Red Alert

by James Patterson

  Wells nodded and went back to typing. Segura walked to the bar and was about to pour himself another drink when the doorbell rang.

  The video camera at the front door flashed a picture of the visitors on Wells’s screen.

  “It’s those two goddamn detectives,” he said. “What should I do?”

  Segura removed a gun from his waistband. “Take off your clothes. All of them.”

  CHAPTER 69

  Kylie had no patience. She rang Wells’s doorbell a second time.

  “Who is it?” he responded over the intercom.

  “Detectives MacDonald and Jordan, NYPD,” she said. “We need to talk. It won’t take long.”

  “It’s rather inconvenient right now,” he said. “I’m in the middle of something. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  “It’s rather inconvenient to have a mass murderer wandering around our city, Mr. Wells,” she said. “Since you’re at the top of his hit list, maybe you could drop what you’re doing and spend a few minutes with the people who are trying to get to him before he gets to you.”

  “Point well taken, Detective,” he said. “I’ll be right down.”

  She stepped away from the intercom and threw her hands up in the air. “This is the same bullshit we got from Langford. Nobody wants to talk to the cops.”

  “Langford didn’t want to talk because he was guilty of murder,” I said.

  “So what’s Wells’s excuse?” Kylie said. “Do you think he knows that we’re the mayor’s stooges, and he’s not in the mood to talk about building housing for the homeless? Or do you think he’s totally in denial about Segura, and he figures if he makes us go away, then the problem goes away?”

  “Or there’s a third possibility,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe he’s in the middle of something, and we came at a really inconvenient time.”

  The front door opened and Princeton Wells stood there, his hair wet, his feet bare, and a towel around his waist. He reeked of booze.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “Kenda and I were in the hot tub.”

  “We apologize if we caught you at a bad time,” I said.

  “Bad time? Hell, you caught me at a great time. And if the two of you want to join me and Kenda in the hot tub, it could be a fucking fantastic time.”

  “Mr. Wells, I know you’ve turned us down before,” I said, “but in light of what happened with Nathan Hirsch, NYPD is prepared to offer you police protection. Do you want it?”

  “Sure. You can protect me from that blonde in the hot tub. She’s insatiable. I swear to God that woman will be the death of me.”

  “Sir, have you been drinking?” Kylie said.

  “Nonstop, Detective. It’s my go-to coping mechanism. As far as I know there’s no law against it, so if there’s nothing further…”

  “There’s one other thing. The mayor would like you to call her.”

  “Tell Muriel she’s on my list,” he said. “No, no, wait: Tell her the truth. Tell her Princeton Wells is on a bender, but he’s safely locked up in his great-grandmother’s mansion, which is like the Fortress of Solitude, only with better decorating. Also tell her that the Tremont Gardens project will go on as scheduled. It’s Del Fairfax’s legacy, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it die with him. I’m a little sauced right now, but tomorrow morning I promise I will be sober, and I’ll start writing checks, making phone calls, and moving heaven and earth to get it done. I swear.”

  “Mayor Sykes will be happy to hear that,” I said.

  “Then we’re good,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, and shut the door.

  “I don’t get it,” I said as Kylie and I walked back to the car.

  “What don’t you get, Zach? That rich people are assholes? That Princeton Wells would rather get drunk and get laid than get out of Dodge?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that he never asked us where we are in the investigation. With Nathan Hirsch it was always, ‘Did you find Segura? Did you arrest La Grande?’ For a man who is the killer’s next target, Princeton Wells seems remarkably uninterested in how the manhunt for Geraldo Segura is going.”

  “Which just reinforces my rich-people-are-assholes theory.”

  I looked at my watch. “I’ve given the city enough of my life today,” I said. “I’m going to punch out and go home.”

  “What are you doing tonight?” Kylie asked.

  “Probably have dinner with Cheryl, catch something on Netflix.”

  It was true. I just left out the part about my plan to trap her boyfriend into helping me rob a high-stakes poker game.

