NYPD Red 2

by James Patterson

  She prayed for Enzo’s soul, then checked her hair and makeup in the mirror, locked the car, and walked toward the rectory.

  The secretary escorted her to Father Spinelli’s study, and he stood up as soon as she entered the room. He had been a strikingly handsome man when he’d joined the parish at the age of twenty-eight—too good-looking to be celibate, some women said. But now, having just turned fifty, he had evolved into the heart and soul of St. Agnes. People turned to him, respected him, loved him—none more than Teresa Salvi.

  “Teresa,” Father Spinelli said, giving her a warm, priestly hug. “I hope all is well with you and Joe.”

  The room was small, and the walnut-paneled walls, the heavy furniture, and the dim lighting made it feel even smaller—but intimate, not confining. Teresa took her usual seat on the well-worn leather chair on the other side of his desk.

  “Joe and I are doing fine. And how are things here at St. Agnes?” She clutched her purse, ready to take out her checkbook.

  “Everything is going remarkably well,” he said, pouring her a cup of tea. “The plumbing, the heating, the electrical—all working, all up to code. It confirms my belief in miracles.”

  She put her purse on the floor. “Then why did you…why did you ask me to stop by?”

  “Have I been that transparent? Only inviting you for tea when we are in need of a benefactor? Forgive me.”

  “Father, you never have to apologize for reaching out to my family on behalf of the church. How can we help?”

  He poured half a cup of tea for himself. “Teresa, I didn’t invite you here to ask for your help. It’s my turn to help you.”

  She was confused. “With what?”

  “I have something I need to give you. Something precious, something personal.” He paused and took a sip of tea. “I know it will open up old wounds, but you’re a strong woman, Teresa. I’ve seen it time and again, and I know your faith will see you through.”

  “See me through what?”

  He opened his desk drawer and took out a brown manila envelope.

  “This belonged to your late son, Enzo, God rest his soul,” he said, passing the envelope across the desk.

  Her hand trembled, and her heart raced as she took the envelope.

  “Go ahead,” he said softly. “Open it.”

  She tore the top off the envelope and removed the contents.

  “It’s Enzo’s diary,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. She ran her fingers gently over the dark red Moroccan leather journal bordered in gold filigree. “I gave it to him when he was thirteen. He carried it all the time. Where did you get this?”

  “One of our parishioners brought it to me. She was cleaning house and found it among her son’s things. I knew as painful as it might be for you to have this, it must be God’s will that it turned up after all these years, and I hope you will find some comfort in having this little piece of your son returned to you.”

  What parishioner? Where did she find it? Teresa had a million questions. But she was well schooled in the family business. She knew not to ask a single one of them.

  Run home. Talk to Joe. He’ll know how to handle this.

  Chapter 38

  The dim sum at the New Wonton Garden may not have been the best I’d ever eaten, but it was several notches up from the old man’s description of “not so bad.” Of course, I’d never been to Guangdong Province, so when it comes to Chinese cuisine, my Go buddy and I have two completely different sets of standards.

  “There’s one left,” I said to Kylie, who had spent most of the meal sitting across from me, watching me eat.

  “You finish it,” she said. “I’m pretty full.”

  “Yeah. Three pot stickers can fill a girl right up,” I said, and bit into the last shrimp dumpling.

  “I’m not that hungry,” she said, rubbing her thumb across the face of her iPhone.

  “Do you want to call him?” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Kylie, I’m not trying to butt into your life, but yesterday Spence wound up in the ER because he was getting high on pills, and this morning you left before you saw him, so when I say ‘Do you want to call him?’ I’m talking about your husband, who you seem to be very concerned about. So, I repeat—do you want to call him?”

  “No. My focus is on this case.”

  It was not a conversation I wanted to go any further, and as good fortune had it, the front door of the restaurant opened and the old man entered.

  Kylie grinned. “You were right. He’s here.”

  He walked to our table and sat down. “You crooked cop,” he said.

