Red Alert

by James Patterson

  Reitzfeld didn’t look at me. It had to be his call. “Get lost,” he said. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t be telling tales about this evening around the hood, or it will come back to bite you in the ass.”

  “Have no fear,” Jessup said. “We got played by a cop. It’s not exactly something we plan to be tweeting about.” He turned to Button. “I’m updating my résumé, boss. Can I count on you for a reference?”

  Button laughed. “Good one,” he said.

  Jessup and Jewel left the beer hall.

  “Sit down and don’t move,” Reitzfeld said to Button. Button sat.

  Then Reitzfeld put his arm on my shoulder and walked me ten feet away from the table. “I got this, Zach. You better go, too,” he said.

  “Bob, this is a whole different scenario than the one we rehearsed,” I said. “Shelley won’t have the same compassion for this idiot that he did for Kylie’s boyfriend. Do you think he’s going to want to prosecute? Should I—”

  “The only thing you should do, Zach, is get the hell out of here. Wash your hands of the whole affair. You helped me nail this weasel, and for that I am forever grateful. Whatever Shelley wants to do now is his call, but I can tell you that whatever it is, he’ll make sure that your name isn’t connected in any way.”

  “The only way for that to happen is for him to let Rick Button walk. If he’s arrested, there’s no way to keep my name out of it.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it, Zach. You didn’t do anything wrong, and nobody is going to be asking you if you did. Thanks for the beer. Now go.”

  I went. Straight to Cheryl.

  Her first question after I recounted the entire evening was right out of page one of the shrink’s handbook. “So how do you feel about all this?” she said.

  “Relieved,” I said. “I know it looked like I was trying to remove C.J. from the picture, but I’m really glad it wasn’t him. If it ever turned out that Kylie was dating a criminal, her career would be toast.”

  “And you would have lost the best partner you ever had,” she said.

  “And the most infuriating, and the most unpredictable, and the most unreasonable, and by far the most insane,” I said. “I mean, yesterday she pulled the plug on tens of thousands of cell phones, and today she walked straight at a woman in a trance who was programmed to shoot her.”

  “It sounds like she’d be hard to replace.”

  I wrapped my arms around Cheryl, put my lips to her ear, and whispered, “So would you, Fly Girl. So would you.”

  EPILOGUE

  HAITIAN JUSTICE

  CHAPTER 73

  Geraldo Segura was a man of his word. As soon as the cops were gone and the money had been wired to his account, he left Princeton Wells unharmed and in perfect health, except for the damage the expensive booze was doing to the man’s liver.

  He took a cab to JFK, and despite the fact that he was a millionaire a hundred times over, he had opted for a coach seat on Emirates to Adelaide, Australia, for $1,160. A first-class ticket with its own private cabin would only have cost another $23,000, but his logic was simple. Nobody pays attention to the people in the cheap seats.

  He breezed through airport security with his new identity, and now at thirty-nine thousand feet he sat back in seat 58A, comfortably lost in the pack of 398 other economy passengers on the Airbus A380.

  His mind flashed back to the start of his long day: a predawn visit to the Karayib Makèt in Brooklyn. The thugs at the door, all of whom towered over him, had no idea that he could have incapacitated them all. Two of them grabbed him, one on each arm, and asked what he wanted.

  “I’m here to talk to Dingo Slide,” he said.

  “Dingo is resting with his ancestors,” one of the goons said.

  “Then who’s in charge of this shit operation?” Segura demanded. “You fuckers owe me money.”

  The man drove a fist into his stomach. Segura doubled over and gasped for breath. But it was all an act. He had pulled back just before the moment of contact. Why let his attacker know he had abs of steel, and that nothing short of a kick to the gut from a mule could have brought him down?

  They dragged him to the rear of the store, through a cold room, until he was face-to-face with the one man he had come to meet.

  “My name is Geraldo Segura,” he said defiantly.

  “So…the martyr has returned to seek revenge,” the leader of the Haitian cartel said. “I am Malique La Grande. I’ve been reading about your impressive accomplishments. Were you planning on killing me as well?”

  “No. I’m here for compensation.”