  CHAPTER 70

  Trying to hide the truth from your girlfriend is a risky proposition. And when said girlfriend also happens to be a shrink, a cop, and a hot-tempered Latina, the risk factor goes up exponentially, and secret-keeping becomes more of a death wish.

  So I decided to do a one-eighty from where I was that morning. As soon as I got to Cheryl’s apartment, I told her everything. She might not approve, but she couldn’t slam me for withholding information. I started with my dinner with Q.

  She stopped me immediately. “Q points a finger at these two guys, Jessup and Jewel, and you believe him?” she said. “He has no evidence.”

  “Cheryl, this is not a jury trial. Q is a world-class snitch. He said, and I quote, ‘These brothers are spending money like the sultan of Brunei died and named them sole beneficiaries.’ Unquote.”

  “That’s specious logic.”

  “It’s street logic,” I said. Then I launched into the details of my undercover meeting with the two hip-hop promoters at Rattlesnake. She didn’t say a word until I got to the name of my alter ego.

  “Fly Boy?” she said, laughing.

  “Johnny Fly Boy Wurster,” I said. “Funny how I got that name.” I told her my story about being thrown off a seventh-story balcony and walking away without a scratch.

  She shook her head. “Those two guys actually bought that?”

  “What’s not to buy? It’s like Freddy No Nose or Sammy the Bull. It’s a nickname with a story behind it.”

  “And they believe you’ve recruited them to stick up a poker game at a private home and get away with a million dollars.”

  “A million two,” I corrected. “Eight players at a hundred and fifty K a pop.”

  “So now what?” she asked.

  “At this point, they’ve had twenty-four hours to think about the score. They figure it’s a piece of cake, and they’re already spending the money in their dreams. So now I’m going to throw a monkey wrench into the deal. Do you want to watch?”

  “Of course I want to watch,” she said, adding some more white wine to her glass and sitting down on the sofa with her legs curled underneath her. “As long as you understand that my fascination should in no way be misinterpreted as an endorsement of your actions.”

  “Understood,” I said, taking it as a small victory. “Jessup is the less trusting of the two. If the sting is going to work, I have to get him to take the bait.” I got out my burner phone, put it on speaker, and dialed Jessup’s number. He answered on the second ring.

  “Tariq, this is Fly Boy,” I said. “I got bad news. That sweet deal we had planned for Saturday night—I’m pulling the plug on it.”

  “What the fuck, man? You find someone who would do it for less money?”

  “No, I was totally down with you guys. It’s just that I’ve done this before. Always in a new city, always with new players. But I just found out that one of the guys in the room on Saturday is going to be someone who sat in on the game when I pulled this in Phoenix. He’s not stupid. First thing he’s going to think is, What are the odds of being in identical robberies in two different towns, and both times Johnny Fly Boy is at the table with me?”

  “He’ll make you in a heartbeat,” Jessup said.

  “That’s why I’m moving on.”

  “W
here you going next?”

  “I’m thinking Dallas,” I said.

  “So that’s a short plane ride. Me and Garvey will go with you.”

  “Not happening, bro. This is not a traveling circus. I’m a one-man show. I pick up local talent wherever I go. You were my Jersey boys, but I can’t walk into that room, so the deal is off. Lose my phone number after I hang up.”

  “Wait a minute, Fly Boy,” Jessup said. “Think this through before you bail. You already got the game lined up. You got the muscle in place. So if you can’t sit in, all you need is someone who can.”

  “Don’t you think I thought of that? I have a friend who I would trust to sit in for me, but he’s in Europe for a few months making lonely wealthy widows a little less lonely…and a lot less wealthy.”

  “What if I can help?” Jessup said.

  “No. You’d look like you were crashing the party.”

  “You saying I don’t fit in because I’m black?”

  “Hell, no,” I said. “Black, white, brown, yellow—if your money’s green, nobody gives a shit. But nobody sits down at that table unless they’re a regular high-stakes player. That’s not you, Tariq.”

