NYPD Red 3

by James Patterson

  “I’m sorry to hear about your ex-mother-in-law,” Kylie said.

  “Thanks,” Cheryl said. “I can’t even think of her as my ex-anything. She’s the mother of my ex-husband, and I really have to see her before she dies. The best thing about my marriage to Fred was the quality time I spent with Mildred.” She gave me a quick hug. “I’ll catch a late train back.”

  “I’ll be pulling a long shift, so how about a late dinner,” I said. “We can order in, open a bottle of wine—”

  Her cell phone rang, and she grabbed it. “Fred, I’m on my way. I’ll be on the 1:47. Pick me up at the Mount Kisco station.”

  I could see she was ready to hang up, but apparently Fred kept talking. Cheryl listened patiently, punctuating the one-sided conversation with the occasional “Mmm hmm,” which is what shrinks say when they’ve heard it all before.

  Finally, she jumped in. “Fred, if you keep talking, I’ll miss my train. Good-bye.”

  “So, about tonight,” I said as soon as she hung up. “About what time do you think you’ll be—”

  “Zach!” she said. “How can you expect me to plan a dinner date now? Fred is a total wreck. He’s already called half a dozen times.”

  “Maybe next time he calls you can remind him that he’s no longer married to you,” I snapped.

  I regretted it as soon as I said it. In a heartbeat, the calm, compassionate therapist reverted to hot-blooded, quick-tempered Latina.

  “Do you hear yourself?” she said, clenching her jaw to keep the anger from exploding into a scream. “His mother is dying. How insensitive can you be?”

  “I didn’t mean it to sound so callous,” I said, backpedaling. “It’s just that Fred is engaged. Why is he calling you instead of his fiancée?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but his fiancée left him.”

  I hadn’t expected that. “I…I thought she was pregnant.”

  “She is,” Cheryl said. “But Fred found out that he isn’t the father, which is why he’s been calling me and not her.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Not knowing is acceptable. Not thinking isn’t.”

  She stormed down the precinct steps just as a black Escalade pulled up. The driver jumped out and opened the back door, and Muriel Sykes, the city’s new mayor, stepped out.

  Kylie and I had a history with Sykes. Evelyn Parker-Steele, the murdered wife of the hotel magnate who upgraded Cheryl and me to a palace in the clouds, had also been Muriel Sykes’s campaign manager. At first we had butted heads with Sykes, but once we solved the crime, we became her go-to cops.

  “Detectives,” she called out as soon as she spotted us. “Hell of a way to start my second day on the job, but I’m happy to see you two on the case.”

  I could see Cheryl halfway up the block trying to flag down a cab on Lexington Avenue. One stopped, and she got in.

  Oh good, I thought. Don’t want her to miss the train that’s taking her back to Fred. My brain began to race, and my mind conjured up thoughts of their tearful reunion. Cheryl was a natural-born caregiver, and I knew she’d be there for Fred in his hour of despair, consoling him, comforting him, offering him a shoulder to cry on…

  “Zach!”

  I snapped out of my self-inflicted misery montage. It was Kylie.

  “What?” I said.

  “Can we get back to work? The mayor is on her way upstairs.”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking…”

  “No, Zach. Cheryl’s right. You weren’t thinking. The only thing on your mind was your bruised male ego. You want my advice?”

  “I can’t wait. Lay it on me, Dr. Phyllis.”

  “Don’t get tangled up in whatever soap opera you’re creating in your head. You’ve already botched things up with Cheryl as it is.”

  “Yeah, I guess I really shot myself in the foot.”

  “Oh, you’re right about shooting yourself,” she said, grinning. “But you’ve got the wrong body part, Casanova. It definitely wasn’t your foot.”

  Chapter 13

  Kylie and I took the stairs two at a time and made it to the third floor just as the mayor was getting out of the elevator. We followed her into Captain Cates’s office.

  Sykes wasted no time. “Where are you on the murder of Hunter Alden’s driver?”

  “Alden would like us to believe that Peter Chevalier was a womanizer who was probably murdered by a jealous husband,” I said. “But something else is going on. Alden’s son didn’t show up at school today, and he’s not at home grieving.”

