NYPD Red 3 Page 16

  “He’s putting together a movie for Hutch’s seventieth birthday,” I said.

  “Tell me about it. I found the folder with twenty-three different interview subjects, each one more boring than the next.”

  “How’d you happen to zero in on Irene?”

  “It’s the only one shot by Peter Chevalier.”

  “Roll it,” Kylie said.

  “Trust me,” Matt said. “If you had to sit through the entire forty-seven minutes, you’d blow your brains out. I pulled out a few highlights. Here’s the first one.”

  Irene was in a formal living room, sitting on a love seat, wearing a blue dress, minimal makeup, with her silver hair neatly done in a no-nonsense cut. Tripp Alden was adjusting her mic. “You look great, Irene,” he said.

  “Bullshit. I look like the wreck of the Hesperus.”

  “No, really, you look beautiful,” Tripp said, stepping off camera.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Hunter? Still blowing smoke.”

  “It’s Tripp, Irene.”

  “Of course it’s Tripp. What did I say?”

  “You called me Hunter.”

  “I did? Peter, did I?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Miss Irene,” the off-camera voice said. It was slightly nasal, with a distinct French lilt. “And for the record, you do look beautiful.”

  Matt stopped the video. “She called the kid Hunter five more times. He finally gave up on correcting her. But apart from a spot of dementia, Irene’s quite the feisty old broad.”

  “Zach doesn’t like ’em feisty,” Kylie said.

  Matt laughed, but he knew enough to stay out of it. “Next clip,” he said.

  Irene was now sitting at a piano, singing the last few notes of “Happy Birthday.” Applause came from behind the camera, and she responded with the classic lounge singer bow. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Thank you,” Tripp said. “Not only were you terrific, but this room will be the best-looking one on the video. Your house is incredible.”

  “Couldn’t have afforded it without you, Hunter,” Irene said.

  “You can thank Hutch for that,” Tripp said. “He’s always paid people well.”

  She waved off the remark. “Hutch had nothing to do with it. I’m talking about…” Irene leaned forward and whispered toward the camera. “Project Gutenberg. Just you and me, Hunter. We both hit the jackpot on that one.”

  She waited for an answer. Tripp didn’t have one. She put her hands to her mouth. “Oh shit. Cat’s out of the bag. Hunter, please don’t be mad.”

  Tripp entered the frame and sat next to her on the piano bench. “It’s okay, Irene. Whatever it is, I could never be mad at you.”

  “I kept all your secrets. Especially Gutenberg. But I had a little secret of my own. I always felt bad about hiding it from you.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” Tripp said. “I’m fine. I don’t care what it is.”

  “Screw it. I opened my big mouth. It’s time I got it off my chest.”

  Matt stopped the tape again.

  “Hey,” Kylie said. “Don’t stop now. It’s just getting interesting.”

  “Oh, would you like to see the rest?” Matt said. He pushed play. The screen filled with white noise.

  “What the hell?” Kylie said.

  “It’s been redacted. Censored. Wiped clean. Whatever it was she confessed, Tripp didn’t want anyone else to hear, so he erased the tape.”

  “But not right away,” I said.

  “Meaning what?” Kylie said.

  “Meaning that Irene thought Tripp was Hunter, and she dropped a bombshell on him,” I said. “How does an eighteen-year-old kid handle something like that? Does he quickly destroy the evidence? Or is he more likely to share the footage with the one person he trusts?”

  “Son of a bitch,” Kylie said. “Before he erased it, Tripp showed it to Ryan Madison, the dedicated teacher who gives young filmmakers guidance on mise-en-scène.”

  We still had no idea where Madison was, or what he was planning, but we finally knew one of the cards he was holding.

  Chapter 56

  Lonnie Martinez left his apartment, rang for the elevator, and then backed off when the doors opened. He’d spent enough time trapped inside a small box. He walked down the six flights of stairs.

