Red Alert

by James Patterson

  “I’ll meet you there,” I said. “Give me five minutes to stop on the second floor and say hello to the department psychologist.”

  She looked at her watch. “Five minutes? Really?”

  “Maybe ten. I might think of something else to say besides hello.”

  I took the stairs down to Cheryl’s office. She was at her desk, reading, dark brown eyes fixed on the thick binder in front of her, wavy jet-black hair framing her face and resting on her shoulders. I stood in the open doorway and thought, God, she’s gorgeous.

  Or maybe I said it out loud, because she raised her head, sang out my name, came around to the other side of the desk, pulled me into the room, closed the door, grabbed me in her arms, and gave me a long, slow, lingering kiss. She looked, smelled, felt, and tasted like heaven.

  “You’re alive,” she said.

  “And becoming more alive by the second,” I said, as she dug her hips into mine. I backed off reluctantly. “Let’s not start anything we can’t consummate. I’ve got two fresh homicides to work. Can we pick this back up again at dinner?”

  “Oh, we will,” she said, letting me go. “But fair warning: I know you didn’t get any sleep last night. Don’t expect to get much tonight, either.”

  She kissed me again, and I left the room happy and horny. I double-timed it around the corner to Gerri’s Diner and found Kylie at a booth in the rear with our backup team.

  Danny Corcoran is second-generation NYPD who did his twenty and is two years into his next five. As usual, he was well-dressed, sporting a gray off-the-rack suit from one of the city’s better racks. Hair-challenged, he topped off the look with a gray newsboy cap.

  Always on the wrong side of the body fat index, his round Irish face lit up when he saw me, and he tore himself away from a stack of pancakes with a side of sausage to give me a fierce bear hug.

  “Still on that health kick?” I said, pointing to his lumberjack breakfast, and Danny responded by not so subtly scratching the tip of his nose with his middle finger. Then he introduced me to Tommy Fischer, who, like all of Danny’s partners over the years, was the quiet type.

  “Foreplay is over,” Kylie said. “Cut to the chase, boys.”

  “We hit the garage at about three a.m. and found her car,” Danny said. “The attendant who punched her in was long gone, so we got his home address and paid him a visit.”

  “Did he remember her?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah. She greased him twenty bucks to keep her car up top in one of those golden spots reserved for good tippers. She said she’d be back soon, but of course she never showed.”

  “Had he seen her before?”

  “She wasn’t a regular, but she’d park there from time to time. Mostly overnight. A few times he remembers her driving in with some yobbo half her age. He called him ‘a young Arnold Schwarzenegger.’”

  “Sounds like the boy we like for the murder,” I said. “Name is Janek Hoffmann. He’s her cameraman. Where’s the car now?”

  “Impounded. The lab guys are dusting and probing.”

  “How about her apartment?” Kylie asked.

  “It’s like the Barbie Dreamhouse for the terminally oversexed.” He handed Kylie his cell phone. “Scroll through some of the highlights.”

  Corcoran had taken pictures of a closetful of sex paraphernalia that for most people would be taboo, but for Aubrey Davenport was the norm. I looked over Kylie’s shoulder as she flipped through the pictures in a hurry. By now we knew enough about Aubrey’s world not to be surprised.

  “Drugs?” Kylie asked.

  Fischer flipped open a notepad. “Ecstasy, coke, poppers, weed, plus scripts for Paxil and Zoloft,” he said. “The prescribing doc’s name is Morris Langford. Here’s his number.” He tore off a page and handed it to me.

  “We’re looking for her video cameras and her computer,” I said. “You find any in her apartment?”

  “Nothing.”

  “How about her office?”

  “It was closed, so we left a pair of uniforms in front of the door,” Corcoran said. “They called a few minutes ago. Her assistant just opened up. His name is Troy Marschand. They’re holding him. You want us to talk to him?”

  “We’ll take it,” I said. “I’d rather you go back to the parking lot attendant and show him a photo lineup of six young Arnold Schwarzeneggers. One of them should be Janek Hoffmann. You can dig out five more from the files.”