  Most politicians have very little understanding of the inner workings of the criminal justice system, but Sykes was a former U.S. attorney. She had prosecuted criminal cases for the federal government for sixteen years. “And you suspect it’s not just another rich kid playing hooky?” she said.

  “We have a witness who says she saw Tripp and a friend of his taken into custody by an undercover cop yesterday, hours before Peter was killed,” Kylie said. “But we know for sure the precinct never sent a cop. It sounded to us more like both kids were abducted.”

  “How reliable is your witness?”

  “To us or to a jury?” I said. “Her name is Fannie Gittleman. She’s at least eighty years old. She’s a bit off the wall, but definitely not delusional. We’re convinced she got it right. Those kids were taken.”

  “What does Hunter Alden say?”

  “He swears that Tripp is fine. Says he got a text from him last night—after he was supposedly kidnapped. Of course, if Tripp is being held for ransom, the kidnappers would have told Alden to keep the cops out, which is why he’d be lying to us.”

  “So then we went to the kid’s school,” I continued. “One of the teachers showed us a text he got from Tripp—also late last night. He bailed out of classes for a couple of days. Said he was going up to Rochester for this film project he’s shooting for his father.”

  “The kidnapper could have sent that text so the school wouldn’t report the boy missing,” Sykes said. “Let’s get back to the murder of the driver. Are you anywhere on that?”

  “No, but if Tripp Alden was abducted, that might explain why Chevalier was killed and beheaded. One of the scenarios we’ve run is that his head was sent to Alden as a warning—pay the ransom or your son is next.”

  “Detectives, it all makes sense, but you’re walking a fine line trying to solve a crime that nobody has yet reported.”

  “Mrs. Gittleman reported it,” Kylie said.

  “Before you confront Hunter Alden with an eighty-year-old eyewitness, why don’t you talk to the parents of the other victim? See if they’re willing to work with us.”

  “The other kid lives with his grandmother. From what I hear she’s lucky to have rent money, let alone ransom money.”

  “All we need is for her to file a missing persons report. Then I don’t care how poor she is—she gets all the resources of NYPD Red,” Sykes said. “One more thing. Hunter Alden can be overbearing, but don’t let him push you. He’s not your boss—even if he tries to act like it. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Hunter is a lot more than overbearing. What I should have said was, he’s a major pain in the ass. If you think his son is a crime victim, and he doesn’t cooperate, talk to me. I’ll connect you with someone much easier to deal with.”

  “We may well take you up on that,” I said. “Who are you talking about?”

  “His father, Hutch Alden.”

  Cates finally spoke. “Madam Mayor, thank you. Having you back us up means a lot.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Sykes said. “The Aldens might have a lot of political clout, but this isn’t politics. This department gets my support before they do.”

  Chapter 14

  Silas Blackstone parked the Audi and stared up at the cluster of identical redbrick buildings. They looked harmless on the outside, but he knew better. He’d grown up in public housing in the Mott Haven section of the Bronx. Violence was everywhere. If the gangs and
the drug dealers didn’t get you, a random bullet could. The first thing you teach a kid living in the projects: Never stand in front of a window.

  The fact that Lonnie Martinez went to a rich white kids’ school meant nothing. This was a whole other world. Blackstone checked his gun. “Better safe than sorry,” he said, tucking it back into his holster.

  He got out of the car, locked it, and then looked up and down Paladino Avenue. Calling it an avenue was a joke. It was nothing more than a service road running along the Harlem River Drive. Just as well. No kids walking around with nothing better to do than key every car on the block.

  The tiny vestibule of 64 Paladino smelled faintly of disinfectant. Eau de Pine-Sol, his father used to call it. He found the name Juanita Martinez on the panel of doorbells and pressed the button.

  The intercom crackled. “Who is it?” a woman’s voice said.

  “I have a package for Lonnie Martinez. It’s from Mr. Alden.”

  She buzzed him in.

  He took the elevator to the sixth floor. He knocked on the door to apartment 6H, and an attractive woman opened it halfway and leaned against the doorjamb.

