NYPD Red 3 Read online

  “Tripp is a film nut,” Alden said. “So I hired him to make a surprise video for my father, who is turning seventy in March. I think he decided to go get some footage of the old neighborhood where my father grew up.”

  “Exactly where is that?” I asked.

  Alden hesitated.

  “Think hard,” I said. “If your father is anything like mine, he dragged you there more than once to show you where he lived as a kid.”

  His memory came back fast. “You’re right. It’s 530 West 136th Street.”

  “That’s in Harlem.”

  “I know,” Alden said. “Your rags-to-riches story doesn’t get any better than that. I can’t wait to see the look on my father’s face when he sees this video.”

  He opened the front door. “Give me a buzz and let me know the status of my car. It’s not just transportation. It’s my mobile office. I’m lost without it.”

  He smiled as he saw us out. He seemed to have bounced back nicely from his family’s devastating tragedy.

  Chapter 5

  Kylie got behind the wheel of our car and gunned it. “What an asshole,” she blurted out. She shot up 81st Street, ran a red light, and hung a hard left on Fifth. “His teenage son texts him for help, the driver he sends is murdered, and he can’t wait for his father to see a home movie?”

  The postholiday traffic was light, and I buckled my seat belt when I saw the speedometer creep toward sixty. “It seems like Peter getting his head lopped off was more of an inconvenience than a family crisis,” I said. “And on a completely different subject, would you mind slowing down?”

  She didn’t. “And what the hell was that smarmshark Blackstone doing there?”

  “You tell me, K-Mac. You’re the one who has a history with him.”

  She took one hand off the wheel and flipped me the finger. “No, Zach. You and I have a history. Blackstone is just some dude with a hard-on for me. Nice of him to tell Alden that we’re NYPD Red—that special breed of cop trained to serve and protect the insensitive wealthy.”

  “Hey, at least now Alden knows that we’re as good as he’s ever going to get—from the public sector.”

  “That pompous ass wouldn’t care if we were NYPD Platinum. He’s not about to cough up anything. He didn’t even want to tell us where his father grew up. Nice move squeezing it out of him.”

  “Thanks, but he only gave up what he knows we can find out on our own. His story was full of holes, but I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth when he said that Peter and Tripp never connected. That was the gist of the text Dryden showed us. But I’d still like to make sure.”

  She came to a screeching stop at the corner of 72nd and Fifth, jumped out of the car, and moved the sawhorse that was blocking the entrance to Central Park. She ran back to the car, turned it into the park, then got out and put the sawhorse back in place.

  “I don’t know why they close the park to cars on a day like this,” she said as we sped west. “There are no joggers, no bikers…”

  “Just crazy drivers,” I said. “I gather we’re not going back to the office.”

  “You’re starting to get good at this cop stuff, Zach. No, we are definitely not going back to the office.”

  “So we’re either going to Barnaby Prep to talk to Tripp, or we’re headed up to Harlem to check out Grandpa’s old neighborhood.”

  She smiled. “Both. But we can catch Tripp when school lets out. First let’s hit 530 West 136th Street and see if anyone saw him wandering around with a camera yesterday.”

  We had the park all to ourselves, so Kylie drove with complete disregard for red lights, the twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit, and the patches of ice on the roadway.

  “And don’t forget,” I said, “if we survive this trip, we have to call Chuck Dryden and get Alden’s Mybock back to him in a big hurry. From what I gather, the poor guy is lost without it.”

  “Absolutely,” she said, hurtling around the curves of East Drive. “Getting Alden’s precious mobile office back to him is at the top of my list—right after we find the person who killed Alden’s driver.”

  Chapter 6

  Kylie barreled through to the north end of the park, took 110th Street to Broadway, and made the turn onto 136th Street in a record-breaking eight minutes. Then she slowed down to a crawl and headed east toward Amsterdam Avenue.

  “Keep an eye out for one of those useless hybrids. Blue, maybe green.”

