NYPD Red 3 Page 17

  “Even so, I don’t think I can remember any of the training we had at the academy on how to interview someone who has dementia. How about you?”

  “I remember the basics. Make eye contact, talk slowly, try to engage them in shared experiences, and no waterboarding unless they really have it coming to them.”

  Kylie laughed. “You take the lead with Irene,” she said.

  “You sure? I think she’d be more comfortable talking with a woman.”

  “No, no…I caught part of your conversation with Spence,” Kylie said. “You seem to be very good at communicating with delusional people who are incapable of living in reality.”

  We drove the rest of the way in blessed silence.

  Chapter 59

  Ask your average New Yorkers what they know about the Bronx, and they might recall their first Yankees game in The House That Ruth Built, or rave about the cannoli-to-die-for on Arthur Avenue, or dredge up the wave of arson that ravaged the South Bronx in the seventies.

  None of them would mention Fieldston.

  Less than twenty minutes from the precinct, Fieldston is one of the best-kept secrets in the Bronx: a privately owned community of tree-lined streets, landmark-status homes, and well-heeled white people.

  “Miss Irene seems to have done pretty well for a secretary,” Kylie said as we turned onto Goodridge Avenue and parked in front of her imposing stucco-and-stone Tudor revival–style house.

  We rang the bell and ID’d ourselves to a woman in a nurse’s uniform.

  “Is this about the stolen pearls?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “Did you report a robbery?”

  “Miss Irene did last week. She hid her pearls so no one would steal them, then she forgot she hid them, so she called 911. Yesterday I was taking the ornaments off the Christmas tree, and guess what I found? A string of pearls. I called the precinct and unreported the crime.”

  “This is about Peter Chevalier,” I said. “Is she aware of what happened?”

  “She saw it in the newspaper, and she was very upset at the time. But aware? I can’t tell you what she’s aware of. It changes from minute to minute.”

  She escorted us into the living room. It was the same one we’d seen in the video, and there on the settee was Irene Gerrity sipping a cocktail.

  We introduced ourselves, and she raised her glass. “It’s a Perfect Manhattan,” she said. “My doctor lets me have two a week.”

  The nurse, who had stepped off to the side, rolled her eyes, and I got the feeling that math was not Irene’s strong suit. Delusional and tipsy. I’d just have to wing it.

  “Miss Gerrity,” I said, “we’re here to ask you about Peter Chevalier.”

  “Beautiful man,” she said. “How do you know Peter?”

  “I don’t, but I understand you saw him recently.”

  She looked at me. She needed another prompt.

  “He was here with…” I hated lying to her, but I had to work within the bounds of her reality. “He was here with Hunter Alden. They were shooting a video for Hutch’s birthday.”

  “Oh yes. I remember. We had a few laughs. Told some war stories.”

  “Hunter told us you’re quite a smart investor.”

  “He’s the smart one. That boy kicked ass up and down the Street.”

  “Looking at this beautiful home, I’d say you kicked a little ass yourself.”

  She took a sip of her drink. “Are you here about the pearls? I can tell you who stole them.”

  I didn’t know the rules, but I was determined to play the game. I took out a pad. “That would help us a lot,” I said. “Did you see who took your pearls?”

  “Damn right. I saw him skulking around here a bunch of times. It was Truman.”

  I rolled with it. “And what’s Truman’s last name?” I asked, pen poised.

  Irene turned to Kylie. “Is he stupid? Truman is his last name. Harry S. Truman. He’s the goddamn president of the United States. All those Democrats are after my money, and he’s the ringleader.”

  “That’s a big help, ma’am,” Kylie said. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find your pearls. Thanks for your help. We’ll be going now.”

  Kylie gestured at me with her head, and the two of us were starting to leave when she stopped and turned back to Irene. “I do have one last question,” Kylie said sweetly.

  Irene smiled, determined to help us find the dead president who had made off with her pearls.

  Kylie smiled back. “It’s about Project Gutenberg—”

  Irene snapped. “Get out!” she screamed. “Both of you. Out!”