  “Where’s Lonnie?” he said.

  “Lonnie no here. I take package.”

  “Package? No. I said I have a message from Mr. Alden.”

  “Alden?” she repeated. “Tripp Alden—he no here.”

  Blackstone took another look. Her English sucked, but the rest of her was drop-dead amazing. Five foot two, with a tight little body, thick dark hair, and skin the color of warm honey. She was wearing a blue uniform with the Costco logo on the shirt. The name tag said Juanita, which was the grandmother’s name, but he had been expecting some fat old broad with her hair in a bun. This chick had it going on.

  “Are you Lonnie’s grandmother?” he said.

  Her eyes lit up when she heard the name. She flashed a smile. “Sí, sí. Soy Lonnie abuela. Gronmodder.”

  “You speak English?”

  She shrugged. “Un poco. No much.”

  “Mr. Alden wants to hire Lonnie to help Tripp with another movie.”

  She gave him a smile and a vacant stare.

  He shook his head. “Let me leave a note for Lonnie,” he said, writing in midair with an imaginary pencil. “You got paper and a pencil? Papel? Lápiz?”

  “Sí, sí,” she said. “Papel y lápiz. I get for you.”

  She turned to go inside to find something for him to write with, and the door swung open.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. He followed her into the apartment and grabbed the newspaper off the kitchen table.

  “The New York Post?” he said. “You don’t read El Diario?”

  “No comprendo,” she said.

  “Is that how you’re going to play this?” Blackstone said. “You no comprende my English? You work at Costco, you read the Post—I’m pretty sure you habla inglés like a pro.”

  She smirked. “Quién sabe, señor?”

  Blackstone knew it was a lost cause, and with his ninety-thousand-dollar wheels parked in this dicey neighborhood, he wasn’t going to stick around.

  “Fine. Play it your way,” he said. “Your grandson is not in trouble—not yet—and if you want to keep it that way, you’ll drop the act and tell him to call me at this number.” He handed the hot little grandmother his card.

  She took it. “Gracias,” she said as he walked out the door.

  He didn’t look back. “De fucking nada, bitch,” he mumbled to himself.

  Chapter 15

  “Well, well, well,” Kylie said. We were driving down Paladino Avenue, and she slowed the car to a crawl. “Guess who’s here.” She pointed to a black Audi A8 L that didn’t fit the profile of the neighborhood. The vanity plates said SDB.

  “Gosh,” I said. “I wonder what that stands for.”

  “Short Dickless Bastard,” Kylie said.

  “The good news is,” I said, “if Blackstone is here, then he and Alden are as clueless as we are about where Tripp is.”

  We parked out of sight. Ten minutes later, SDB came out of Lonnie Martinez’s building, then circled the Audi, inspecting it for damage.

  “What’s he going to do if he finds a dent?” Kylie said. “Call a cop?”

  He drove off, and we walked up a neatly shoveled path to number 64. We got lucky. Somebody was coming out, which let us go directly upstairs without having to ring the bell. Kylie knocked, and Juanita Martinez opened the door.

  “NYPD,” Kylie said.

  “You real cops or bullshit cops?” she said.

  Kylie flashed her shield. “Homicide detectives. We’re as real as it gets.”

  “Good, because I had my share of bullshit from the last one.”

  “Short guy? Big ego?”

  “Blackstone.” She let us in. The place was compact, neat, and whatever was simmering in the big stew pot on the stovetop smelled fantastic.

  “What was Blackstone doing here?” I asked.

  “Looking for my grandson Lonnie. Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell that pinche cabrón.”

  “Would you tell us?” I said.

  “Why do homicide cops want to know where Lonnie is?”

  “We want to talk to his friend Tripp Alden, and we thought Lonnie might know where he is.”

  “I don’t know where either of them are.”

  “When did you last see Lonnie?” I asked.

  “Yesterday for breakfast. Then he went out with Tripp—they’re shooting a movie. Later on he sent me a text. Said he was going to spend the night at Tripp’s house. This morning I find out about the murder.” She held up today’s Post. “That’s why you’re here, right?”