  Halfway up the block, I spotted it. “Green Prius,” I said, pointing to a car that was directly in front of number 530. We ran the plates. The car was registered to Alden Investments.

  We got out and tried the doors. They were locked.

  “Jimmy it,” Kylie said.

  “It’s in a valid parking space, and we have no reason to think it was involved in a crime,” I said. “Or did the NYPD recently drop that whole grounds-for-breaking-into-a-legally-parked-car thing?”

  “Why would Tripp text his father and say he’s broken down in Riverside Park if his car is here?” Kylie said.

  “I’m just guessing,” I said, “but one possibility is, if you’re planning to slice through someone’s spinal column with a rope saw, you figure if you do it in the middle of 136th Street on New Year’s Day, you’re going to draw a crowd. The park, on the other hand, is deserted. No witnesses.”

  “You like Tripp for killing Chevalier?” Kylie asked.

  “No, but he has to at least be on our list. And if he didn’t do it, then somebody used Tripp’s phone, sent the text, and lured Peter to the park.”

  “Somebody like who?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s ask around.”

  “Who are we supposed to ask? It’s freezing out here. The street isn’t exactly teeming with witnesses.”

  “Let’s go find the widow in the window.”

  She looked at me. “Who?”

  Kylie and I have two histories. The first is as lovers, and even though it lasted only a month, I’m sure I bared my soul to her, told her my best-kept secrets. The second history is as partners, but that relationship is so new that there are still a few things I haven’t shared with her.

  “The widow in the window,” I repeated. “Lots of neighborhoods have one. She’s a white-haired old lady who usually lives on the first floor facing front. Her kids are grown and gone, her husband is dead, and her life is about sitting by the window and taking it all in. These days she may have a cell phone in her hand so that when she sees something interesting she can spread the news to anyone on her speed dial who might remotely give a rat’s ass. Maybe they didn’t have people like that where you grew up, but trust me, in this part of the city, in neighborhoods like this, there’s one on every block. They see everything.”

  “That is the dumbest theory I ever heard,” Kylie said.

  “Maybe, but right now it’s the only one we’ve got. Humor me. Let’s walk around and look for her.”

  We did. We covered the entire block from Broadway to Amsterdam, but there were no widows looking out of any windows.

  “Maybe her shift starts later in the day,” Kylie said. “Or maybe she has a second job as the widow in the rocking chair watching daytime TV. Or wait, here’s a thought: maybe it’s just the dumbest theory any cop ever came up with.”

  “Fine,” I said. “You have a better idea?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “It’s my sergeant-at-the-front-desk theory. Come on—get back in the car. Humor me.”

  Chapter 7

  Most NYPD cops don’t get to spend much time outside the clearly defined boundaries of their precincts. One of the best things about my job is that Red has no borders, so I get to soak up the entire multicultural, geographically diversified melting pot called New York City.

  The Sugar Hill section of Harlem is one of our grandest, most overlooked neighborhoods. It got its name back in the 1920s, when wealthy African Americans moved there to live the sweet life during the Harlem Renaissance.

  We headed uptown
and drove past stately row houses that had been homes to many of the leading black writers, musicians, athletes, and political leaders of the twentieth century. It’s so spectacular that not only has it been designated a municipal historic district by the Landmarks Preservation Commission, but Kylie actually slowed down so we could take it all in.

  The 30th Precinct is on West 151st Street, a tree-lined block just east of Convent Garden. We entered the building and ID’d ourselves to the front desk sergeant. One look and you knew he was a seasoned pro. Close-cropped silver hair, rugged jaw, piercing eyes, and even sitting down he had the bearing of someone who’d served his country in the military.

  “Steve Norcia,” he said. “What brings you to the Three Oh, Detectives?”

  “We’re looking for a civilian,” Kylie said. “Probably an older woman who calls the precinct on a regular basis, maybe with noise complaints, double-parked cars she sees from her window, people who don’t pick up after their dogs—”

  Sergeant Norcia interrupted. “Say no more, Detective. I know the type. What they really want is a cop to drive by so they can talk, maybe offer him a cup of coffee and some cookies. We’ve got a bunch of regulars. We call it the Lonely Hearts Club. You looking for anyone in particular, or should I just tell you who makes the best chocolate chip?”

