Red Alert Page 17

  As far as I could tell, Nathan wasn’t doing such a great job of winning Segura over. I thought about unmuting my phone and jumping back into the fray. I’d start off by hitting him with that quote from Abraham Lincoln: “He who represents himself has a fool for a client.”

  “And the fifty thousand dollars a year we paid your grandmother,” I heard Hirsch say. “That was my idea. Wells was against it. I remember one year I wrote the check, and he started arguing with me about—”

  My phone went dead. I looked up at the crowd, almost every one of whom had a cell phone in their hands. Their phones were dead, too.

  Then a bullhorn cut through the air. “Zach. Zach.” It was Kylie. “Do it, Zach. Do it. Do it. Do it.”

  I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to lash out and tell her she was the most infuriating, irresponsible, uncontrollable partner a cop could possibly have. And then when I was finally finished ranting, and railing, and venting my spleen, I wanted to have incredible make-up sex with her.

  But, of course, I didn’t do any of that.

  Instead I grabbed the bolt cutters and raced toward the man chained to a bomb on the courthouse steps.

  CHAPTER 52

  I sprinted across the empty square. By the time I hit Centre Street the crowd erupted, picking up Kylie’s chant. Do it, Zach. Do it, Zach. Do it, Zach.

  Do what? Get myself killed because my partner, who spent a few minutes talking to some guy in a Thai prison, suddenly decided she was an expert on when bombs can go off and when they can’t?

  The clamor grew more raucous as the mob egged me on.

  And then out of nowhere came the music. Some crazy son of a bitch in the horde of well-wishers had a saxophone, and I heard those stirring opening notes to “Theme from Rocky.”

  Dum, dum, da-da-dum, da-da-dum, da-da-dum.

  Hero music. But I didn’t feel heroic. I felt like an idiot. Kylie’s words raced through my brain. “Segura can’t blow up anything without a cell signal, and guess what they have on the ESU truck? A cell jammer.”

  My gut reaction when she said it was to try to stop her from using the jammer illegally. What I should have said was, “How do you know Segura can’t blow anything up without a cell signal? What if he has a computer rigged with a backup detonator? What if he has a high-powered rifle, and he shoots me for trying to save the man who cost him twenty years of his life?”

  But I hadn’t questioned her logic, and now I was putting my ass on the line to save one of the biggest dirtbags on the planet.

  Nathan Hirsch sat staring at his dead cell phone, probably wondering if Segura was going to call him back or blow him up. He was a dozen steps up from street level, dead center between two massive Corinthian columns. The towering temple of justice loomed behind him.

  I wanted to bound up the stairs two at a time, but as soon as my foot hit the first step, everything seemed to slow down. It was like that recurring dream where you’re running, running, running, but you feel like you’re barely moving.

  Maybe it was the jet lag. Maybe it was the abject fear fucking with my head, but it seemed to take a lifetime for my foot to touch the second step.

  Someone had found a way to amp up the sound of the sax, and with the music blaring and the crowd chanting, I made it to the third step. And the fourth.

  Days later, I would watch some of the many videos of my climb up those courthouse steps. On film it only took seconds, but in real life my entire world was in slow motion.

  “Nathan—don’t move,” I called out as I got closer.

  He looked up when he heard me. Cates had guessed right. Hirsch had pissed himself. And he was crying.

  Please, God, I thought, don’t let this fat bastard be the last thing I ever see during my time here on earth.

  “Hold still,” I said, lowering his cuffed wrist so I could rest the briefcase on the steps. I took a look at the bolt cutters I’d been dragging along like an appendage. They were a flimsy government-issue piece of crap, and I remembered John Glenn’s famous words: “As I hurtled through space, one thought kept crossing my mind: every part of this rocket was supplied by the lowest bidder.”