  La Grande laughed out loud, and the others joined in. He waved his hand, and his men released their grip on their captive. “Prison has damaged your thinking,” La Grande said. “Why would you think we owe you money?”

  “Because it’s the honorable thing to do. If Dingo Slide were here, he would agree. But I guess the Zoe Pound code of honor has deteriorated under new management.”

  “I know you’re a fighter,” La Grande said, taking a gun from his waistband. “This is how I win fights. Talk to me about honor.”

  “I was a kid. Zoe Pound drugs were planted on me. The least you can do is pay me for doing twenty years for your crime.”

  “So you lost twenty years,” La Grande said. “I lost four kilos of heroin. We all pay a price.”

  “Bullshit!” Segura said, digging a hand into his jacket pocket.

  The men at his side grabbed him and forced him to the ground.

  “Emmanuel, you let him in here with a gun?” La Grande bellowed.

  “No, boss. No, no,” the guard said. “I searched him.”

  “What’s in his pocket?”

  One guard pulled Segura to his feet while Emmanuel dug a hand into the jacket pocket. “This is all, boss,” he said, holding up a fistful of paper.

  “And what is that?” La Grande said.

  “My release papers from Klong Prem Central Prison,” Segura said. “It’s proof that you’re lying to me.”

  La Grande tucked the gun back into his waistband and beckoned Emmanuel to bring him the papers. He read them carefully. Then he read them a second time, balled them up, hurled the papers to the floor, and erupted in a barrage of Haitian Creole.

  Those who understood him looked shocked, angered.

  Segura stood his ground. “English,” he said calmly.

  “Your papers say you were arrested for trying to smuggle a kilo of heroin out of Thailand,” La Grande said. “What about the other three kilos?”

  “What other three kilos? Your rich white mules planted the drugs in my bag. One kilo is all it took to put me in that hellhole for fifty years. I got out in twenty, no thanks to them. That’s why I’m back. I killed two, ruined one for life, and by tomorrow morning, Princeton Wells’s body will be in bits and pieces all over his bedroom. My grudge isn’t against Zoe Pound, but the least you can do is pay me—”

  “Where are the other three kilos?” La Grande said in a whisper that was far more menacing than a shout. “Where…are…the other…three kilos?”

  “I don’t know,” Segura said. “Why don’t you ask your partner, Mr. Wells?”

  “Dingo asked him twenty years ago. Wells swore up and down that you were arrested with all four kilos.”

  “The paperwork states that the Thai government confiscated one kilo. Wells flies back home on his private jet and says, ‘Sorry, Dingo. They took it all.’ Who do you believe, Mr. La Grande?”

  “I knew Wells was lying,” La Grande said. “I wanted them all dead, but I was only a lieutenant. Dingo didn’t have the balls to kill them. They bought us off with a quarter of a million dollars.”

  “Three kilos for a quarter million?” Segura said. “They cut it, sold it, and made a million dollars at your expense…and mine.”

  “Zoe Pound owes you nothing,” La Grande said. “But I will give you a hundred large to walk away from all this.”

  “Why would you give me a nickel if you think you
owe me nothing?”

  “Because you’re going to do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t kill Wells,” La Grande said.

  “I have to,” Segura said. “I’ve waited too long.”

  “You’ve got your revenge. Save a little for me, and I’ll sweeten the deal by another fifty thousand.”

  Segura pondered the offer, then nodded slowly. “I accept,” he said. “I can leave the country tonight. Don’t do anything till I’m gone.”

  “Agreed,” La Grande said.

  “Once I leave I can never come back,” Segura said. “So promise me you won’t change your mind.”

  “Have no fear, Rom Ran Sura,” La Grande said. “I am not my predecessor.”

  Segura left the market at five in the morning, his backpack stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. Then he went back to the hotel on Sumner Place, slept until noon, checked out, and made a surprise visit to his grandmother and his aunts to deliver the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

  The next three hours were a chaotic hodgepodge of joy, tears, hallelujahs, and Guatemalan food. Before he left, he told his abuela and his tias that there would be no more money coming from his former school friends. From now on, he would send whatever they needed, including tickets to visit him and his family once they’d settled in.