  “How do you know I’m a cop?” I asked.

  The old man laughed. “How you know I am Chinese? You look at my eyes. I look in your eyes, and I know you a cop. A crooked cop. You cheat. Let me win.”

  With that he put my hundred-dollar bill on the table. Then he took his hundred and put it next to mine.

  “I am happy to save face. But I can’t take money I don’t earn.” He pushed the two bills toward me.

  I stared at them for a few seconds, then slid them back across the table. “Then maybe you can earn it. Did you see Alex Kang the day he disappeared?”

  The old man didn’t hesitate for a second. He had done all his deliberating before he walked through the door. He knew what this was about, and he’d showed up to finish playing the game.

  “Kang no good,” he said. “He come out of clubhouse, two men in car waiting. One get out of car, talk to Kang. Kang get in car. Last time anyone in Chinatown see him alive.”

  A witness. We had scored a witness. I stole a look at Kylie. She was stone-faced. She knew better than to utter a word. The old man would not be comfortable talking to a woman.

  “Can you describe the men?” I asked.

  “I only see one. White…big like you. Too far away to see his face.”

  “How about the car?”

  “It was truck-car.”

  “Was it a truck or a car?” I said calmly.

  “No,” the old man said. He stood up and gestured for me to follow him to the front of the restaurant. Kylie stayed put.

  “It was truck-car like that,” he said, pointing out the window to an SUV parked on the street. “Only that one silver. The one that come for Kang is black.”

  We walked back to the table. I sat down, but he remained standing.

  “Thank you. You earned this,” I said, pointing to the two hundred.

  He obviously agreed. He scooped up the money and gave us both a quick head bow. “Happy you get your money worth. Thank you. I go.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful. What’s your name, old man?”

  He grinned. “This Chinatown. You NYPD. Better you just call me old man.”

  Chapter 39

  “Should I write this all down?” Kylie said. “Our witness’s name is Old Man, and the gangbanger we interviewed was John Doe. We’re almost as good as Donovan and Boyle.”

  The waiter cleared the table, then brought us the check along with fresh tea and a bowlful of fortune cookies.

  “I guess any friend of the old man rates more than one cookie apiece,” Kylie said. She picked one out of the bowl, cracked it open, read it, and nodded. “Hmm, very perceptive.”

  “What does it say?” I asked.

  “Partner think he very smart cop, but you know better.”

  “Are you saying you don’t appreciate my investigative genius?”

  “No, I thought you were brilliant. I just think the cookie doesn’t want it to go to your head.”

  I picked up the check. “I’ll pay for lunch. I ate most of it.”

  Kylie snatched it from my hand. “You already paid a hundred bucks for the old man. I’ll buy lunch.”

  We walked outside and stood in front of the restaurant. Neither of us was ready to get in the car.

  “I don’t get it,” Kylie said, staring at the park across the street. “Two victims, Alex Kang and Evelyn Parker-St
eele—polar opposites. In each case, two people pull up in a black SUV, and one of them—a white male—just says something like ‘Get in the car,’ and the victim gets in. We can’t find a single common denominator between Kang and Parker-Steele, but they both must have known the guy who pulled up, because they both got in the car without an argument.”

  And just like that, a ton of bricks fell on my head.

  “Holy shit,” I said. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Two minutes ago you said you were an investigative genius. Now you’re an idiot. When do I get to vote?”

  “Shut up and listen. I think we’ve been looking for the wrong common denominator. We’ve got four victims—a gangbanger, a political heavyweight, a drug dealer, and a sex offender. We’ve been trying to figure out what’s the connection—how do they all know the two men in the SUV? But what if the one thing they have in common is that none of the victims know these two guys?”

  “Then none of them get in the car.”

  “You see that guy over there—the one with the jeans and the gray sweatshirt?” I said, pointing across the street to a young Chinese man on a park bench, tapping on his cell phone. “You don’t know him, and he doesn’t know you. Now, how do you get him to jump in your car—no questions asked?”

