NYPD Red 3

by James Patterson

  “You’re a goddamn doctor,” Hunter screamed. “You’re supposed to save lives, not kill people out of revenge.”

  “I abhor revenge, Mr. Alden. I believe as Gandhi said, ‘An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind.’ But you are right about one thing. I am a doctor. My mission is to save lives.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Hunter said. “That’s where I can help you. I can give you enough money to build a hundred clinics, save a million lives. I’ll do whatever it takes to help.”

  “No you won’t,” Patrice said, his jaw tightening, his lips taut. “The world is filled with humanitarians. You are not one of them. You’re a profiteer, Mr. Alden. Every disaster unleashed on humanity, natural or man-made, is just another opportunity for you to amass more money. You profited from New Orleans, Iraq, Indonesia, Fukushima, and, yes, Haiti. Project Gutenberg is not the only time you’ve capitalized on other people’s misery. It’s just the most horrific.”

  “Tell me what you want. Just name your price.”

  “I’m a physician, Mr. Alden, and when I see a cancer about to metastasize into vital, healthy organs, my job is to eradicate it.” He pulled the surgical mask back over his face.

  The nurse stood ready with three syringes: sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide, and potassium chloride.

  “As for your offer to subsidize our efforts in Haiti,” Chevalier said as he administered the first of the three injections, “thank you, but we already have a benefactor.”

  Hunter’s eyes drooped as the barbiturate slowed his heart and shut down his central nervous system.

  “His name is Hunter Hutchinson Alden III. His friends call him Tripp,” Patrice said, reaching for the second syringe, “but my brother was the only one who had any right to call him son.”

  Chapter 77

  I was jolted from my sleep by the nerve-jangling sound of my cell phone and the life-affirming smell of fresh-brewed coffee. I looked at the clock: 5:27. I’m used to predawn phone calls, so another one didn’t faze me, but the smell of coffee coming from my kitchen scared the crap out of me.

  I answered the phone.

  It was Cates. It took her less than fifteen seconds to tell me what I’d missed since I went to bed. I hung up and followed the aroma of dark roast. I desperately needed caffeine, but even more important, I needed to know who was in my kitchen.

  “Good morning,” Kylie said, standing at the counter, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Coffee’s up.”

  “Thanks. Not to sound ungrateful,” I said, pouring a cup, “but what are you doing here?”

  “I spent the night here.”

  My brain was stuck somewhere between REM sleep and the rude-awakening phone call from Cates, and it struggled to put together the pieces of the puzzle that equaled last night. At 2:00 a.m., after twenty straight hours of chasing bad guys, dodging bullets, and getting smashed in the face by an air bag, I had crashed from exhaustion. That’s all I remembered.

  “I thought we had wrapped it up last night, and you were going home,” I said.

  “I didn’t. I decided to spend the night here.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but…” I held back. My head wasn’t clear enough to ask the question or deal with the answer.

  “But what?” Kylie demanded. “Spit it out.”

  “Just wondering,” I said. “Where did you sleep?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Zach, get over yourself. I’m still married, and even if I weren’t, I’m not in the habit of crawling into bed with guys who smell of vomit. But if your girlfriend asks, you can tell her I slept on the couch for a couple of hours. The rest of the time I was on the Web, trying to figure out how we can hang Hunter Alden for what he did.”

  “I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but we can’t hang him.”

  “I know we can’t. We have to bring in the Feds. What I was trying to scope out is which agency would be the best one to talk to: the SEC, FBI, Homeland. But I’m starting to lean toward the NYPD JTTF.”

  “Kylie, nobody can hang Hunter Alden. He’s dead.”

  That stopped her in her tracks.

  “Cates just called,” I said. “He was murdered. They found his body covered with snow under the statue of the charging bull near Wall Street.”

  “Wall Street? Holy symbolism, Batman.”

  “I need a quick shower,” I said. “Then we should head downtown.”

  “Do we have time for breakfast?” she said. “I was just about to scramble some eggs.”

  “I wouldn’t eat anything if I were you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Like I said, Alden’s body was dumped under the statue. But his head is nowhere to be seen.”

  Kylie stared at me, wide-eyed. “Decapitated?”

  “Cut off clean.”

  “Wow,” she said. “Now we really can’t hang him.”

  Chapter 78

  On any given summer day, the bronze sculpture of the charging bull is a magnet for thousands of tourists, most of whom commemorate their visit by posing next to it for a photo to show the folks back home.

  But on this frigid Sunday morning, NYPD had cordoned off the seven-thousand-pound symbol of capitalism, and the only one snapping pictures was Chuck Dryden.

  “Four bodies in four days,” Kylie said when we got there.

  “But only two heads,” Dr. Cut And Dryden said, clicking off a few more shots of what remained of Hunter Alden. “If this keeps up, we’re going to need a new category in the crime stats.”

  We knew him well enough to know he wasn’t joking.

  “TOD was between ten p.m. and two a.m.,” Dryden reported. “Like the previous victim, he was decapitated postmortem, but Chevalier was jumped in a parking lot, and his head was hacked off with a rope saw. Alden was taken someplace where the killer wouldn’t be rushed, and the head was removed with surgical precision.”