  There was a man sitting on the floor of the vestibule, his head buried between his knees. Lonnie tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, dude, you can’t park your ass here. Find a shelter.”

  The man looked up. “Lonnie, I need help.” It was Tripp.

  Lonnie exploded. “You need? You’ve got some balls. I took a couple of million volts trying to save your ass, spent three days locked in a cage, and when I finally get out, you put a stun gun in my face, and shove me back in. Get out, or I’ll call the cops. No, wait: your buddy still has my cell phone, so I can’t call anybody. But I can still beat the shit out of you.”

  “The guy who took us isn’t my buddy.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Tripp. I don’t know what your deal is, but you and that so-called kidnapper were in it together. It wasn’t even a real kidnapping. The whole thing was a scam. Three days, Tripp. Three days of my life. You want to know how crazy my abuela was when I finally got home?”

  Tripp held up his hands. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It was bullshit at first, but last night he changed the rules. He locked me up in his boat, but I got away.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Now get up and—”

  “He killed Peter!”

  “Who?” Lonnie said.

  Tripp struggled to his feet. “I banged up my ankles pretty bad,” he said.

  Lonnie grabbed Tripp by the shoulders. “Who?” he said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Who killed—”

  The outside door opened and two women walked in. Lonnie nodded and pulled Tripp out the door. “Start walking.”

  “I’m freezing, and I can’t walk,” Tripp said. “I’ve got wheels. I’m parked around the corner.”

  Lonnie recognized the Dodge Caravan as soon as they turned onto 120th Street. “If you think I’m getting back in there so you can pull that stun gun on me again, you’re crazy.”

  “I don’t have it.” Tripp spread his arms and legs, and Lonnie patted him down.

  “Open the back of the van,” Lonnie said.

  “Empty,” Tripp said once the doors were open. “Get in. It’s smarter if we keep moving.”

  “You try anything and I’ll punch your lights out,” Lonnie said, climbing into the passenger seat. Tripp put the van in gear and headed east.

  “Now tell me who your partner is in all this rich-boy crazy kidnapping shit.”

  “Mr. Madison.”

  “Our Mr. Madison? From school?”

  Tripp nodded. “I had a plan—to get money from my dad.”

  “And you needed it so bad that you had to kill Peter?”

  Tripp pulled the Dodge Caravan to the curb and jammed on the brakes. “I didn’t fucking kill Peter. I didn’t even know he was dead till last night,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “Madison did it, and I’m probably next.”

  “So,” Lonnie said, “do you think Madison killed Blackstone too?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The private eye who works for your dad. Somebody put a bullet through his head last night. He was in his car at the Silver Moon Diner—same place we went to after we finished shooting the carjacking scene.”

  “Madison and I were at the Silver Moon last night,” Tripp said, “and trust me, I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Are you telling me that some preppy-ass, white-bread teacher from Barnaby did Peter and Blackstone?”

  “I didn’t see him do it, but yeah.”

  “Why?” Lonnie said. “Blackstone I can almost understand, especially if he tracked you down, but why would Madison kill Peter?”

  Tripp shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

  “You can’t what? You put
me through hell, you come back begging for help, and now you’re holding out on me?” Lonnie opened the van door.

  Tripp grabbed onto his jacket. “Wait. I’m sorry. Please.”

  “Hands off me, Alden. I’m not your bitch. I’m the best friend you ever had. So either answer the question or find another ghetto kid to kiss your ass.”

  Tripp let go of Lonnie’s jacket. “Do you remember Irene Gerrity?”

  “Never met her. I was sick that day, so Peter shot for me. What about her?”

  “Near the end of the shoot she told me something about my father. Something that could put him in jail for the rest of his life.”

  “Did you believe her? That old broad was crazy as a shithouse rat.”

  “She had proof—real evidence—and she gave it to me. I didn’t know what to do. Peter said I should talk to Hutch, but I decided to show it to Madison, and he came up with this plan to get my father to pay back the people he hurt.”

