NYPD Red 3

by James Patterson

  “He’s not coming,” Tripp said.

  “I swear I heard him upstairs fiddling with the lock a few minutes ago.”

  “Why would he come back so fast?” Tripp said. “We still have food. Plus, he was here this morning when I made the phone call to Mr. Madison.” Tripp lowered himself to the floor of the cage.

  “You think Madison called your old man by now?”

  “Yeah. I do. I trust him. Don’t you?”

  Lonnie shrugged. “Not as much as I trust Peter. I don’t understand why he wouldn’t let you call Peter.”

  “He said Peter is too much like family. He thinks we have some kind of secret telephone code, and I’d be able to give Peter a clue to where—”

  An upstairs door slammed, and Lonnie jumped up. “I told you he’s back. He came in another way.”

  They listened to the echo of heavy footsteps clomping down a corridor.

  “I’ll tell you one thing, dude,” Lonnie whispered. “If he tries anything, I’m not going down without a fight.”

  The door to the storeroom opened, and the overhead lights went on. A man in an orange parka entered the room, saw the two teens in the cage, and stopped. He had no idea what to make of them.

  “What the heck’s going on here, boys?”

  “Some crazy motherfucker grabbed us off the street and locked us up,” Lonnie yelled. “Let us out, man. Let us out.”

  “Hang on, hang on,” Augie said, hustling over to a lockbox on the wall. He fiddled with his keys while Lonnie bounced up and down on his heels, rattling the wire cage and yelling, “Come on, come on, hurry, hurry, hurry.”

  Augie unlocked the box and grabbed a key off the rack. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  He unlocked the cage and the door swung open. Lonnie was out first. Tripp was right behind him.

  “Thanks, man,” Lonnie said.

  “How long have you been here?” Augie asked. “Who took you?”

  “Three days, and I don’t know,” Lonnie said. “You got a cell? We need to call 911.”

  Augie unzipped a side pocket on his parka and reached for his phone. “This is insane,” he said. “You’ve been locked in here for three—” He let out a piercing scream and fell to the floor, writhing in pain.

  Lonnie spun around. There, standing over Augie, was his best friend, Tripp, the stun gun in his hand.

  “Drag him into the cage,” Tripp said calmly.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Lonnie yelled.

  Tripp held the stun gun steady and pointed it at Lonnie’s chest. “I don’t want to shoot you too, but I will. I swear. Just drag him into the cage.”

  “Tripp, I think maybe you went stir-crazy. This guy is on our side. He—”

  Tripp waved the gun. “I mean it. Get back in the cage and drag him in there with you, or I swear to God I will fry your ass.”

  “Go to hell. I’ve been in there three days. I’m not going back.”

  “Just get back in there for ten more minutes,” Tripp said. “Trust me.”

  “Trust you? You go home, and I stay locked up?”

  “Ten more minutes, Lonnie. I swear I’ll call the cops as soon as I get out of here. And I am not going home.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Anyplace but home.”

  “Is this about your father, Tripp? You think he’s going to punish you for getting kidnapped? What could he do? Take away your Platinum card? Make you fly coach?”

  “You have no idea what my father is capable of.”

  Augie started to move. He tried to sit up.

  “Please,” Tripp said, “drag him into the cage and give me his cell phone, or I’ll zap the both of you.”

  Cursing, Lonnie grabbed Augie’s legs, pulled him along the floor and into the cage, and handed the cell phone to Tripp.

  “Mission accomplished,” he said. “Now what?”

  “I have to lock you in there with him for ten minutes. But first we have to talk. I owe you an explanation.”

  “You think?”

  “Walk me into the hall,” Tripp said. “I don’t want this guy to hear what I have to say.”

  With the gun to his back, Lonnie walked out the door and into the corridor. “This better be good, Tripp,” he said. “Or one of these days when you least expect it, I’m going to beat your rich monkey ass.”

  Chapter 40

  The leather envelope filled with cash under his arm, Hunter arrived at Barnaby and went directly to the headmaster’s office.