  She tried to stand, but the nurse jumped in and grabbed her. “Get your hands off me, Lorna. Just throw their asses out of here now.”

  Lorna calmly eased her back onto the settee. “I’ll see them out, Miss Irene. Why don’t you enjoy your drink? And when I get back we can play a little canasta.”

  Irene didn’t go for the drink. She glared at Kylie, teeth gnashed, one fist clenched. “Fucking asshole bitch,” she said.

  Sweet little old Irene Gerrity had just shown us her dark side.

  Lorna ushered us to the front door. “And don’t come back!” she yelled loud enough for an octogenarian to hear in the next room.

  Then she leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Wait in your car. I’ll be out in ten minutes.”

  Chapter 60

  “I’m not the keenest judge of human nature,” I said as Kylie and I walked to the car, “but I’m guessing you two feisty females are not going to be BFFs.”

  “Hey, you were getting nowhere, so I threw a Hail Mary. It didn’t work. No apologies.”

  “None expected, but it would be a nice gesture if you let me drive.”

  She tossed me the keys, and we got in the car.

  Ten minutes later, Lorna, bundled up in a heavy coat and with a scarf over her head, came out of the house, walked toward us, then kept going. When she got half a block away, she turned and gestured for us to catch up. We followed her around a hairpin turn onto Fieldston Road and pulled over.

  “I couldn’t let her see us talking. She watches me out the window,” Lorna explained, getting into the backseat. “I told her we were low on bourbon, and I had to get to the liquor store before it starts to snow.”

  “Where’s the store?” Kylie asked. “We can drive you.”

  Lorna laughed. “Honey, don’t worry. We’ve got plenty of booze. I keep it hid. Reenie can drink like a sailor with a hollow leg. Sorry she cursed at you.”

  “Thanks,” Kylie said, “but you didn’t go to all this trouble to apologize.”

  “I’m with her twelve hours a day,” Lorna said. “So I hear a lot. But I don’t want Mr. Alden to fire me for speaking out of turn.”

  “Hunter Alden pays you to take care of Irene?”

  “Hell, no. That man ain’t called or come once since the day she retired. Mr. Hutch foots the bill. I wouldn’t do nothing if it would upset him.”

  “Hutch wants us to find Peter’s killer as much as we do,” Kylie said. “If you help, I promise he won’t be upset.”

  “My husband Findley’s been driving for him more than thirty years. Me and Findley, we both knew Peter since we were kids. What do you want to know?”

  “Have you heard of Project Gutenberg?”

  “Yes. That day when they made the video. Miss Irene said it by accident, then she got upset, because it’s a secret. It didn’t seem to bother Tripp, but then Irene says she wants to confess everything, and she pours it all out.”

  “Can you tell us what she said?”

  “It was all business talk. So when I got home I told it to Findley to see if he could make sense of it. You can talk to him if you want.”

  “Give us the gist of what you remember.”

  “Don’t hold me to the words, but the upshot is that Miss Irene was spying on Hunter. He’d invest a pot of money, like a million or something, and she could see what he was doing, so she’d do the same
thing, but maybe like five thousand. He makes a lot, she makes a little, everybody’s happy—only he don’t know she’s copying all his moves.”

  “That doesn’t sound illegal,” I said.

  “That’s just what Findley said. But this Gutenberg is not like the others. It’s all hush-hush. Hunter doesn’t even tell Irene what’s going on, so she knows it’s big. And by now she’s getting used to the easy money, and she wants in.”

  Lorna was sweating. She took off her head scarf and dabbed her face and neck with it. I killed the heater. I had a bottle of water on the front seat. I handed it to her, and she downed it.

  “Thanks. Where was I?”

  “Gutenberg,” Kylie said. “Irene wants in, but Hunter’s keeping her out of the loop.”

  “Right. But she’s cagey. She’s already one step ahead of him. All along she’s been taping his phone calls and copying his email, and going over them at home every night. So when Hunter starts pumping a shitload of money into the Gutenberg deal, Irene decides this is her one big chance, and she bets the farm.”