  Somewhere in my pocket was a key ring with half a dozen keys on it, one of which might open the cuffs. Or it might not. I hoped I didn’t have to find out. I opened the bolt cutters wide, positioned the blades over two steel links, and, with every ounce of strength I had left in my travel-weary body, I slammed the two handles together.

  The chain snapped.

  “Run, Nathan, run!” I commanded.

  He didn’t. Or maybe he couldn’t. He froze.

  And he was too fat to carry.

  I grabbed him by both arms, pulled him toward me, and put my mouth to his ear. “Listen to me, asshole. I’ve got a girlfriend I’m going home to. You either move or you can stay here and die.”

  He moved.

  He navigated the steps like a pregnant sow, and I braced myself for the explosion that would hurl the two of us into the federal court building on the other side of Lafayette.

  It never came. No boom. Just the whoops of the onlookers as I helped the gasping lawyer waddle across Centre Street toward the bedlam and finally passed him into the arms of a team of uniformed cops.

  “Have the paramedics check him out,” I said, “but don’t let him wander off until he has a heart-to-heart with Selma Kaplan at the DA’s office.”

  One of the cops put her hand on my shoulder. “What about you?” she said. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just get me away from these fucking cameras.”

  I followed her to a mobile command center that was parked on Worth Street, stumbled in the door, shut it behind me, dropped to my knees, and, half sobbing, half laughing, I thanked a God I hadn’t been in touch with for longer than I care to admit.

  CHAPTER 53

  There were four white-shirted cops in the command center. Brass. Two of them were barking into satellite phones. I’d picked the wrong place to duck into for quiet reflection. I took a few slow deep breaths, centered myself, and looked up.

  One of the white shirts was looming over me. I recognized her immediately: Barbara O’Brien, a public information officer. I stood up.

  “You’ve got balls, Detective Jordan,” she said.

  Coming from anyone else, that would have felt like a compliment. But not from her. I nodded, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “You got a warrant to go with those balls?” she said.

  “Ma’am?”

  “You disabled the cell phone service for tens of thousands of civilians. The press is going to ask me if you came up with that little rescue mission on your own, or did you have a signed warrant?”

  “I believe my partner was working on a warrant.”

  “Working on? For your sake, let’s hope she got it.”

  “Lieutenant, I have to go. Captain Cates is expecting to hear from me.”

  “Tell her she’ll be hearing from me, too.”

  I’d walked into the command center to the sound of a cheering crowd. I walked out a minute later at the top of somebody’s shit list.

  Within seconds after I stepped back outside, the crowd let out another joyful roar. But this one wasn’t for me. Their cell phones had come back on.

  “I see that you restored their cell service,” I said to Kylie as she made her way toward me.

  “It’s more like I restored their lives,” she said. “Another few minutes without a dial tone and these people would have gotten ugly.”

  “So now the bomb is hot again.”

  “No problem. The guys in the bomb squad live for that shit. They’ll be fighting to see who gets to disarm it. Besides, Segura’s not going to set it off without anyone to blow up. Now that he’s got a cell signal again, he’ll probably call back and congratulate you. As will I.” She threw her arms around me. “You’re a hero, partner.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, “but I need the hug.”

  “You don’t think so? Zach, just because
people couldn’t make phone calls doesn’t mean they couldn’t shoot videos. That hundred-yard mad dash of you running toward a bomb will be all over the internet. By tomorrow this time, you’ll be a YouTube sensation. You risked your life to save someone most people wouldn’t think was worth saving. Trust me: you’re a rock star.”

  “Tell that to PIO O’Brien. I just ran into her in the command center.”

  “And what did that hard-ass want?”

  “An inquiry into why two cops violated a federal law that prohibits police departments from operating a cell jammer without express authorization.”

  “And what makes you think we don’t have authorization?”

  “Because we don’t.”

  “But we will in a minute.”

  “From who?”

  “From the randy old coot who took me to dinner at the Harvard Club, and who after two glasses of wine said to me, ‘If you ever need a favor, sweetheart, here’s my cell number.’”