  “Mr. Alden,” Anderson said, a Big Benefactor smile on his lips, a guarded look in his eyes. “We were all so saddened to hear of Peter’s—”

  “I need to speak to one of my son’s teachers,” Hunter said. “His name is Madison.”

  “I’ll see if he’s available,” Anderson said. “The three of us can meet right here in my—”

  “Not the three of us. Just me and Madison. Why don’t you see if he’s available?”

  “Follow me,” Anderson said. He knew better than to say anything else.

  They took the stairs to the third floor, and Anderson led Hunter to a large open room. There were a dozen computer workstations, each manned by a teenage boy, his eyes glued to a wide-screen monitor, his ears covered with headphones. None of them looked up.

  Hunter shook his head in disgust. Twelve fathers spending a fortune so their sons can piss their lives away making movies nobody will ever watch.

  “Mr. Madison,” Anderson said, crossing the room to where the teacher was leaning over one student’s screen.

  They had a brief exchange, and Madison walked over to Hunter and extended a hand. “Ryan Madison,” he said. “We can have some privacy in my office.”

  Madison’s office was small and cramped. The walls were plastered with movie posters, and the shelves and most of the available floor space were cluttered with camera equipment. Madison took a seat behind his desk.

  “From what I understand, my son contacted you twice since the murder,” Hunter said, lowering himself into a wicker-backed side chair. “Once by text, once by voice mail.”

  Madison nodded.

  “So it looks to me like you’re Tripp’s go-to guy,” Hunter said. “Knowing the way his brain works, I figure he’s going to contact you again.”

  “If he does—”

  “Let me finish,” Hunter said. “I understand that those first two times you did what you had to do. Call the cops. Keep the school out of it. I get it. The school pays you. They incentivize you to play by their rules.”

  “Mr. Alden, with all due respect, I didn’t call the police because I’m on the payroll at Barnaby Prep. I called because it was the right thing to do.”

  “And who told you it was the right thing? The cops? All they want to do is hassle my son. You should have called me. But you didn’t, because you had no incentive. So I’d like to change the rules.”

  Hunter reached into the leather envelope, pulled out a stack of bills, and put it on Madison’s desk. “That’s five thousand dollars,” he said. He pulled out a second stack and set it on top of the first. “Ten.” He reached in again.

  “Stop!” Madison said. “Mr. Alden, I don’t accept bribes.”

  Hunter smiled. “I’m not bribing you. I’m incentivizing you to do the right thing.”

  He pulled two more stacks of money from the envelope. “Let me start off our new relationship with twenty thousand dollars’ worth of incentive.”

  He slid the money across the desk and watched as the teacher’s eyes rested on the four banded packets.

  Hunter knew the look. For a working stiff like Madison, twenty thousand tax-free dollars was like winning the lottery.

  Madison’s phone rang.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s my landline. School business.” He picked it up. “Film studies.”

  The voice on the other end exploded in his ear. “Mr. Madison, it’s Tripp. I need help. I’m sorry I called the school phone, but your cell number is on my speed dial, and
I don’t know it by heart, so—”

  “Mr. Berger,” Madison said.

  “No, no, it’s Tripp.”

  “Mr. Berger,” Madison repeated. “I can’t talk now. I’m in conference with a parent.” He turned to Hunter. “Sorry, Mr. Alden. I’ll be right with you.”

  “Oh shit. My father’s with you?”

  “Yes. May I put you on hold for a minute?” Madison didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed the hold button.

  He turned to Hunter. “Mr. Alden, I grew up poor. I was jealous of kids like Tripp until I started working at a rich kids’ school, and I realized that money doesn’t build character. I have four years to work with them, and hopefully help mold their—”

  “Are you lecturing me? You think I give a shit about character?” Hunter said. “Just tell me what it will take to get you to wipe that holier-than-thou smirk off your face. Everybody has a price, Madison.”