  Kylie shrugged. “He looks pretty straight, so I don’t know—take my top off?”

  “Pretend I’m serious,” I said. “You. How do you get a total stranger into your car?”

  “Come on, Zach, I’m a cop. I just flash my—”

  And then the ton of bricks fell on Kylie’s head.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “They’re posing as cops. Two guys in a black SUV. All they have to do is flash a phony ID or a fake piece of tin—who would even question it?”

  “You think I’m right?”

  “Detective Jordan, I not only think you’re right,” she said, “I’m going right back into this restaurant and find a fortune cookie that says ‘My partner is a fucking genius.’”

  Part Two

  The Choke Pear

  Chapter 40

  “Shut the door, cowgirl,” Cates said, glaring at us from her desk.

  Apparently, our boss had heard about Kylie’s run-in with Damon Parker.

  We entered Cates’s office, and Kylie closed the door.

  “Are you under the impression, Detective MacDonald, that I don’t have enough bullshit on my plate, and that I need you to generate more?”

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” Kylie said. “It’s just that Damon Parker is such an asshole that I—”

  “Damon Parker is a professional asshole,” Cates said. “You behaved like an amateur. He’s paid to get in people’s faces. You’re paid to avoid embarrassing the department on camera.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Kylie said.

  “Of course it will,” Cates snapped back. “Breaking the rules is in your DNA. But I’ll tell you what won’t happen again, and that’s me cleaning up after your mess and letting you off the hook. If there weren’t a serial killer on the loose, I’d chain you to your desk for a month.”

  She turned to me. “Jordan, fill me in. Start with Horton LaFleur. Did he cough up anything?”

  “The poor bastard has emphysema,” I said. “God knows what he coughed up, but none of it was information. He seems to be president of the Bernie Goetz Fan Club, so whatever he may know, he won’t use it against a vigilante.”

  Then I took her through our visit to Chinatown. Her eyebrows arched slightly when I told her we had drawn our weapons at the gang headquarters.

  Kylie jumped in. “Captain, they drew first. It was a clear-cut case of exigent—”

  “They’re bangers,” Cates said, waving her off. “As long as you didn’t pull your gun on Parker, I don’t give a damn.”

  What she did give a damn about was my theory that the two killers might be posing as cops.

  “I’ve seen it before,” she said. “I was working Robbery out of the Three Two. One guy with a silver tongue and a fake piece of tin. He talked his way into sixteen apartments before we collared him.”

  “It’s only a guess,” I said. “But it would help explain how the kidnappers got both Kang and Parker-Steele into a car without a struggle.”

  “Talk to me about Hazmat victim number three—and no, I haven’t read his file yet. Give me the executive summary.”

  “Antoine Tinsdale,” I said. “African American, age thirty, a.k.a. the Tin Man. Some say it’s a spin on his name, but most people think it was a Wizard of Oz thing—the Tin Man was the one who didn’t have a heart. He was a drug dealer who liked to start them young. And the best way to hook a ten-year-old is to use ten-year-old runners.”

  Cates said nothing, but the anger in her eyes was palpable: she was an African American who grew up in Harlem.

  “He had a network of underage kids working for him. The rival dealers warned them to back off, but the kids weren’t street smart enough to be scared. Dope slingers are not known for their negotiating skills, so they whacked four of Antoine’s baby-faced runners.”

  “And there’s always a new crop just waiting to get in,” Cates said.

  “Tin Man kept so distant from these kids that it would be impossible to make any of their deaths stick to him. Even in his video confession he said, ‘If these boys wound up dead because they got into a pissing contest over turf, it’s not on me. A real jury would never convict me.’”

  “He’s right,” Cates said. “A smart defense attorney would have beat it down to a cakewalk.”