  “I can narrow it down for you,” Kylie said. “She’d have called yesterday—possibly complaining about a kid with a movie camera. Maybe she said he was a Peeping Tom or wanted to know if he had a permit.”

  “I know exactly who you’re talking about. I took the call myself,” Norcia said, and went to his computer. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Take your time, Sergeant,” Kylie said. “This is a lot easier than going door-to-door.” She grinned at me. “Or window to window.”

  “Bingo,” Norcia said in much less than a minute. “I knew it was her.”

  “Who?” Kylie said, taking out a pen and pad.

  “Fannie Gittleman. Lives at 530 West 136th, apartment 2A. She called yesterday at 3:35 p.m. Except it wasn’t one of those lonely-widow-with-free-baked-goods calls I was talking about. Gittleman is a bit of a troublemaker—a community activist. Always ready to drag the cops in if it’ll help whatever cause she’s harping on that day. Yesterday she reported seeing two terrorists filming the building next door. She was pretty sure they were plotting to blow it up.”

  “Terrorists?” Kylie said. “Who’d you send to answer the call?”

  “Detective, it was January first. Nine guys phoned in sick. It’s our annual epidemic of post–New Year’s Eve Brown Bottle Flu. Hell, I can’t blame them. I did the same thing when I was their age.”

  “So you didn’t send anyone?”

  “I would have—eventually.” He grinned. “Handling these old ladies is a balancing act. You start jumping too fast, and they’ll call you ten times a day. I was shorthanded, so it wasn’t at the top of my list. I would have sent out the first available RMP, but Gittleman called back ten minutes later to thank me.”

  “For what?”

  “Beats the heck out of me, but according to her, the guy I sent did an excellent job. Problem solved.”

  “Didn’t that seem a little strange to you?” Kylie asked.

  Norcia looked down at us from his desk on high. “Detective, do you have any idea how many calls I juggle a day? So, no, I don’t think it’s particularly strange if some wacky old broad calls to thank me for sending an imaginary cop to arrest a couple of imaginary terrorists.”

  “On the other hand,” he added with a shit-eating grin that is rare among front desk sergeants, “two NYPD Red detectives investigating said imaginary crime—now that is pretty goddamn bizarre.”

  Chapter 8

  One of the life skills that Kylie has never seemed to master is the ability to not gloat. Humility has never been her strong suit, and she took her most recent triumph as yet another opportunity to remind me that she finished first in our class at the academy, while I came in sixth.

  We drove back to 136th Street and rang Mrs. Gittleman’s bell. She was not exactly the little old white-haired lady I had pictured. I’d gotten the “old” part right: she was somewhere north of eighty. But her hair was more of a high-octane orange, and she was dressed, bejeweled, and made up as if she was expecting company. Apparently she was: us.

  She blocked the doorway while she inspected our IDs. “Jordan and MacDonald,” she said. “You’re new to the precinct. Are you here for a follow-up on yesterday’s incident?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kylie said, running with it. “We just need to clear up a few facts.”

  “Come in,” she said, opening the door. “Careful. It’s a little messy.”

  Messy was putting it mildly. The apartment was a pack rat’s paradise. It was like she had started decorating sixty years ago and never got around to stopping. Every inch of wall space was covered with framed artwork, many pieces of which she told us she had painted herself. Three sofas were crammed into the tiny living room, one a launching pad for her abundant pillow collection, another a catchall for assorted leaflets, flyers, and brochures. The third one had a cat curled up in the corner.

  “Sit there,” Gittleman said. “She’s deaf. You won’t bother her.”

  Kylie sat. I stood. Gittleman sat on the edge of a cluttered coffee table. As promised, she was all business. No coffee, no cookies. “So, was I right?” she asked. “Were they terrorists?”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation,” Kylie said, “so we can’t say much just now. But we’re trying to wrap it up. If it’s not too much trouble, could you take us through what you saw?”