  “Judge Rafferty,” I said.

  “I think the old boy has a crush on me.”

  “You’re telling me you called him on his personal phone and got a warrant.”

  “Verbal. I’m going over to the courthouse now to get it on paper.”

  “You mean you’re going over there hoping to convince him to give you a warrant after the fact?”

  “Shut up and follow me. But we better go around the back way. That pesky bomb is blocking the front door.”

  Five minutes later, we were escorted into Judge Rafferty’s chambers.

  “Kylie,” he said, coming around his desk and giving her a hug. “I’ve got your warrant right here.”

  “Ye of little faith,” she said to me, grabbing the document that would exonerate us from the wrath of O’Brien and prosecution by the Feds.

  “And you, young man,” the judge said, shaking my hand. “I thought you were kind of a dolt at first, but I’ve come around.”

  “Zach Jordan,” I said, hoping he’d eventually remember my name. “Thank you, sir.”

  “By the way, Your Honor,” Kylie said, “we’ve just arrested the two scoundrels who were blackmailing you.”

  “That calls for a drink,” he said, opening his desk drawer.

  “We’re still on duty, sir,” Kylie said. “But we’ll take a rain check.”

  “I’ll hold you to it,” he said. “But we’ll have to have two drinks. One for the blackmailers, and one for Zach’s masterful performance. I watched it on TV. It was textbook police work, son. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “Oh, I’d definitely change one thing, sir.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I’d have Wynton Marsalis on trumpet instead of that damn saxophone player.”

  CHAPTER 54

  We were on our way back to the precinct when Cates called. I put her on speaker. “I just got off the phone with Barbara O’Brien,” she said.

  “What does she want?” I said. “My badge or my balls?”

  “She told me she tore into you, but she’s changed her tune now that the bomb is disabled and you somehow magically came up with a warrant. Now she wants me to put you both up for a commendation.”

  “We’ll settle for a day off,” Kylie said.

  “It’s not in the cards. I need your asses back here. Your two drone bandits lawyered up. ADA Kaplan is trying to cut a deal with them now.”

  “A deal?” I said. “Those smug bastards blackmailed a judge.”

  “Kaplan doesn’t care. They’ve got something she wants, and she’s willing to give away the store to get it.”

  “Tell her to hold off. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I said. Kylie hit the accelerator, and the car lurched forward. “Or less.”

  Seven minutes later, we walked into an interrogation room where ADA Selma Kaplan was sitting with the two blackmailers and a woman in her late thirties with curly red hair and a pleasant smile.

  “This is Grace Marschand,” Kaplan said, introducing us.

  “I’m Troy’s big sister,” she said. “I’m a personal injury lawyer, but my brother can’t afford an expensive criminal attorney, and he doesn’t trust public defenders, so here I am. Good thing for him I watch a lot of Law & Order.”

  It was an act, and I didn’t buy the fish-out-of-water routine for a second. If Grace Marschand were really out of her element, she’d be a wreck. This woman knew what she was doing, and I could see by the smirk on Dylan Freemont’s face that she was doing it well.

  Selma Kaplan stood up. “I need a moment outside with my detectives.”

  “Oh, take all the time you need,” Marschand said. “But I just want to tell you both that Troy and Dylan are really, really sorry about what they did, and they’re giving back all of the money.”

  “Is there any left?” Kylie said. “Because they went on a really, really big spending spree last weekend.”

  “I know. Shameful,” Marschand said, looking at her brother like he was a naughty puppy who’d soiled the carpet. “But they still have eighty-four thousand left, and I’m going to make up the difference.”

  “I must have missed the episode of Law & Order where the penalty for committing a class D felony is giving back the money if you get caught,” Kylie said. “Your clients are looking at seven years, counselor.”

  Marschand smiled sweetly. “And yet Ms. Kaplan has just offered to drop all charges.”

  Before we could say a word, Kaplan herded us out of the room.