  “Did you know the victim, Peter Chevalier?” Kylie asked.

  “He was Tripp’s driver. Of course I knew him. You think I’m going to let my kid ride around in a car without meeting the guy behind the wheel?”

  “And?”

  “He passed the test. I trusted him with my grandson. But now I’m nervous. I haven’t seen Lonnie since yesterday. Should I be worried?”

  “We have no reason to think anything is wrong,” Kylie lied. “We’d just like to talk to both boys.”

  “I’ll give you Lonnie’s cell number. If you find him, tell him to call me.”

  She wrote down the number on a scrap of paper and held it out to Kylie. “You think you can catch the bastard who killed Peter?”

  “I don’t think so,” Kylie said. “I know we’ll catch him.”

  The tears came without warning. Juanita pressed her hand to her eyes, trying to hold them back, but a mournful wail came from deep down inside, and her body convulsed with the pain of loss.

  Kylie rested a hand on her shoulder. “You and Peter were close, weren’t you?”

  She shook her head. “We dated. He was such a wonderful man. He gave so much of himself to others. How could such a beautiful life be cut so short?”

  “We see it all the time,” Kylie said. “It’s senseless, but I promise you we will find the person who killed him.”

  Juanita lowered her head. “It was my fault,” she said, still sobbing.

  “How so?” Kylie asked casually. But I knew her antenna had gone up just like mine had as soon as we heard the words my fault.

  “There’s a couple on East Seventy-Third Street,” Juanita said. “Very nice people. I clean their apartment every Wednesday. This year they had a New Year’s Eve party, and they asked me to help out. I got there at five o’clock to set up, then I was serving, and I didn’t finish cleaning everything up until two in the morning. They paid me well, but I was so busy, I forgot to throw the water out the window.”

  Kylie looked confused. “What water?”

  “It’s a Puerto Rican custom,” I said. “Cheryl told me about it. You pour a bucket of water out of a window at the stroke of midnight at the beginning of each year for good luck.”

  “Not luck,” Juanita said. “It washes away the evil spirits.”

  “Ms. Martinez,” Kylie said,
“I’ve been around a lot of evil people, and I can tell you this: the only thing that can come from dumping a pail of water out the window and onto East Seventy-Third Street is a dry cleaning bill or a big fat lawsuit.”

  She laughed, took a dish towel from the counter, and wiped her eyes. “Lonnie doesn’t know about me and Peter. It was private.”

  “And that’s the way it will stay,” Kylie said. “You have my word on it.”

  “Thank you. I knew you’d understand. Secrets of the heart. We all have them, don’t we, Detective?”

  “Yes we do, Ms. Martinez. Yes we do. We are so sorry for your loss.”

  She gave Juanita her card, and we took the elevator down to the lobby.

  “I’m glad you were there,” I said as we got into the car. “I couldn’t have handled it nearly as well.”

  “It’s called empathy, Zach. Men aren’t very good at it.”

  “Hey, I may not be in the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, but I’m as empathetic as they come.”

  “Yeah, I was deeply moved by the way you told Cheryl to say good-bye to her dying friend and get her ass back to New York as fast as she can.”

  Before I could even buckle up, she gunned the engine and tore down Paladino Avenue.

  “For somebody who’s so damn smug about her ability to get in touch with her inner woman,” I said, “you drive like you’ve got a hell of a lot of testosterone coursing through your veins.”

  “Testosterone?” she said. “Me?”

  “Yeah, you.”

  “Hmm…I never really thought about it.”

  Her right fist shot out like lightning, and she gave me another solid punch to the shoulder.

  She smiled. “But you may have a point.”

  Chapter 16

  Silas Blackstone turned into the driveway on East 81st Street and looked at his watch: 3:45 p.m. By now the Hunter Alden Happy Hour would be in full swing.

  He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and mentally braced himself—a bit of emotional Kevlar for the inevitable verbal pummeling. Blackstone knew what he was: an indentured servant working for a heartless prick. But that prick accounted for 90 percent of his income. Quitting was not an option.