  I made a mental list of people who had motive and surgical skills. One name was all I could come up with.

  “Have you recovered the head?” Kylie asked.

  “No. The victim’s wallet was still in his pocket, cash intact. I confirmed his ID with prints. But you located the last one. I’m sure you’ll do it again.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  The snow had stopped, and because commerce is a priority in our city, the roads in the financial district were plowed and ready for the opening bell Monday morning. We walked down Broadway, found a Starbucks, and solved Alden’s murder before our coffee was ready.

  “Patrice killed him,” Kylie said.

  “Unless there was an eyewitness, or he left damning forensic evidence, we’ll never prove it,” I said. “Let’s bring him in and question him.”

  “Or at least shake his hand,” Kylie said. “Although I doubt if he’s still in this country.”

  “He’s not going anywhere till the airports open. Let’s find him.”

  We couldn’t. Patrice didn’t answer his phone, and his hotel said he had checked out the day before. There was only one other way to track him down.

  We went back to Hunter Alden’s house. Tripp answered the door.

  “My mom and my grandfather are at the funeral home making arrangements,” he said.

  “Then we’ll talk to you,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Let’s go to my room,” he said.

  We followed him up to the third floor. It was a typical rich teenager’s room. Just as unkempt and disorganized as you’d expect, only a hell of a lot bigger. We sat down in a cluster of director’s chairs.

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “I’m not,” Tripp said. “He was a really bad dude. Take my word for it.”

  “We’re not here to judge the victim,” I said. “We’re here to catch his killer.”

  “I hope you’re not going to ask me if he had any enemies.”

  “The first thing we have to do is fill out our report on how you wound up at the precinct safe and sound last night. Dr. Chevalier
brought you in, and we’d like to ask him a few questions. Do you know where we can find him?”

  “He’s on his way back to Haiti.”

  “The airports are closed,” I said. “All flights are grounded till noon.”

  “Commercial flights, yeah, but private aircraft have been flying out of Westchester since dawn,” Tripp said. “I let Patrice use the family jet so he could take Peter’s body back home.”

  So much for questioning anyone with surgical skills.

  “Peter’s funeral is Thursday,” he said. “Patrice asked me to do the eulogy. I can go, can’t I? I mean my lawyer said not to worry about the stun gun thing.”

  “Augie Hoffman isn’t pressing charges, and after all you’ve been through the DA’s office won’t pursue it either,” I said. “You can definitely go to Peter’s funeral. And we’re sorry for your loss—we know how much he meant to you.”

  “Thanks. At least I still have Patrice. After graduation I’m going down to Haiti and live with him.”

  “What about college?”

  “You think any of the film schools I applied to are going to take me once they find out that my letter of recommendation came from a homicidal maniac?”

  “Hell yeah,” Kylie said. “They might even want to make a movie out of it.”

  “I’ve got a better movie idea,” he said. “Teenager suddenly inherits billions of dollars and starts giving it away.”

  “Is that your plan?” I said.

  “The only plan I have is to not be anything like my father. He dedicated his life to making money, and he didn’t care who got hurt along the way. Now that it’s mine, I’m going to try to use it to make up for the damage he did.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” Kylie said.

  She forced a smile, but I could see by the look in her eyes that Tripp Alden had completely ruined her day.

  Chapter 79

  “NOW WHAT DO we do?” Kylie said as soon as we were back in the car.

  “I don’t know, but the best I can come up with is we think long and hard about turning that flash drive over to the Feds.”

  “Zach, do you have any idea how many cops I know who died on that day?”

  “We all lost someone, Kylie, but crucifying Hunter Alden won’t bring any of them back.”

  “So are we just supposed to keep our mouths shut? Not only did the man fail to prevent one of the most heinous crimes in the history of the world: he profited from it.”

  “What do you want to do? Prosecute him from the neck down?”

  “He made over a billion dollars in blood money.”

  “You know that, I know that, and Tripp knows it. He’s ready to start making reparations. The only thing we can do is blow the whistle, and if we do, I guarantee you the government will freeze every nickel Hunter Alden ever made. Tripp Alden won’t have enough money to buy a cup of coffee.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Kylie, I am in uncharted waters. I don’t even know if what we found on the flash drive is admissible evidence. We got the warrant without authorization, and the search wasn’t connected to the case we were investigating. How long do you think it would take the Warlock to have it suppressed?”

  “So we send it off to the Feds anonymously,” she said. “I don’t care if we get credit. Our job is to report a crime when we see it.”

  “It sounds like you suddenly decided to go by the book. You must have read it sometime after you lied your ass off to Judge LaBreche.”

  My phone rang. Cates.

  “Mayor Sykes is looking for you,” she said. “Drop what you’re doing and meet her at Gracie Mansion.”

  “Do you know what it’s about?”

  “She didn’t say, but the son of her biggest contributor was murdered five days into her term, so I’m guessing it’s not a medal-pinning ceremony.”

  Mayor Sykes was downstairs when we got there, surrounded by at least a dozen happy, hyper kids who were running around, having the time of their young lives.

