NYPD Red 3

by James Patterson

  “How’d you get here so fast?” I said.

  “I woke up early, picked up the car, and was at the diner when Cates called. Hutch Alden showed up a few minutes ago. He’s waiting for us.”

  “What’s his mood?”

  “Very chummy,” she said. “But guys like Alden never show their cards. He was in full-blown, salt-of-the-earth, man-of-the-people, billionaire mode—just like last night.”

  “Only last night it was ‘Let’s watch a meteor shower together,’” I said. “This morning it may be a shit storm. Let’s go up to Cates’s office and find out.”

  Alden greeted us warmly. Cates took the lead.

  “Mr. Alden was just telling me that the mayor set up a meeting between him and you,” she said as if she’d just heard about it for the first time. “And he was generous enough to come to the station to do a follow-up.”

  “The mayor is busy,” Hutch said. “I appreciate her personal concern for our family, but why drag her back into this? I’m sure we can resolve it right here on the departmental level.”

  The threat was clear. “I’m sure we can,” Cates said, playing the game.

  “My grandson is fine,” Alden said. “As soon as you left, I went to see Hunter, and wouldn’t you know it—Tripp called while I was there. I told him you’d like to talk to him, but he’s so upset by Peter’s death that he needs a few days to himself.”

  “That’s understandable,” Cates said, “but in solving any homicide, time is our enemy. Maybe you can set up a phone call between him and the detectives.”

  “If I thought he could help in any way, I’d be glad to accommodate you,” Hutch said. “But I questioned him at length, and he knows nothing. He didn’t even know about the murder till it hit the news. I think the best way to handle this is for NYPD to pursue the leads you have, and let Tripp come to peace with his loss. Once he’s gone through the grieving process, I’ll see to it that he makes himself available for any questions. Can you do that for me?”

  Unspoken: If you say “No,” I’ll call my buddy Muriel Sykes.

  Cates graciously agreed. Hutch thanked us and left.

  “He’s gone over to the dark side,” Kylie said. “He’s totally in sync with Hunter. No cops. Let the family take care of it.”

  “I know he’s stonewalling, but unless you suspect Tripp of being the killer, let it go,” Cates said. “Now fill me in on what you’ve got so far on Peter Chevalier.”

  “Hunter would like us to believe a jealous husband did it,” I said. “Peter was a lifelong bachelor who loved the ladies, but he played by the rules. He definitely wasn’t the home wrecker or the womanizer Alden made him out to be.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” Cates said. “Hunter Alden wouldn’t be the first uptight rich white guy to exaggerate the exploits of a sexually active black man. It sounds to me like Peter was killed because of the man he worked for, not for the man he was.”

  “We’re on the same page,” Kylie said. “Tripp Alden was kidnapped, and instead of sending one of his fingers or an ear to his father, the killer sent Peter Chevalier’s head. It makes a much louder statement.”

  “If you’re right,” Cates said, “Alden is either too smart or too nervous to move it, which means the head is probably on ice somewhere in his house. But there’s not a judge in this city crazy enough to sign a search warrant. Based on your conversations with Alden, do you think he’ll pay the ransom?”

  “Yes,” Kylie said. “And the minute he does, the killer is going to disappear off the face of the earth. Screw Hutch Alden. We should be talking to that kid.”

  Cates set her right elbow on the desk and rested her mouth and chin on the knuckles of her right hand. She was thinking—something she was very good at.

  Thirty seconds into her Rodin’s Thinker pose, she looked up. “I know you don’t want to hear this,” she said, looking straight at Kylie, “but I want to remind everyone in this room—myself included—that police departments work for the taxpayers. I’d bet a month’s salary that someone took Tripp Alden and is negotiating a payoff with his family. But the family flat-out denies it. And now, a man with a lot of juice in this town told us as politely as he could to back off. So until we have proof that’s a lot more substantive than an eighty-year-old woman who thinks she saw an undercover cop arrest Tripp Alden, this unit will stand down. Your job is not to solve an unreported kidnapping. Your job is to catch a murderer. Any questions?”