  “What if I told you I got a guy who buys into six-figure games all the time? This dude would fit right in.”

  Cheryl looked at me, her eyes wide, her mouth open. The fish was nibbling at the hook.

  “Do you trust this guy?” I asked.

  “Hell, yeah. He was the inside man on the hotel job, and that went down like silk. He’s going to want his cut, but with that much money on the table, I’m sure we can come to terms.”

  “I don’t know, Tariq.”

  “Come on, Fly Boy. At least meet him.”

  “All right. Tonight at eleven. Houston Hall.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s in the Village on West Houston Street, just off Varick. It’s big, it’s noisy, it’s crowded, and I never have to worry about running into anyone who’s ever played in a poker game where the limit was more than twenty bucks. You and Jewel bring your boy. If I like him, I’ll stake him to the hundred and fifty grand, and then we’ll move on to the next plateau. I’ll see you at eleven.”

  I hung up. “And that, Dr. Robinson, is how it’s done,” I said.

  “That was brilliant, Zach. You’re a born con man. What happens when they show up?”

  “Jessup and Jewel are small fish. Reitzfeld will toss them back into the pond and give C.J. a chance to pay back the money and get out of town. The guy’s a poker player. He’ll know that’s the best hand he’s going to be dealt.”

  “How do you feel about all this?” she asked.

  “Pretty shitty. I feel good about cracking a case, but I hate sneaking around on my partner. I just hope she never finds out.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask how I feel?”

  “Cheryl, I know how you feel. You don’t trust my motives, and you don’t approve. You told me that this morning.”

  “I changed my mind. At your core, you’re a cop. I think your motives may be a little purer than I gave you credit for. Also…”

  “Also what?”

  “Watching you manipulate that guy into doing exactly what you want him to do was a bit of a turn-on.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She got off the sofa, took me by the hand, and started walking me to the bedroom. “Come on, Fly Boy. I’ll show you if I’m kidding or not.”

  CHAPTER 71

  Houston Hall is lower Manhattan’s go-to watering hole for the under-thirty crowd. The cavernous building still has the exposed rafters, weathered brick walls, and nuts-and-guts architectural charm of the parking garage it was in a past life.

  On weekends, the line to get in is around the block, but on a Wednesday at 10:00 p.m., Reitzfeld and I were able to walk right in and circulate among the raucous crowd of revelers who were hoisting steins of craft beer and munching on traditional fare like wings and sliders, as well as on the less predictable pastrami Reuben spring rolls and spicy sashimi tuna tacos.

  “Christ,” Reitzfeld said. “There must be five hundred people in here, and I’m old enough to be their father—every last one of them.”

  “I know,” I said. “Did you see the red sign that flashed when you walked through the door? It said GEEZER ALERT.”

  “Kiss my ass, rookie. But thanks for doing this. Not everybody at the PD would go this far out on a limb for a retired cop.”

  “Then they’re myopic,” I said. “Eventually we’re all retired cops, and sooner or later we’re going to need help from the inside. Let’s get a couple of beers so we look like we fit in.”

  The vast wide-open beer hall had row after row of massive mead-hall tables and benches. I ordered two pitchers of lager and five glasses from the bar, and we found a spot that was midroom with a clear sight line to the front door.

  The plan was simple. As soon as Jessup and Jewel identified C.J. as the mastermind behind the robbery, we’d let them go. Then I’d leave, and Reitzfeld could take it from there.

  “You definitely can’t be around when I ask for the money back,” Reitzfeld said. “It’s one thing for you to help me track down a couple of perps, but if you’re in the room when I try to collect the eight hundred grand, IA will nail you for being a bagman.”

  “The funny thing is that Shelley cares less about getting the money back than you do.”

  “I’ve got more skin in the game than Shelley does,” Reitzfeld said.