  By four thirty, he was on Central Park West, watching Carlotta lock the front door to the Wells mansion. And now he was flying across the Atlantic to his new life with Jam and the kids. First stop: Dubai, and then another twelve-hour flight, to Adelaide. He’d never been there, but after years of hearing Flynn Samuels talk about his hometown, Segura decided it was the best place in the world for a fresh start.

  He closed his eyes, and just as he had done every night on a cold prison floor, he said a silent prayer asking God to help him forget the past and dream about the future.

  And for the first time in twenty years, he fell asleep knowing his prayers would be answered.

  CHAPTER 74

  It was Friday night.

  Morris Langford was in a jail cell on a suicide watch. Janek Hoffmann was out of jail, and no doubt pumping his body full of steroids and crack. Aubrey Davenport was finally reposing at the Frank E. Campbell funeral chapel on Madison Avenue, her internment scheduled for Sunday. Nathan Hirsch was charged with three counts of bribery and two counts of stock fraud, and was released on two million dollars’ bail. Instead of a bomb handcuffed to his wrist, he was now under house arrest, a court-ordered electronic bracelet shackled to his ankle. I had no idea where Troy Marschand and Dylan Freemont were, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass. Princeton Wells had not called Mayor Sykes on Thursday morning as promised, and Captain Cates informed me that if Her Honor had not heard from Mr. Wells by Monday morning, Kylie and I were to pay him another visit. Hopefully by then he and Kenda would be out of the hot tub.

  Most important, ten days after Del Fairfax’s podium exploded at the Silver Bullet Foundation fund-raiser, Geraldo Segura was still at large, and the citywide manhunt for the bomber had been escalated to nationwide.

  With that much law enforcement on the case, I was resigned to the unhappy fact that Kylie and I would not be the ones to collar him. But at least I could look on the bright side. It was Friday night.

  A week ago, I’d had to cancel my Friday reservation with Cheryl at Paola’s and fly to Bangkok. Tonight we were finally going to have the dinner date we had been looking forward to. With one difference. The reservation now said “Table for four.”

  “How the hell did this happen, anyway?” I asked Cheryl. We were in a cab on Madison Avenue heading uptown to Paola’s.

  “Wow,” she said. “That’s the tone of voice I’d expect if I ran your new car into a ditch. All I did was agree to have dinner with your partner and her significant other.”

  “Sorry about the tone of voice. It’s just that I thought it was only going to be the two of us, and now it isn’t.”

  “That’s what happens when you stick your cop nose into other people’s business. Apparently Shelley got his poker buddies together last night and told them how you and Bob Reitzfeld nailed Rick Button. There’s about three hundred thousand still left from the money he stole, so everyone is getting about forty-three thousand back. C.J. is so grateful he wants to take us to dinner.”

  “We were already booked for tonight, and we’re driving up to Woodstock tomorrow morning for the weekend,” I said. “We had an ironclad excuse. You could have gotten out of it.”

  “Why would I want to get out of it?” Cheryl said. “I’ve heard so much about Kylie’s new boyfriend. I’m finally getting the chance to meet him.”

  Paola’s son, Stefano, greeted us at the door and escorted us to our table, where Kylie and C.J. were waiting with a bottle of champagne and four glasses.

  Kylie introduced him to Cheryl, Stefano poured the wine, and C.J. made the toast. “To Zach,” he said. “You, sir, are an outstanding detective.”

  “And he’s mighty good at keeping a secret, too,” Kylie said. “Zach, I didn’t know you were working the case.”

  “Reitzfeld asked me to help and to keep it under wraps,” I said. “I couldn’t say no.”

  Kylie grinned, and I could see she had me cold. Of the 275 recruits in our academy class, Kylie graduated number one. She was more than smart enough to figure out why I never told her I was helping Reitzfeld. And since I graduated number six, I was at least smart enough to know that she knew, and she was now going to bust my balls about it.

  “So did you suspect Rick Button right from the get-go?” she asked, all wide-eyed and innocent.

  I was groping for a passable answer when Cheryl came to my rescue. “I hate to be a hard-ass, guys, but Zach and I have a strict rule. No cell phones and no cop talk at the dinner table.” She turned to C.J. “You, on the other hand, are encouraged to talk shop. I am totally fascinated with the psychology of being a professional gambler. When did you first know that’s what you wanted to do?”