  “Just one,” Kylie said. “How do you propose we do that if we have to wait for our main person of interest to go through his ‘grieving process’?”

  “You might start by talking to Peter’s family.”

  “The Aldens are his family.”

  “Peter has a brother in Haiti. He flew to New York last night and is stopping by my office later this morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kylie said. “He’ll probably need reassurance that NYPD is doing everything it can to find his brother’s murderer. Would you like me to lie to him, or do you want to handle it?”

  She turned and stormed out of the office. Cates looked to me and shook her head.

  “Don’t be too mad at her, Captain,” I said. “She’s frustrated.”

  “That’s not my ‘I’m pissed at her’ look,” Cates said. “It’s my ‘Boy, do I feel sorry for you’ look. Have a nice day.”

  Chapter 32

  By the time I left Cates’s office, Kylie was at her desk unleashing her fury on her computer keyboard.

  “What are you writing?” I said.

  She didn’t look up.

  “A letter of resignation? A tell-all book on the injustices you’ve had to endure as a member of New York’s Finest? I’ve heard poetry is an excellent way to express your innermost—”

  She gave me the finger. In return, I gave her some time. She stopped typing after a few minutes, then made a violent assault on some of the paperwork we’d amassed on the case. She turned pages with a vengeance, threw a ballpoint pen across the room for failing to write on the first stroke, and stormed to a file cabinet, where she yanked open and slammed shut half a dozen metal drawers.

  I loved it.

  I don’t care what time of day it was, or what she was wearing: Kylie MacDonald was a smoldering-hot woman. And when she was angry, the heat factor went up exponentially.

  I thought back to the previous night and the not-so-subtle way she had put her hand on my arm, the two forks interlocking over Mississippi mud pie, and the long good-night hug that didn’t last long enough. Then I thought back to the days when we were together, and I’d sometimes go out of my way to piss her off because the make-up sex was so fantastic.

  If I was keeping a diary, the entry would have said, “Got exceedingly horny. Could not focus on murder investigation.”

  After twenty minutes, I decided we’d both indulged ourselves long enough. “If it makes a difference, I’m on your side,” I said.

  “Then why didn’t you back me up, Zach?”

  “Because Cates is not the enemy. Because she can get as tormented about the system as any of us. And because when you’re a cop you get shit thrown at you from all sides. The only difference with Red is that most of the time the shit gets thrown down from on high. Cates is playing by the rules because she’s smart enough to know that she doesn’t have enough street cred to go head-to-head with a new mayor who has less than seventy-two hours on the job.”

  She blinked. Smiled, actually. The ice was broken.

  “So now what?” she said.

  “I don’t know. You were working like a madwoman. It looked like you were onto something.”

  “I was looking for a loophole, trying to figure out if we could charge Tripp Alden with something. Then we could go after him.”

  Before I could say “Stop wasting your time,” my phone rang. It was Bob McGrath, the front desk sergeant.

  I’d prearranged for McGrath to call me when Cheryl arrived. “But don’t broadcast it,” I’d told him. “I don’t want the
whole squad to hear you yelling, ‘Hey, Jordan, your main squeeze is here.’”

  “Don’t worry about it,” McGrath had promised. “I’m the most discreet six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-fifty-five-pound cop in the department.”

  I picked up the phone. “Hey McGrath, what’s the word?”

  “Elvis has entered the building,” he said in a gruff whisper. “How’s that, Detective? Subtle enough for you?”

  I laughed, thanked him, and turned to Kylie. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” I said.

  “Where are you going?”

  A simple question, but not for a man who finds himself torn between two women. The official male rules of dating clearly state, “Never let one know how strong your feelings are for the other.”

  “Cheryl’s office,” I said, trying to sound like I was heading there on official business.

  Kylie didn’t buy it for a second.

  She winked. “Have fun.”