  “I watched the video. She never said anything bad about your father.”

  “Madison erased it before you got the tape. But Peter heard every word of it, and I think that’s what got him killed.”

  “So why don’t you just take this real evidence the old lady gave you and turn it over to the cops?”

  “I would, but I don’t know where it is. I gave it to Peter for safekeeping.”

  “Shit, man,” Lonnie said, still holding the van door open. “Being your cameraman is a dangerous job. I think I should resign while I still can.”

  “Please, I know I screwed up bad, but you’re the only one I can turn to.”

  Lonnie took a deep breath and let it out. “Damn your ass,” he said, pulling the door shut. “What do you need?”

  Chapter 57

  “I don’t know when Irene Gerrity started losing her marbles,” Matt said, “but she had them all when she was pulling off this Gutenberg deal. I’ve tapped into all her available bank records, but the money she made never saw the light of day in the U.S. It’s got to be squirreled away offshore.”

  “What about her house?” I said.

  “She bought it eight years ago, just before she hung up her hat at Alden Investments, but there’s no paper trail on how she paid for it,” Matt said.

  “I’m sure it’s just one of the little skill sets she picked up working for Hunter,” I said. “I’ll ask her about it. Kylie and I are headed straight up to Fieldston as soon as she gets back from the dentist.”

  Kylie had left five minutes earlier. “Dental emergency,” she had said to Matt as she bolted out the door.

  It was, of course, pure fiction, but telling your coworkers you have a loose filling is much more discreet than saying “My marriage is on the skids.”

  I went back to my desk, which is in the wide-open bull pen that Red occupies on the third floor of the 19th Precinct. I decided to use the time to catch up on a growing pile of paperwork that’s part of the glamour of being a cop.

  Five minutes later, the elevator doors opened. I looked up, and there, heading my way, was the last person I ever expected to see. He stopped at my desk and grinned. “Happy New Year, Zach.”

  It was Spence Harrington, Kylie’s husband.

  I stood up and shook his hand. “Spence…Kylie didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

  “That’s probably because I didn’t tell her. It’s kind of a surprise. Where is she?”

  That’s kind of a surprise, too. “Dentist,” I said, sticking to the cover story. “If you’re back so soon, I’m guessing Oregon didn’t go so well.”

  “Oregon? Zach, I’m an addict. You can say rehab. Actually, they have a damn good program out there, but I had a long talk with my counselor, and he figures it’ll take me six months to a year to get through it. Despite what Kylie thinks, that’s too long to be three thousand miles away from my wife. So, I found something in New York, and, like it or not, here I am.”

  “Well, I’m sure Kylie will be…” I groped for the right words to finish the sentence.

  Spence did it for me. “She’ll be pissed to the gills, but that’s her problem. This is my last chance to salvage my marriage, and I decided I’d have a better shot at it if I were closer to home. So, what have you and Kylie been up to?”

  Up to? I’m sure he meant work, so I started making small talk about NYPD closing out last year with the fewest homicides in the city’s history, and staying away from any reference to the Aldens. As awkward as it was, it beat the alternative of sitting there like an idiot and not talking to him.

  After ten minutes, the elevator doors opened, and Kylie stepped out. She took one look at Spence and shook her head in disgust. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Hey, sweetheart, I’m happy to see you too,” he said.

  “Let me rephrase the question,” Kylie said. “When did you lose your mind?”

  “It’s not as crazy as you think,” Spence said. “I signed up for a program right here in the city. It’s called Better Choices.”

  “And what makes Better Choices any better than the one in Oregon?”

  “It’s not in Oregon,” he said with a boyish smile that fell flat. “Come on, Kylie, don’t judge it before you know anything about it. It’s in Tribeca. It goes from eight in the morning to five at night, six days a week, and it has one of the best success rates on the East Coast.”

  “It’s a day program?” Kylie said. “And where are you spending your nights? Because I can tell you where you won’t be spending them.”

  Spence looked at me. “I told you she’d be pissed.”