  “And what happened?” Kylie said.

  “Sweet Jesus, you seen the damn house, didn’t you?” Lorna said, cackling. It took her a few seconds to regain her composure. “So she gets it all off her chest, and Tripp, he’s cool. It’s not like she stole anything. If Hunter would have lost money, so would she. Finally she says the one thing that’s been eating at her all these years: ‘It’s too bad we had to make all that money in the wake of all that suffering.’ Them’s her exact words. ‘The wake of all that suffering.’”

  “What suffering?”

  Lorna shrugged. “She didn’t say, but does it really matter? Honey, I’m from Haiti. We’ve had more than our fair share of suffering. It’s a story that’s old as time—rich people getting richer off poor people’s misery. The only difference with Irene’s story is that she feels bad for whoever got the shit end of the stick.”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” I said. “Thank you for stepping forward.”

  “This meeting is just between us, right?” she said.

  “You have my word.” I gave her my card. “And if you think of anything else, call me anytime.”

  Lorna opened the back door.

  “One more question,” Kylie said. “Did Peter ever say anything to you or your husband about a flash drive he was holding on to for Tripp?”

  “No.” She pondered for a beat. “You talking about the flash drive I gave Tripp that day they shot the video?”

  I motioned for her to shut the door. “What flash drive?”

  “I told you Irene was taping Hunter’s phone calls and copying his email so she could take them home and study them at night. She put it all on a flash drive. And when she told Tripp the story, he asked if she still had it.”

  “And she did?”

  “Kept it in a music box on her dresser. She sent me upstairs to get it, and I gave it to Tripp, but I don’t know anything about him giving it to Peter.”

  We thanked her again, and she left.

  Kylie and I sat there not saying a word. We didn’t know exactly what Project Gutenberg was, but it was pretty clear that whatever was on that flash drive could destroy Hunter Alden’s life.

  I was looking forward to finding it.

  Chapter 61

  Hunter Alden pulled up Silas Blackstone’s name and contact information on his iPhone. “Idiot,” he said, staring at it. “What kind of a PI gets shot sitting in his own car in a parking lot?”

  Sixteen hours after Silas’s death, Hunter was beginning to realize how much he had relied on the man. Too much. He’d never wanted to meet anyone else from SDB Investigative Services. Silas had been the go-between on everything.

  He took one last look at the phone, tapped Delete Contact, and in an instant Silas Blackstone was gone. There was no time to find a replacement. Hunter Alden was on his own. He reached down and removed the .38 from his ankle holster.

  His gun-loving friends enjoyed busting his balls. With a name like Hunter, how come you never hunt? Just because he had no desire to fly eight thousand miles to slaughter a rhinoceros didn’t mean he knew nothing about guns. He knew enough. Still, he kicked himself for never getting Wheeler’s phone number.

  The intercom buzzed. He tucked the .38 back into the holster and looked at the closed-circuit monitor on his desk to see who was out there. “Son of a bitch!” he said.

  Hunter jammed his finger on the button that released the gate, stormed to the front door, and yanked it open. “What the hell do you want?” he said.

  Lonnie Martinez looked up at him with complete contempt. “I have a message from Tripp.”

  Hunter returned the hateful look. “How are you even walking the streets? The cops should have locked you up.”

  “For what?”

  “You were part of it, and you still are,” Hunter said. “Have you seen my son since his so-called escape?”

  “Yeah. We just grabbed some lunch together. He paid.” Lonnie sneered. “With your money.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know where he is now, but I can tell you where he’s going to be.” He handed Hunter a single sheet of paper.

  Hunter scanned it. “What the hell is this?”

  “You just read what it is. It’s an access pass to Costco.”

  “What do I need it for?”

  “It’s the only way you can get into the store. They run it like a club. Members only.”

  “I’m not interested in joining.”

  “You don’t have to. Tripp joined, and he added you to his account. Congratulations. It’s a great store. My grandmother works there.”