  “Drop all charges?” Kylie said as soon as we closed the door. “Selma, what the hell have they got?”

  “Thirty-two hidden-camera sex tapes, every one of them starring Aubrey Davenport.”

  “And who are her costars?”

  “According to Ms. I Don’t Know Anything About Criminal Law, they are the pillars of the community: the CEO of an international bank, a congressman, a newscaster, a university chancellor—a laundry list of New York City’s boldest boldface names.”

  “So Troy Marschand had Aubrey’s laptop all along.”

  “No. That’s still missing. Troy says he was cleaning the office one day, and he stumbled on an external hard drive. He didn’t know what it was, so he and Dylan screened the contents. Turns out that Aubrey spent over a year shooting this secret documentary. She wanted to expose these upstanding princes of industry as liars, cheaters, and sexual deviants.”

  “You mean she wanted to blackmail them.”

  “No. She was a dedicated filmmaker. She wasn’t thinking about money. She wanted an Oscar. It was only after she was murdered that those two clowns realized they were sitting on a gold mine and went into the extortion business.”

  “That calls for some jail time in my book,” Kylie said. “Offer them three years. They’ll get out in eighteen months, but at least they’ll have—”

  Kaplan cut her off. “You think like a cop, MacDonald. The DA thinks like a politician. If those tapes ever saw the light of day, it would rock this city’s establishment to the core. Forget about going to trial. I can’t even charge them with anything, or it’ll be on the public record.”

  “So the DA is willing to cut them loose just to suppress those tapes,” I said.

  “Zach, these are the people that Red is supposed to take care of.”

  “Protect and defend, Selma. Not cover up.”

  “It’s not your call, and it’s not mine,” Kaplan said. “It’s the DA’s.”

  “No doubt with some input from our politician in chief, Mayor Sykes,” Kylie said. “I bet every horndog on those tapes donated generously to her campaign.”

  “Sweetheart, you’ve been at this long enough not to sound shocked. The mayor and the DA are simply protecting the hands that feed them.”

  “Where is this external hard drive with all these damning videos now?” I said.

  “Troy hid it in his mother’s basement. We should have it in a few hours.”

  “Then maybe there’s an upside to all this,” I said.

  “Please,” Kaplan said.
“I could use an upside.”

  “Most likely the external hard drive is a backup, and the original videos are still on Aubrey’s laptop. Do you think Troy and Dylan have it?”

  “Troy swears that they don’t, and I believe him. He’d be too scared to hang on to it.”

  “And Janek Hoffmann didn’t have it, either,” I said. “But somebody does.”

  “The question is who.”

  “We know that Aubrey always had it with her, so my best guess is that somebody found out about this secret documentary, killed her, took the laptop, and has no idea there’s a second copy. And I’m betting it’s one of the thirty-two men on those videos.”

  “I guarantee you it’s not the Honorable Michael J. Rafferty,” Kylie said, a wide grin on her face.

  “There you go,” I said. “We’ve just narrowed down the suspect list to thirty-one of our fair city’s most respected citizens.”

  CHAPTER 55

  It had taken less than two minutes to cut Nathan Hirsch free from that bomb, and more than two hours to fill out the investigative work sheets that detailed the incident.

  “If I’d have known that saving his life would involve so much paperwork,” Kylie said, pushing her chair away from her desk, “I’d have thought twice about flipping the switch on that cell jammer.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Since when have you ever thought twice before pulling one of your crazy-ass stunts?”

  “It wasn’t a stunt. I got a court order.”

  “Kylie, you can bullshit Barbara O’Brien, but don’t bullshit me. I saw the signature at the bottom of that warrant. Rafferty’s not a federal judge, so he must have sent his clerk across the street to the district court and had one of his cronies sign it. You couldn’t possibly have gotten all that done before the fact.”

  “Well, aren’t you the crafty detective? What’s important here, Zach, is that we saved a man’s life.”