  C.J. answered the question, but Kylie got Cheryl’s message. My boyfriend suspected your boyfriend. Get over it. Case closed.

  After that, the evening turned out to be a lot of fun. Paola fed us well, and Stefano treated us like rock stars. The biggest shocker of the night came just as we were about to order dessert.

  Danny Corcoran and Tommy Fischer walked through the front door. I’d told them where I was having dinner, but I hadn’t expected them to hunt me down. Stefano pointed to our table, and the two of them headed straight for us.

  “Sorry to bust in on you,” Danny said. “I know you guys are off the clock, but there’s something we need to tell you before you hear it on the news.”

  “We tried calling,” Tommy said, “but it just kept going to voice mail.”

  Cheryl’s rules of dinner etiquette claim another two victims.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “Princeton Wells is dead.”

  “Blown up?” Kylie said.

  “Carved up,” Danny said. “Haitian style. And in case we couldn’t figure out who was behind it, his body was wrapped in a Zoe Pound flag and left in a vacant lot about three blocks from their headquarters.”

  “Do they want us on the scene?”

  “Not now. The Six Seven is all over it,” Tommy Fischer said. “Wells being who he is, it may float up to Red eventually, but we all know it was Malique La Grande. Proving it is a whole nother kettle of creole.”

  “We may never be able to prove who killed Princeton Wells,” I said, “but we sure as hell know who didn’t kill him.”

  “Geraldo Segura,” Kylie said.

  “Incredible,” I said. “After all that, he didn’t kill Wells.”

  “Why not?” C.J. said. “I thought he had a major vendetta.”

  “He did,” Kylie said. “But when you blow someone up with a bomb, they’re dead in an instant. After twenty years in a Thai prison, I think Segura wanted Wells to die a long, slow, agonizing death. And nobody
does it better than the Haitians.”

  “Excuse me,” Cheryl said, “but I think it’s time we got back to the no-cop-talk-at-dinner rule. Danny, we were just about to order dessert and coffee. Would you and Tommy like to join us?”

  “Life must go on, Doc,” Danny said, signaling a busboy to bring two more chairs. “And dessert is a great place to start. Let me take a look at that menu.”

  And then it hit me. With Wells dead, there was no reason for Segura to stay in New York. Or in the U.S., for that matter. In fact, since he farmed out the killing, he probably left the country while Wells was still alive.

  I’d have liked to share my brilliant insight with my fellow detectives, but Cheryl runs a tight dinner table. No cop talk means no cop talk.

  So I lifted my wineglass and drank a silent toast to Geraldo Segura, the one who got away.

  Acknowledgments

  The authors would like to thank the following people for their help in making this work of fiction ring true: NYPD Detective Danny Corcoran, Undersheriff Frank Faluotico (retired) and Jerry Brainard of the Ulster County, New York, Sheriff’s Department, retired NYPD Detectives Tommy Fischer and Sal Catapano, Dr. Lawrence Dresdale, Paul Aronson, Pam Herrick, Susan Brown, Gerri Gomperts, Victor Gomperts, Bill Neill, Oscar Ogg, Jason White, Dan Fennessy, Bill Harrison, David Hinds, Mel Berger, Bob Beatty, and Sarah Paris.

  About the Authors

  James Patterson received the Literarian Award for Outstanding Service to the American Literary Community from the National Book Foundation. He holds the Guinness World Record for the most #1 New York Times bestsellers, and his books have sold more than 365 million copies worldwide. A tireless champion of the power of books and reading, Patterson created a new children’s book imprint, JIMMY Patterson, whose mission is simple: “We want every kid who finishes a JIMMY Book to say, ‘PLEASE GIVE ME ANOTHER BOOK.’” He has donated more than one million books to students and soldiers and funds over four hundred Teacher Education Scholarships at twenty-four colleges and universities. He has also donated millions of dollars to independent bookstores and school libraries. Patterson invests proceeds from the sales of JIMMY Patterson Books in pro-reading initiatives.