  Chapter 33

  I was too conflicted to have fun. In fact, I was a perfect candidate for a session with the department shrink, but that, of course, was out of the question. The best that Dr. Robinson could do right now was welcome me with a good old-fashioned, PG-rated, safe-for-work hug.

  I took the stairs two at a time, came bounding through her office door, and kicked it shut behind me.

  “Zach,” she said, completely taken by surprise. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “I stop by every five minutes just to bask in your aura.”

  She wrapped her arms around me. “My aura sucks right now. But it’s good to see you.”

  I pressed her close, and she tilted her head up to mine. Just as our lips touched, the door opened.

  I’d never met the man standing in the doorway, had never even seen a picture of him, but I immediately knew who he was.

  He was tall, with a runner’s body and Paul Newman–blue eyes. His hair was light brown and shaggy, giving him a rumpled surfer look that went well with the carefully groomed stubble on his face.

  “Fred,” Cheryl said, dropping her arms from around my neck like she’d just been caught behind the barn with the strapping young stable boy.

  “You must be Zach,” Fred said, flashing me a toothpaste-commercial smile. He reached out, and we shook hands.

  I’m a good judge of character. It’s one of the prerequisites of the job. One look at Fred, and my first thought was, Nice guy. If I wound up sitting next to him on an airplane, we’d probably chat it up. But this was different. Fred and I weren’t sharing an armrest on a flight to LA. We were sharing my girlfriend.

  “I’ve heard so much about you from Cheryl,” he said.

  “So much for doctor-patient confidentiality,” I said, trying to keep it light.

  Fred laughed. “No, really. She tells me you and your partner are two of the smartest detectives in the city.”

  “Thank you,” I said, looking at Cheryl. “Of course, even the smartest cops can do dumb things from time to time. Am I right, doc?”

  She nodded. I got the feeling it was not a happy nod. The conversation we’d had a few hours before was still bouncing around in my head. I hadn’t just been insensitive. I was emotionally oblivious. I had to step up my game.

  “Sorry to hear about your mom,” I said with all the compassion I could muster. “How are you holding up?”

  “My mother raised me on her own,” Fred said. “We’ve always been close, and I can’t bear the thought of…” He stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

  He held up a hand and turned his head away from us. It took him a solid ten seconds to regain his composure. “Anyway,” he said, forcing energy back into his voice, “your question was, how am I holding up? The answer is, I’m holding up a hell of a lot better than I would have if I were dealing with this on my own. I couldn’t have gone through it without Cheryl. She’s an angel.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I said, putting my arm around Cheryl. “We’re lucky to have her.”

  I stood there, my chest puffed up, a contented smile on my face, as if I were waiting for Fred to pull out a camera and snap a picture of the happy couple.

  Fred didn’t need a camera. He got the picture. He gave Cheryl an uncomfortable smile. “Why don’t I leave you two alone,” he said. “I’ll wait for you outside. Nice to meet you, Zach.”

  Then, faster than you can say “Three’s a crowd,” he was gone.

  Cheryl squirmed out from under my arm. “What the hell was that about?” she said.

  “What was what about?” I said, walking to the door and shutting it again. “And don’t tell me I was insensitive. I told him I was sorry about his mother.”

  “And as soon as he said how grateful he was for me to be there for him, you grabbed on to me, and you were ready to square off like a bull elephant during the mating ritual.”

  “Hey, you blindsided me. I didn’t expect to run into your ex-husband. I thought you were taking the train in by yourself.”

  “I didn’t want to be at the mercy of Metro-North, so Fred drove me in. That’s still no reason for you to act like…like…like a caveman.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Me jealous. Me not know what else to do.”

  She laughed. “You’re hopeless.”

  “Not hopeless,” I said, moving toward her. “Just a little damaged.” I put my hands around her waist and pulled her body against mine. “All I need is a good therapist.”

  There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for an answer, Kylie charged in. “Barnaby Prep,” she said.

  For the second time in a few minutes, Cheryl and I pulled apart in a hurry. “What’s going on?” I said.

  “That teacher, Ryan Madison, just called me. He just heard from Tripp. He wants us to meet him in the headmaster’s office. Now.”