  “Pissed doesn’t begin to describe it,” Kylie said. “We had a deal, and you are not moving back in at this stage of your recovery.”

  “I know. I called Shelley. He’s letting me use the corporate apartment. For the record, he’s not happy I’m back either. He said he can put a roof over my head, but I don’t get my job back till I graduate.”

  “Spence, this is your third rehab in less than two months. What makes you think this one is going to be any different?”

  “It won’t be,” he said. “Unless I have you on my side. I’m just asking you to believe in me one more time. That’s it. I’ll let you guys get back to work. Nice to see you, Zach.”

  Spence didn’t wait for the elevator. He hightailed it down the stairwell. Kylie stood there in silence, watching him go, her anger and frustration palpable.

  I decided this would not be a good time to ask her how it went with the divorce lawyer.

  Chapter 58

  Kylie and I got in the car, and she drove across Central Park without saying a word. I knew she was stewing about Spence, so I decided to give her all the space she needed.

  We were headed north on the Henry Hudson Parkway when she finally broke the silence. “It’s too bad Cheryl’s not around,” she said.

  I couldn’t believe it. Why would she want to open that wound? But I couldn’t let it go either. “Why would you say that?” I asked.

  “Irene Gerrity has serious comprehension and memory issues, and Cheryl could have given us some direction on the best way to handle her.”

  I let out a long slow breath. I’d been so obsessed with Cheryl, my girlfriend, that I’d forgotten she was also Dr. Robinson, my go-to departmental psychologist.

  “I could call Cheryl and ask,” I said, “but first I’d need some direction on the best way to handle her.”

  “Trouble in paradise, Detective Jordan?”

  “You know damn well there is, Detective MacDonald. You were in paradise chomping on pizza and knocking down brewskis last night when the trouble hit the fan.”

  She gave me a wide-eyed smile that said “Look at me—I’m innocent.” She was anything but. Gerri Gomperts was right. Women are not remotely as clueless as men would like to think. Kylie had no interest in talking about her relationship issues, so she brought up mine.

  And I, of course, couldn’t resist taking the bait. “As long as we’re on the subject of last night,” I said,
“did Cheryl say anything about me when I went out to get more beer?”

  “Not a lot. Just that you owed her a major apology for your childish behavior over Fred.”

  “Damn. She said that?”

  “No, Zach, she didn’t. But I’m having much more fun analyzing your relationship problems than I’d be having ruminating about my own.”

  “Sounds like it all went swimmingly at the dentist’s office,” I said.

  “Swimmingly is the perfect choice of terms. The man was a shark. All he cared about was how much Spence earned, how much I’d contributed to his income over the past ten years, how much is our apartment worth, and do we own any cars, boats, life insurance policies, or livestock. It was all about money, money, money.”

  “Kylie, he’s a divorce attorney. What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I was naive enough to think that there would be some compassion to go along with the legal advice.”

  “Hey, if you want compassion, go to a diner, not a law firm.”

  “I guess that means you woke up early this morning and poured your heart out to Gerri.”

  “Don’t knock it. Not only did she give me excellent advice, but it came with eggs over easy, bacon, and a toasted blueberry muffin. See if your guy can top that.”

  She laughed. “My guy gets five hundred an hour. Six hundred if I want breakfast with it. Can we get serious for a minute?”

  “We can try.”

  “I’ve handled more than my fair share of EDPs over the past ten years,” she said. “And my track record is less than stellar.”

  NYPD responds to a couple of hundred thousand emotionally disturbed persons calls a year. Most are harmless, but some can be homicidal. It’s always a challenge dealing with the mentally ill, and the department is constantly evaluating how to improve our training. But the simple fact is that some cops are better at it than others. I wasn’t surprised to hear Kylie admit that she fell short.

  “Irene is not exactly your typical threat-to-the-neighborhood EDP,” I said. “She’s a rich old lady who’s losing her mental faculties as part of the aging process.”