  “That’s what the last father said when he put five times that amount on my desk. His pothead kid never did a lick of work, so I gave him an F. Daddy wanted to buy an A. I’m not for sale, Mr. Alden. Now if you don’t mind, I have a classroom to get back to.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Hunter said, shoving the money back into the envelope. “If you come to your senses, give me a call.”

  He left the office, closing the door behind him.

  Madison picked up the phone. “Tripp, what’s going on? Where are you?”

  “I’m okay. I’m at a subway station on the corner of East Broadway and Rutgers Street. I need to talk.”

  “Tripp, I can’t just up and leave my classes. I can meet you after work.”

  “How about that place where we ate dinner after we shot the carjacking scene? You remember it?”

  “I do. I’ll shoot for five o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there,” Tripp said. “Did you say anything to my father?”

  “Yes. I told him I’m a teacher, and I had no desire to get caught up in your family drama.” Madison exhaled heavily. “But apparently that’s unavoidable.”

  Chapter 41

  Hunter got in the back of Blackstone’s Audi and slammed the door.

  “Get me home,” he said. “You got anything to drink back here?”

  Silas rolled his eyes. Sure. I’ll send the sommelier to your table with a wine list. “Sorry, boss,” he said, pulling out. “You want me to stop along the way?”

  “No. I want you to call your people and have them do a complete workup on this private school cream puff Ryan Madison.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “The usual,” Hunter said. “Drugs, hookers, cheating on his taxes—anything and everything.”

  “You were only there fifteen minutes. What did he do?”

  “Son of a bitch won’t cooperate. Right now he’s our only connection to Tripp, so I tell him, ‘The next time you hear from him, call me, not the cops.’ One hand washes the other, I say. ‘I’ll pay for your trouble.’ I put the cash down on his goddamn desk.”

  “And?”

  “And the candy-ass Boy Scout says he doesn’t take bribes. Fine. Let’s just see what kind of a Boy Scout he really is. I want every one of this guy’s dirty little secrets. Documents, pictures—everything and anything you can dig up on him.”

  “What if he’s clean?” Silas said, turning onto the 85th Street transverse.

  “Nobody is clean. Nobody.”

  “I get it, but I mean he’s a teacher. Teachers get parking tickets. They don’t rip off the IRS. They don’t run drugs. What if there’s nothing?”

  “Then invent something,” Hunter barked. “By tomorrow this time, I want to own that bastard.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Not you. I said have your people do it. Your job is to sit on Madison. Drop me off at home, then go back and watch his every move.”

  “Am I looking for anything in particular?” Silas said.

  “God, do I have to spell it out for you? This guy is a hotline to the goddamn police. He’s done it twice, and he’ll do it again. I want you to stay with him. See what he does. See where he goes. And if he goes to the cops, I want to know about it.”

  “Will do,” Silas said, wondering how Peter Chevalier had managed to haul this arrogant prick around for twenty-three years. He stayed silent for the rest of the ride to East 81st Street.

  “Don’t dick around. Call your people,” Alden said, getting out of the Audi and slamming the door.

  “Calling my people,” Silas muttered. He looked at his watch. It was almost 11:00 p.m. in Mumbai. He pulled up the contacts screen on his phone and tapped a name.

  Vivek answered on the first ring. “SDB Investigative Services. Vivek speaking.”

  “I hope you didn’t plan on getting any sleep tonight, Vivek,” Silas said. “I’ve got Hunter Alden up my ass. He wants a level-three workup on a Ryan Madison.”

  “And what does Mr. Alden think the nefarious Mr. Madison has done?”

  “That’s the problem. Madison isn’t one of our usual power brokers of dubious character. He’s a teacher at the Barnaby school in New York. It’s possible that the most despicable thing he’s done is piss off Alden by turning down a bribe. We may have to get creative.”

  “In that case, I hope Mr. Madison is a model citizen. It’s always more fun for me to fabricate skeletons to put in people’s closets than it is to dig up the real ones. What kind of school is this Barnaby?”

  “All boys.”

  “Oh please, Silas,” Vivek said, chuckling. “You are making it too easy.”