  Danny stuck his fork back into the stack of hotcakes and grinned. “I only need four more,” he said. “The fifth one can be a selfie.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Aubrey’s office was on West 17th Street in the Flatiron district near Union Square. A squad car was parked outside. The directory in the lobby said Davenport Films, 303. We took the elevator to the third floor and found a uniformed officer standing outside the door.

  “Officer Hairston,” I said, reading her name tag. “You were here when the assistant showed up?”

  “Yes, sir. He wanted to know what was going on, so my partner and I told him that his boss was found dead. Was that okay?”

  It wasn’t, but I decided to let it go. Kylie, on the other hand, is a lot less forgiving.

  “No, it’s not okay,” she snapped. “Detectives can learn a lot just by watching how people react when they’re told someone is dead. Now we have to rely on secondhand information. How’d he take the news?”

  “He freaked out.”

  “People freak out when they hit the lottery, officer. If you’re going to play detective, do a better job of it.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. He was all broke up when we told him. Not crying, but very upset. Devastated. Heartbroken.”

  “Heartbroken like he was banging her?”

  “No, ma’am. More like his boss was dead, and he’s out of a job. He kept saying, ‘What am I going to do now?’ Anyway, I doubt if he was banging her. He’s gay.”

  “Oh really?” Kylie said. “And how did you jump to that conclusion?”

  “He asked if he could call his fiancé for moral support, and we said yes. The fiancé turns out to be another dude. It came up gay in my book.”

  It was a small victory for Hairston, and to her credit, she kept a straight face. She opened the office door, gestured for her partner to step out, and Kylie and I stepped in.

  Except for a few light stands and a twenty-foot roll of seamless background paper covering one wall, the room was nothing more than a wide-open, high-ceilinged photo studio. There were two desks, a makeup vanity with a lighted mirror, a stylist’s chair, and a kitchenette where two men in their early thirties were sitting at a table, each with a coffee mug in front of him.

  They say opposites attract, but not in this case. The two men looked a lot alike. Each was slender with a patch of thinning dark hair on his head and the dark shadow of designer stubble on his face. One was wearing a blue shirt; the other one was in yellow.

  Blue shirt stood up. “I’m Troy Marschand, Aubrey’s assistant. Do you know who killed her?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it.” I turned to yellow shirt. “And what’s your name, sir?”

  “Dylan Freemont. I didn’t know her. I mean, I met her a few times, but that’s all. I’m just here to help Troy get through this. Hey, can I ask you a question?”

  “It works better when we ask the questions,” Kylie said.

  “Yeah, I watch a lot of cop shows. But I just want to know: is it true what they’re saying about Aubrey on the Web?”

  “What are they saying?”

  “Some real kinky shit was going on before she got killed.”

  “And where did you hear that?”

  “As soon as Troy called me, I did a search for Aubrey’s name on social media and a couple of those celebrity news feeds. They say she was found at some haunted house on Roosevelt Island, and that there was some weird sex going on before she died. Is it true?”

  “NYPD doesn’t comment on internet gossip,” Kylie said.

  “I wouldn�
�t be surprised if it was true,” Troy said. “All her life, Aubrey was obsessed with two things: sex and filmmaking. How ironic if that’s how she died.”

  “Gentlemen,” Kylie said, “we’re trying to catch a killer, and you’re wasting valuable time. Mr. Marschand, the first thing we need from you is your boss’s computer. You can either give it to us or we can get a court order.”

  “I’d give it to you if I had it, but I don’t. Aubrey always had her laptop with her. It’s probably in her apartment.”

  “It’s not. Can you think of anybody who might be holding it for her? We really need to get a look at all her files.”

  Troy shook his head. “Aubrey wouldn’t trust anybody with her computer. Maybe it’s in the trunk of her car.”

  “It’s not,” Kylie repeated.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Troy said. “She backed everything up religiously. I can retrieve the files from the cloud. It’ll take me a couple of hours.”

