what happened, happened, and I’m a little freaked about it, but I love you. I’ll always love you.”

  If he thought that would cheer her up, he was wrong. Her body shook as she tried to hold back the anguish.

  He had never seen her so despondent, and it cut him to the marrow.

  He softened. “It’s okay,” he said, enfolding her gently in his arms. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her salt-stained cheek, trying his best to comfort her.

  She tilted her head up, and he gently touched his lips to hers. She sighed, parted her mouth, and he found her tongue. He reached down and clenched her butt, and she responded by arching her pelvis and forcing it against his.

  He hardened.

&nbs
p; The elevator door opened, and they stumbled down the hall, banging into their front door till he finally fit the key in the lock.

  She was peeling off her pants and panties before the door had even shut behind them. Then she grabbed his belt and expertly undid the buttons on his jeans while he ripped off his windbreaker and threw it on the floor.

  The bedroom was too far, and she turned away from him, leaning over a chair, hands flat on the table. He grabbed her hips from behind and entered her hard.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered with every thrust.

  “Shhh, shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t talk.”

  It was powerful, raw; it was pure, primal, postmurder adrenaline sex. It was what he needed. What they both needed.

  Lexi’s orgasms had always had their own sound track, and he held back until he heard the first familiar muted moan. Her pitch grew louder and more frenzied, and he finally let go, stifling his own screams as he climaxed in waves.

  Eyes glazed, she slumped into his arms, and he carried her to the bedroom. They stripped off the rest of their clothes and made love, slowly, gently, without apologies.

  When it was over, Lexi clutched a pillow to her chest and curled up in a fetal position. Gabe wrapped his body around hers and pulled the sheet over them.

  The money, he thought.

  The wads of hundreds were still stuffed into the pocket of his windbreaker. He had no idea how much there was.

  It could wait.

  Chapter 41

  “DRIVING LIKE A maniac isn’t going to make our murder victim any less dead,” Kylie said as I drove balls out through the Central Park–65th Street transverse.

  “I know,” I said, not slowing down. “I think it’s like getting addicted to a bad soap opera. I want to know what happens in the next episode.”

  “So do I, but not enough to die in crosstown traffic. And for the record, ‘bad soap opera’ is redundant.”

  We made it to West 62nd in under five minutes. There was a squad car from the 20th Precinct parked alongside the production trailer. A uniformed cop, Frank Rankin, was waiting for us outside the trailer.