  Chapter 42

  Kylie and I walked around the corner to Gerri’s Diner and plopped down in a booth. Gerri Gomperts herself, the proprietor and unofficial den mother of the One Nine, came over to wait on us. “I apologize,” she said.

  “For what?” Kylie asked.

  “For not having a liquor license. You two look like you could use something stronger than a milk shake. What’ll you have?”

  We ordered. “And from the looks on your faces,” Gerri said, “I’m guessing you’d like a side order of leave-us-alone-so-we-can-work.”

  As soon as Gerri went off to get our lunch, Kylie said, “Patrice Chevalier gave me a whole new perspective on our victim. Isn’t it funny how Hunter Alden completely failed to mention that Peter helped build a children’s clinic?”

  “That’s because humanitarians don’t get their heads cut off,” I said. “Guys who mess with other guys’ wives do. Alden wants us to believe Peter deserved what he got. That way we might stop badgering him about his missing son.”

  She grinned. “He doesn’t know us very well, does he?”

  Her cell phone rang, and she answered it.

  “Oh hey, Janet. Tomorrow? Really? Tomorrow’s Saturday. No, I don’t want to put it off. It’s just that I’m swamped at work. Hold on.” She turned to me. “It’s Janet Longobardi. Can you spare me tomorrow for an hour at three o’clock?”

  “It won’t be easy,” I said, “but I think I can muddle through sixty minutes without having you around to tell me how to do my job.”

  She was too far away to punch me. She got back on the phone. “Okay. I’ll do it. Email me his address and phone number. Thanks. Bye.”

  “You never take time off work,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “You know how my friend Janet is. She’s a fixer. If someone has a problem, she’s got to jump in and help.”

  “What’s she helping you with?”

  “I needed a lawyer, and of course not only did she find me the best one in the entire city, she took the liberty of scheduling an appointment with him. She made it for Saturday thinking I’m one of those normal people who have lives on weekends. Don’t worry. I’m sure it won’t even take me the whole hour.”

  “Since when do you have legal problems?”

  “Not legal,” she said. “Matrimonial.”

  “Whoa. Last night you were telling me how Spence was on rocky ground at
rehab, and now you’re seeing a divorce lawyer?”

  “Zach, I’m not seeing a divorce lawyer. I’m just exploring my options. And it’s not a sudden decision. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

  I wondered if she’d been thinking about it last night when we were playfully interlocking forks over the Mississippi mud pie, or when she was giving me a marathon good-night hug on Third Avenue.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I said.

  “No.”

  Damn. I did.

  I was trying to think of how to convince her that talking it out would help when my phone rang.

  “It’s Cates,” I said, and I grabbed the phone. “Jordan here.”

  Cates knew Kylie and I were at lunch, and she wasn’t the type to interrupt with something trivial. “Start rolling,” she said.

  I got up from the table and headed for the door, the phone pressed to my ear. Kylie was right behind me. As we passed the counter, I caught Gerri’s eye, and she waved us on. We weren’t the first cops to bolt before our order made it out of the kitchen. We ran down Lexington and around the corner to 67th Street. By the time we got to our car, Cates had given me the big picture.

  “Where to?” Kylie said, getting behind the wheel of the Ford.

  “Go to 329 Delancey, under the Williamsburg Bridge. Nine one one just got a call—two captives were locked in the basement of PS 114.”

  “Tripp and Lonnie?” Kylie asked.

  “Lonnie, yes. The other was a school maintenance worker.”

  “What about Tripp Alden?”

  “According to the first responders, Tripp knocked the maintenance guy out with a stun gun and took off. The kid’s in the wind.”

  “So much for our grief-stricken little rich boy,” Kylie said, running the red light on Lex.

  “Stop talking and drive faster,” I said.

  Chapter 43

  “Nobody’s here,” Kylie said when we got to PS 114. And by nobody she meant only five cop cars, a fire truck, and an EMS unit, which is not exactly a massive turnout for a school 911.

  “There were no kids inside, and dispatch put it on the air as a B and E, so nobody’s connected the dots yet,” I said. “Let’s get in there before they do.”