  “That’s probably what the killer thought, which is why Tinsdale wound up wearing a Tyvek jumpsuit under an exit ramp on the Harlem River Drive a half a block from a kids’ playground. Kylie and I went there after school this afternoon.”

  Cates frowned. “And let me guess. The kids said even less than the old man with emphysema. Nobody heard nothing. Nobody saw nothing. Nobody knows nothing. It’s the code of the prepubescent black drug dealer. Growing up, I watched sociopaths like Tinsdale destroy young lives. I became a cop to get bastards like him off the street. And now a couple of vigilantes with a movie camera are doing it for me. You know what really sucks? It’s my job to track these lunatics down and keep them from killing any more scumbags. These Hazmat boys got one thing right. There really is no justice.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Cates called out.

  It was Cheryl, looking every bit as beautiful as she had when I made an ass of myself at the diner this morning. “If you guys are having a group grope on Hazmat,” she said, “can I join the group?”

  “Absolutely,” Cates said. “Jordan, give her your theory about the two men in the black SUV.”

  I spelled out my scenario of two killers luring their victims by posing as cops. “What do you think, Dr. Robinson?” I asked.

  She smiled at me, and my brain jumped a few hours ahead to being alone with her at dinner, the wine warming us both. And then my testosterone took over, and my brain fast-forwarded to the two of us naked. She moaned and called out my name and said—

  “What do I think, Detective Jordan?”

  I snapped out of my fantasy.

  “Right. That’s what I asked. What do you think of my idea that the killers could be posing as cops?”

  “I think it’s a fascinating theory,” Cheryl said, still smiling. “But I think you’re wrong.”

  Chapter 41

  Gideon had been the one who picked Alex Kang as their first houseguest.

  A year earlier, Kang had tried to gun down Giap Phung, the leader of the rival Vietnamese gang NBK—Natural Born Killers. Kang had chased Phung into the Canal Street subway station and unloaded his Springfield nine-millimeter semiautomatic into the crowd. Phung got away, but Kang hit four bystanders. One of them, Jenny Woo, a beautiful young honors student at Hunter College, clung to life for ten days before she died.

  Everybody knew Kang was the shooter. Jenny’s parents begged someone—anyone—to come forward and
identify him. But fingering a gangbanger was tantamount to suicide, so Kang walked.

  Gideon convinced Dave that they should be the ones to avenge Jenny Woo’s death.

  “She was a college girl with her whole life ahead of her,” Gideon said. “Just like your sister.”

  “I thought what we did was a onetime thing,” Dave said.

  “Maybe for you, but I’ve been thinking. We were sixteen when we killed Enzo. We had no idea what we were doing, and we were lucky that bastard didn’t gut the two of us and feed our kidneys to his dog.”

  Dave nodded. It was his fault that Enzo had been able to pull a knife on them. If Gideon hadn’t whacked him over the head with that bottle of vodka…

  “Alex Kang is even more dangerous than Enzo,” Gideon said. “He’s what Enzo would have become if we hadn’t killed him. But we’re a lot smarter now, and this time we’re not going to make any mistakes.”

  “I’m listening,” Dave said.

  Gideon laid out the plan.

  “I really like the video confession part,” Dave said. “Kind of wish we thought of that for Enzo. But scumbags like Kang don’t confess in five minutes. We need a place to stash him. My cousin Todd has this old cabin he only uses in the summer. It’s up in the Adirondacks.”

  Gideon shook his head. “When you’re snatching someone like Alex Kang, you don’t want to give him five hours in a car while you drive him upstate. Too much time for him to figure out how to get away. We need to keep him as close to home as possible. I’m thinking we can find something in Long Island City.”

  They spent a week scouting, driving past factories, warehouses, and storage facilities, some occupied, some not. Then they found it—88 Crane Street—a graffiti-covered garage on a dead-end block that bordered the Long Island Rail Road rail yard.

  It was not only an eyesore, it was an earsore, with diesel engines idling all day, drowning out any sounds that might remotely come through the thick walls.