  She cleared her throat. “It was three thirty. I see two boys with a movie camera. One is tall; he’s white. The other is darker—I’m not saying Arab, but who knows? They’re filming the building next door, pointing their camera at Mrs. Glantz’s window. Some people would say ‘Not my business,’ but I’m a firm believer in ‘If you see something, say something.’ Let me tell you, this was definitely something. So I called Steve—”

  “Steve?” Kylie said.

  “Sergeant Norcia. I thought you work for him. Anyway, I don’t bother with 911. I called Steve direct at the precinct, and he sends over an undercover cop.”

  “How did you know the cop was undercover?”

  “Oh please. With that red wig and the fake red beard? Of course he was undercover. Anyway, he walks over to the white boy, handcuffs him, no questions asked.”

  We had pulled up Tripp Alden’s driver’s license photo from the DMV. I showed it to her.

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” she said. “As I was saying, the cop put the cuffs on him, and then, out of the blue, the other one—the Arab kid—he comes at him with a box cutter. Cut him—you could see the blood soaking into the sleeve on his jacket.”

  “What kind of jacket?” I asked.

  “One of those hooded sweatshirts they all wear. It was gray with navy-blue trim, and it said Yankees in blue on the front. Anyway, the cop pulls out his stun gun, and zap—the boy goes down. Then he takes the white kid to the paddy wagon, comes back, and drags off the other one.”

  “Did you notice which paddy wagon he was driving?” Kylie asked.

  “A blue van, unmarked. Anyway, he opens the back doors and tosses the two of them in. And then—get this—he had to tie the doors shut with one of those stretchy cords. I’m not going to tell you how to run the police department, but if you’re going to put prisoners in there, you’d think the city could spend a few bucks on a lock that works.” She paused. “So is there a reward?”

  Kylie looked at me, but before either of us could answer, Gittleman fielded her own question. “Don’t worry. I’ll check with Steve.”

  Chapter 9

  His New Year’s resolutions officially on hold, Hunter Alden opened a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue to help him think.

  Peter’s head was a problem. It was too late to turn it over to the cops. Oh, I’m sorry, Detectives. This morning, when you
told me my driver was decapitated, I completely forgot to mention that I found his head in my son’s camera case last night. But I’m sure there’s no need for you to talk to Tripp. He’s busy with schoolwork.

  Hunter’s only choice was to keep it hidden until the cops stopped coming around. Blackstone had suggested the twenty-cubic-foot chest freezer in the basement, so Peter was currently resting peacefully under a hundred pounds of Kobe beef Wagyu steaks, Canadian lobster tails, and premium pulled pork.

  Hunter sat down at his desk, poured a splash of the Scotch into his coffee, and stared at the cell phone that the murderer had sent the night before. Then his gaze shifted to the piece of paper he had removed from Peter Chevalier’s lips.

  There’s money to be made.

  The five words haunted Hunter. He closed his eyes and drifted back fourteen years to Grace Bay, a strip of beach on Providenciales in the Turks and Caicos Islands.

  He’d been flown to Turks by private jet, whisked through customs and immigration, driven to a hotel that was closed for its annual September upgrades, and escorted to a conference room.

  The man inside was not dressed for the islands. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, the official uniform of the Swiss lawyer. He stood. “Samuel Joost,” he said crisply.

  There is only one way that large sums of money can change hands between two people who don’t trust each other. A third party—one beyond reproach—has to be brought in. Joost was a senior partner in a Zurich law firm that had been acting as go-between for wealthy clients and Swiss banks since the 1930s.

  He opened a leather attaché and took out a small calculator, an assortment of pens, and a thick binder marked Project Gutenberg. If he had a personality, he had failed to bring it with him.

  Documents were signed, funds were moved, and every detail of his involvement was spelled out and agreed upon. Joost assigned him a code name: Leviticus.