  I followed Kylie to the door, turned, and took one last look at Cheryl. “Rain check on the hug?” I said.

  She nodded, a happier nod this time. “If you’re lucky,” she said.

  Chapter 34

  “So it looks like you and Cheryl are once again the happiest couple at the One Nine,” Kylie said as she peeled out and barreled up 67th Street.

  “Circumstantial evidence,” I said. “It’s not as rosy as it might appear. I was in the middle of begging forgiveness when you busted in on us.”

  “What dumb thing did you do now?”

  “I ran into her ex, and I may have behaved like a bit of an asshole.”

  “And when you say ‘a bit’ of an asshole, you mean…”

  “Flaming.”

  “For God’s sake, Zach. The poor guy’s mother is dying.”

  “We all have our character defects. You, for example, drive like we’re in a stolen car.”

  “At least I get us where we need to go,” she said, not easing up on the gas pedal. “You’re the one who’s going to crash and burn unless you do some immediate damage control on your relationship. And I know just the person who can help you. His name is Scott Coffman. I’ll give you his card.”

  “Are you serious? I’m already dating a therapist. You think another shrink is going to help? Thanks, but I don’t need Dr. Coffman to fix my relationship with Cheryl.”

  She laughed. “You’re an idiot. Scott’s not a therapist.”

  “Then what is he?”

  “He’s my go-to sales guy at Tiffany’s.”

  “I can’t afford Tiffany’s. But jewelry is a great idea. I think I’ll talk to Wally.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s my go-to sales guy at the dollar store.”

  We kept up the verbal sparring all the way to Barnaby Prep, and by the time we got to Headmaster G. Martin Anderson’s office, I had a smile on my face.

  Ryan Madison, on the other hand, did not. He was no longer the happy-go-lucky, let’s-sneak-a-smoke-on-the-roof guy we’d met yesterday. The unflappable Mr. Madison was definitely flapped.

  “Ryan here is quite unnerved, and justifiably so,” Mr. A
nderson said, putting it all in headmaster-speak. “As am I. We have liability issues. Barnaby can’t be involved in any of this.”

  “Any of what?” I asked. The four of us were in Anderson’s office, and Madison had yet to tell us what was going on.

  “Tripp Alden left me a voice mail,” Madison said. “I’ll play it for you.”

  He set his phone to speaker and played back the message.

  “Hey, Mr. Madison. I need a big favor. Please call my folks and tell them I’m fine. I can’t come home, and I really can’t talk to my dad. Just tell them I’m okay. Thanks.”

  “And did you call his parents?” I asked.

  “No, I did not call his parents,” Madison said, springing from his chair. “What kind of a schmuck do you think I am?”

  “Calm down, sir,” Kylie said. “We’re all on the same side here.”

  “No we’re not,” Madison said. “You’re investigating a murder. I’m on the side that wants nothing to do with it. I think the world of Tripp Alden, but what if he murdered his driver? You think I want to get in the middle of that?”

  “We have no reason to suspect that Tripp killed Peter Chevalier,” I said.

  “That’s your script, Detective. In my script, anything is possible. This whole thing is turning into a bad movie, and I don’t want any part of it.”

  We were in a no-smoking building, and it was clear that Madison’s neurons were screaming for a cig.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “We can take it from here. What time did the call come in?”

  He looked at his phone. “This morning at 8:11. I was upstairs in my room.”

  “And where was your phone when he called?” Kylie asked.

  “It was on my—” Madison stopped, realizing what Kylie had just done.

  “Go ahead, sir,” she said. “Where was your phone when the call came in?”

  “It was on my desk. And yes, Detective, I heard it ring, I saw it was Tripp calling, and I purposely let it go to voice mail. I don’t want to be involved in their drama. Is that a crime?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “Considering the circumstances, not taking his call is totally understandable. Can I have your phone? I’ll record the voice mail onto mine, and my partner and I will relay Tripp’s message to the Aldens.”