  “Thank you,” Kylie said. “When you’re done, give them to the two officers outside. They’ll get it to us. We also need to look at her camera equipment.”

  “This way,” he said, walking us toward the rear of the studio. “It’s not very impressive. It’s mostly old crap that she can’t throw away. If she’s shooting anything important, she rents.”

  He unlocked a closet door. Inside there were metal storage racks cluttered with cameras, lenses, cases, and, most promising of all, tripods.

  “Lock it up,” I said. “We’ll send a team to go over it. Who else besides you has a key?”

  “Just Aubrey.”

  “How about her cameraman?”

  Troy made a face. “Janek? Hell, no. This stuff may not be worth a lot, but give him a key, and it would wind up on Craigslist.”

  “You don’t think highly of Mr. Hoffmann?”

  “The guy’s a loser. I never understood what she was doing with him. He’s probably the one who—”

  My cell rang, and he stopped. I recognized the number on caller ID. The phone rang a second time, but I didn’t pick up. “Go ahead, Mr. Marschand.”

  “Don’t you have to answer that?”

  “It can wait. Finish your thought, please.”

  “Janek Hoffmann is a brute, an addict with a violent temper. He always scared the shit out of me. I’m not saying he killed her, but if it turns out he did, I wouldn’t exactly be surprised.”

  I nodded and mentally added Troy Marschand’s name to the list of witnesses for the prosecution. Then I turned away and answered the phone on the fourth ring.

  “Madam Mayor,” I said, trying to sound as upbeat as I could. “And how are you this fine morning?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Madam Mayor was anything but fine on this fine morning. She was pissed to the gills, and she let loose a stream of profanity, which, while unbecoming of her office, was totally in keeping with her gritty Hell’s Kitchen roots.

  The good news was that her anger was not aimed at her flavor-of-the-month cops. She went off on Arnie Zimmer, one of the three surviving founders of the Silver Bullet Foundation.

  “The son of a bitch called me—at home, no less,” she said, seething. “He told me he didn’t like the way I—or my overhyped police force—was handling the vicious attack on his charity and the brutal murder of his partner.”

  “Ma’am, Kylie and I just met with the FBI bomb expert, and we’re working as fast as—”

  “Zach, don’t get defensive. I didn’t call to ask why you haven’t solved a major crime twelve hours after it happened. All I need right now is for you to get this cocksucker off my back.”

  One of the first things you learn as a cop is that if it’s important to your hook, it’s important to you. And there are not too many better hooks than the woman who runs the city. Defusing Arnie Zimmer shot straight to the top of my things-to-do list.

  “Where can I find him?” I asked.

  “He’s rounded up the other two partners. They’re at Princeton Wells’s place. They’re expecting you.” She hung up.

  Fifteen minutes later, Kylie and I pulled up to a magnificent brick and limestone beaux arts facade on Central Park West. In a city full of ridiculously expensive real estate, there aren’t many private homes that can be called mansions. “Princeton Wells’s place,” as the mayor had called it, was one that could.

  I rang the doorbell, expecting to be greeted by a butler wearing a proper black morning coat, gray striped trousers, and a white wing-collar shirt. Instead, Wells himself came to the door, dressed like he was ready to pose for the cover of the J. Crew catalog.

  “Sorry about this,” he said, shaking his head. “Arnie is on a tear.”

  “It’s understandable,” I said, using some of the language they taught me in NYPD Red charm school. “He may just be getting over the shock of last night.”

  “I doubt it,” Wells said, walking us through a sprawling foyer and up a sweeping marble staircase. “Arnie is a notorious micromanager. It ain’t soup unless he’s stirred the pot.”

  “The mayor said he’s not happy with the way we’re handling the case. We’ll do what we can to reassure him that—”

  “Save your breath,” Wells said. “Arnie already tore the mayor a new one. You’re just here so he can vent to the cops.”

  Kylie gave me a subtle nod. One of the qualifications for joining a police force dedicated to working with the uber-rich is being able to put up with their verbal abuse while you’re busting your ass to help them. It’s the shit part of the job, and I’m much better at it than Kylie is. The nod was a message. It was my turn to stand between her and the bullets.