  We nursed our beers and kept our eyes on the people coming and going. At 10:55, Jessup and Jewel walked through the front door and looked around. It was definitely not their world. More frat party than bar scene, and while there were black faces in the crowd, it was more East Hampton than South Bronx.

  I dialed Jessup’s number and watched him answer.

  “On the right side,” I said. “There are numbers painted on the wall over the light fixtures. I’m at the far end of the table under number nine.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this here?” he said.

  “It’s the only place I’ll do it,” I said. “If you don’t like it, you’re free to go back the way you came.”

  He hung up, and I watched him launch into an animated conversation with Jewel. Then they made their way cautiously to our table—actually, my table: by now Reitzfeld was standing off to the side.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said, filling two clean glasses.

  They sat down. Jewel took a swig of the brew, but Jessup wasn’t in a drinking mood.

  “I counted maybe six brothers from the front door to here,” he said. “Did we have to be so conspicuous?”

  “First of all, none of the white people took a second look at you, and if you remember, I was in the minority last night at Rattlesnake. Suck it up. Now where’s your inside man?”

  Jessup looked at his Apple Watch. “It’s four minutes shy of eleven, Fly Boy. I don’t suppose that’s enough time for the three of us to get in a round of darts with Biff and Chad over there?”

  The joke caught Jewel middrink, and he did a spit take into his beer glass.

  “Fun and games are over, fellas,” I said. “It’s time to get serious. Now listen carefully, and whatever you do, don’t get up or even think about going for your piece, because there are four—count ’em, four—cops behind you.”

  There weren’t four cops. Just one retiree who worked security at Silvercup Studios. But from where they were sitting, imaginary cops were as menacing as real ones.

  “What the fuck?” Jessup said.

  “And there’s one cop in front of you,” I said.

  “Shit. I knew you were a cop,” Jessup said.

  “No you didn’t, or you wouldn’t have showed up. But here’s the good news. Our beef isn’t with you. As soon as C.J. sits down, and you finger him for the Mark hotel robbery, you both win a Get Out of Jail Free card. Just walk out the door. No questions asked.”

  “Who’s C.J.?” Jewel said.

  �
��Don’t be stupid, Garvey,” I said. “All you have to do is point out your inside man at the poker game, and you’re free to go.”

  “Happy to do it, officer,” Jessup said, “but he didn’t say his name was C.J.”

  “Fair enough. And my name isn’t Fly Boy.”

  Jessup’s phone rang. He looked at me. “He’s here.”

  “Tell him where to find you, then stand up and wave. If you warn him and he bolts, you’re in cuffs.”

  Jessup followed orders, and I stood off to the side with Reitzfeld until a man in a black Windbreaker and a black baseball cap walked over to the table and shook hands with his partners in crime.

  Only it wasn’t C. J. Berringer.

  CHAPTER 72

  “This is the dude who planned the whole operation,” Tariq Jessup said, pointing at the newcomer. “He kept seven hundred thousand, and we got fifty thou apiece, which is not the kind of payday that fosters allegiance to your employer. So, I repeat, he did it. Do we get to go now, Officer Fly Boy?”

  Reitzfeld stepped into the picture. “Don’t move until I tell you,” he said.

  Jessup and Jewel recognized him immediately. “Dude,” Jessup said, “sorry about the chloroform and tying you up and shit, but that was his idea, too. We were just the help.”

  Reitzfeld wasn’t interested in them. He was focused on the man in the black cap. “Why’d you do it, Rick?” he said.

  Rick Button, the stand-up comic, who until seconds ago had been one of the victims, shrugged. “Ah, the age-old question: why did the comedian steal the eight-hundred-thousand-dollar poker pot?” he said. “It was better than spending a year in a body cast, gumming my food, and shitting into a bag, which is what would have happened, compliments of a pair of Russian Neanderthals who work for the Bratva in Brighton Beach.”

  “Excuse us again, officers,” Jessup said. “But Garvey and I break out in hives when we’re in the presence of this many happy white people. You said we could go. Are you or are you not men of your word?”