  “Tell Tripp if he wants to meet me, he can come here,” Hunter said.

  “He said you’d say that, but for some reason he feels safer meeting you in public. Costco is in East Harlem. On 117th Street, just off the FDR. Meet him at the food court. Five o’clock.” Lonnie turned and headed down the steps.

  “Tell your partner not to hold his breath,” Hunter yelled.

  Lonnie stopped and turned back. “He said you might say that too, and if you did, I’m supposed to give you one more message. If you’re not there by 5:01, he’s calling the Wall Street Journal. Have a nice day, and don’t forget your access pass.”

  He bounded down the steps, breezed through the gate, and headed east on 81st Street.

  Hunter could feel the .38 on his left ankle. For a brief moment he wanted to grab the gun and open fire on the smug Puerto Rican bastard. But Lonnie Martinez wasn’t the problem. Tripp was.

  He shut the door. Why shoot the messenger?

  Chapter 62

  The first few snowflakes hit the windshield as I pulled the car onto the Henry Hudson Parkway.

  “Wipers,” Kylie said, running the show from the passenger seat.

  “Gosh, thanks,” I said, turning them on. “I knew I should have taken driver’s ed in high school. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I know this is going to sound terrible,” Kylie said, “but I have to say it. I love this case.”

  “Me too. I mean, two dead guys, serious sleep deprivation, the Alden family blocking us at every turn—what’s not to love?”

  “Come on, Zach. We started out Thursday with a headless body in a million-dollar car. And then it spins out of control. A kidnapping, extortion, a second murder—”

  “Stolen pearls,” I said.

  “This is the kind of stuff we dreamed of when we were at the academy.”

  “Remind me. Did we dream about how to solve it?”

  “Oh, we’ll solve it,” she said. “I think we should start by visiting Irwin.”

  Until New Year’s Day, Irwin Diamond was the smartest person in city government. He was the previous mayor’s right-hand man and a big supporter of Red. But then Muriel Sykes moved into Gracie Mansion, and Irwin went back to his first career: investment banking.

  “Do you think Irwin can help us with Gutenberg?” I said.

  “I
don’t know, but every cop in the city is looking for Madison and Tripp. We’re the only ones who know about Gutenberg. We have to start somewhere.”

  “Somewhere” was Irwin’s five-bedroom penthouse at 1 Morton Square, one of the city’s most exclusive addresses. The three of us sat down in a cozy little area in the middle of a thirty-foot expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows. On a clear day you could probably see across the Hudson, but now the horizon was nothing but a frenzy of swirling snow.

  “They predict ten inches,” Irwin said, “which means no matter how Muriel Sykes handles the storm, by tomorrow at this time, four out of the five boroughs will be pissed at her. I’m so glad I’m out of politics. How can I help?”

  We filled him in. He had never heard of Project Gutenberg.

  “But it sounds dirty,” he said, “and the fact that the code name references the Bible makes me think it’s extra dirty. White-collar criminals love irony.”

  “Is Hunter Alden a criminal?” I asked.

  He peered at us over rimless glasses. “Alleged. Never convicted.”

  “What can you tell us about him?”

  “Do you know much about investing?”

  “It’s easy,” I said. “You give your broker money, he puts it in something that doesn’t pan out the way he expected, and a year later you’re lucky if you get back a third.”

  “You’re already smarter than most investors, but let me give you a little tutorial.” He stood up and went to the window. “You see these two drops of water? I’ll bet you a dollar the one on the left gets to the windowsill before the one on the right. You in?”

  “Sure.”

  We watched the droplets trickle down the glass. Ten seconds later, the one on the right hit the sill. Irwin reached into his wallet and gave me a dollar. “You ready for something a little riskier?”

  “I’m playing with the house’s money, so go for it.”

  He looked at his watch. “I’ll bet you fifty dollars that in the next ten minutes my neighbor’s cat will jump down onto my terrace, scratch at the door, wait for me to bring him a saucer of milk, drink it, and leave. You in?”