  “It’s not usually this crazy,” Sykes said, “but it’s my first Sunday in my new home, so I invited the whole family over for a mansion-warming party.”

  We followed her upstairs to her office. She closed the door, but she didn’t sit down. It was going to be a short meeting.

  “Thank you for solving a double homicide and for getting Tripp Alden out of it alive,” she said. “Now I need to know how to deal with this Hunter Alden fiasco.”

  “Madam Mayor,” I said, “there are a lot of people better qualified to give you political advice than we are.”

  “But you’re the only two people I trust to tell me if NYPD has a shot at catching Hunter’s killer. I have a press conference tomorrow, and I don’t want to stand up there promising something you don’t think we can deliver.”

  For the past six years, Muriel Sykes had been U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York—the same job Rudy Giuliani held before he was elected mayor. Nobody knew the realities and the limitations of the criminal justice system better than she did.

  “We have an idea of what went down, but nothing we could take to the DA to charge anyone,” Kylie said. “Not now and probably not ever.”

  “In that case, I’ll focus on the fact that we have tragically lost one of the giants who drive the financial engine of the city of New York, a pillar of the community, and a loving husband and father,” she said. “I’ll just leave out the fact that everyone hated the bastard’s guts.”

  She opened the door. “Thank you for coming, Detectives. Grandma Muriel has to get back to her party.”

  “Madam Mayor,” Kylie said. “One more question. In private.”

  Sykes shut the door. “Go ahead.”

  “We have a witness who says Hunter made a lot of money on some egregious insider trading,” Kylie said. “She’s suffering from Alzheimer’s, but she claims there’s a flash drive floating around somewhere that might have hard evidence.”

  “What’s the question?” Sykes said.

  “What if she’s right, and what would we do if we found it?”

  “Why the hell would you look? Hunter was a scumbag. I’d be surprised if he weren’t involved in insider trading. But he’s dead. Anything you found would only hurt Hutch Alden, and while you may be unqualified to give political advice, you’re smart enough to know that politicians don’t bite the hand that feeds them. They kiss ass.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Sykes opened it.

  “I’m coming,” she said to the two boys who were standing outside.

  She turned back to us. “Let’s just hope that if that flash drive really does exist, nobody ever gets their hands on it.”

  She and the kids headed down the stairs and left Kylie and me standing in the doorway.

  “I’m still not sure what to do,” Kylie said.

  “We don’t have to do anything today,” I said. “Let’s both sleep on it.”

  Kylie looked at me with a devilish grin.

  I smiled back. “Separate apartments,” I said.

  Chapter 80

  I didn’t sleep well. As much as I would have liked to expose Hunter Alden to the world, I knew in my heart that Tripp could do more good with the family fortune if I kept quiet. But I wasn’t sure I could convince Kylie.

  So when I walked into Gerri’s Diner on Monday morning, all I wanted was a cup of coffee, a bowl of oatmeal, and a quiet place to sit and think. But that doesn’t happen when everything you’ve been involved in over the past few days explodes across every media outlet in the city.

  Prep school teacher kidnaps student, cop drives million-dollar car into the boat pond, decapitated billionaire’s body left under the icon of prosperity—it all makes for spellbinding journalism.

  As soon as I stepped through the door, a dozen cops shouted my name, stood up and applauded, or came over to shake my hand.

  Gerri handed me the Times, the News, and the Post, and escorted me to a booth in the rear. “You m
ay be a jerk in your personal life,” she said, “but you are one hell of a good cop.”

  I scanned the papers, and five minutes later Kylie walked into the same reception. But as soon as the applause died down, somebody with a sound effects app on his phone tapped a button, and we heard the screeching of brakes and a loud crash. Cop humor.

  Kylie sat down across from me. “What’s new in the papers?” she said.

  “Apparently, we’re not the only heroes,” I said. “Hutch Alden really knows how to spin the facts to the family’s advantage.”

  I slid the Post across the table and pointed to a headline on page three. “‘Billionaire Gives Life to Save Son.’ Read all about it.”

  She read the first paragraph and shoved it aside. “Why would you show me this? It only makes me want to crucify the bastard even more.”

  “Because I know you. Your mind is already made up. Where did you net out?”

  She dug into her pocket and put the flash drive on the table. “I’ll go with the majority. We can’t show this to anyone.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I was hoping that the mayor’s little ‘bite the hand that feeds them’ speech would change your mind.”

  “Oh, I didn’t buy that crap,” Kylie said. “Spence is the one who changed my mind.”

  “You discussed this with Spence?”

  “Relax. I didn’t give him any of the details. Just the big picture. We had dinner last night. He may be an addict, but he’s clean right now, and I’ve always trusted his moral compass.”

  “What did he say that convinced you?”

  “He said, ‘If you’re going to turn Hunter Alden over to the Feds, then you may as well turn me in to NYPD. I was buying drugs illegally for months. You knew about it, and you were willing to look the other way. But a crime is a crime, Kylie. Arrest me.’ Then he held up his hands so I could cuff him.”

  I laughed out loud. “What did you do?”

  “I stuck him with my salad fork and called him an asshole.”

  “But you didn’t arrest him.”