  On the other hand, one of the best parts of the job is getting a taste of the mind-boggling creature comforts that unlimited wealth can buy. But this time, we hadn’t been invited to soak up the grandeur. We were there to take our lumps.

  “They’re in my office,” Wells said when we got to the second floor. He opened a mahogany door, and we stepped into a vast room with wood-paneled walls, a soaring ceiling, leather furniture, and all the trappings of an old-school private men’s club. I took a few seconds to fantasize what it must feel like to sit down at the end of a tough day and enjoy a well-earned snifter of single malt whiskey. The fantasy fizzled as soon as Wells made the introductions.

  I’d done a quick background check on the players before we got there. Nathan Hirsch was a thousand-dollar-an-hour banking and finance attorney with an Ivy League pedigree and a blue-chip résumé. He was a lot less impressive in person. Overweight and straining the good graces of his designer suit, he smelled of cigar. His handshake was clammy, and his eyes never made contact with mine. My cop radar kicked in, and I wondered if he was still reeling from last night, or if he had another reason to be twitchy.

  Arnie Zimmer, who owned the Zim Construction Group, was taller and thinner and wasted no time taking on the mantle of designated bully. “Do you know how much I gave to Muriel Sykes’s election campaign?” he asked, ignoring my extended hand.

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “Enough money so that I shouldn’t be paying for hind tit. If Sykes expects a nickel out of me when she runs for reelection, she better put the two of you on this case 24/7.”

  “Sir, we’re sorry for the loss of your friend, but we are on the case. We haven’t slept since the bomb exploded.”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I’ve got friends in the department. You’re splitting your time between a page one terrorist attack and some page thirty-seven sex crime.”

  “Mr. Zimmer, we understand your frustration, but I can assure you that Mayor Sykes has made this our number one priority. And we’re not working alone. The FBI has already helped us identify the person who built the bomb.”

  “I don’t care if Lockheed Martin built the fucking bomb. Your job is to figure out who set it off. Del was in construction. Did it ever dawn on you that contractors use explosives? Why don’t you start there? It was probably some pissed-off asshole who lost out on one of Del�
��s jobs.”

  And with that, the pissed-off asshole left the room.

  “Meeting adjourned?” I asked Wells.

  He smiled. “Arnie called it; Arnie gets to pull the plug on it. I’ll tell the mayor you represented her admirably.”

  “I’d much rather you just gave Mr. Zimmer my phone number,” I said, holding out my card.

  “Detective, you saw what he can be like. Are you sure you want him badgering you?”

  “Anytime—as long as he stops badgering the mayor.”

  He took the card reluctantly. “Nathan and I will do what we can to keep him at bay, but Arnie’s a pit bull. He’s going to give you problems.”

  I shrugged off the comment, but it turned out to be an understatement. Arnie Zimmer gave us more problems than anyone ever anticipated.

  CHAPTER 15

  I was ready to leave, but Kylie, who hadn’t said a word since we got there, wasn’t. “One question before we go,” she said to Wells. “Which one of you knew the real Del Fairfax? You or Mr. Zimmer?”

  Wells looked confused. “I’m sorry, Detective. The four of us have been friends since high school. I don’t understand the question.”

  “Last night we told you that the blast analysis indicated that Mr. Fairfax was the primary target, and we asked you if he had any enemies. Do you remember what you said?”

  “Not word for word, but the answer is no. People liked him.”

  “I took notes. Last night you said, ‘Everybody loved him. Hell, they love the four of us.’ Then you suggested that the bomb was intended for the mayor. Now, this morning, Mr. Zimmer has a different perspective. He’s saying it’s a disgruntled contractor out to settle a score, but he stormed off before we could ask him if there were any specific contractors he might point us to. So let me repeat what I asked you last night. Can you think of anyone—especially in the building trades—who didn’t love Mr. Fairfax and would want to see him dead?”