NYPD Red 3 Read online

  Within minutes of Joost’s departure, a second man arrived. He was a tall, gaunt, androgynous presence with slicked-back shoulder-length blond hair.

  “There’s money to be made,” he said in a measured, conspiratorial whisper. “You know the risks, the rewards, and the consequences of violating any of the rules. Do you have any questions?”

  “Who else is along for the ride?”

  “The identities of the other participants are as closely guarded as your own. This is not a social club. Secrecy is paramount to the success or failure of this operation.”

  Hunter laughed. “Secrecy and a shitload of money.”

  “Mr. Alden,” the nameless blond man said. “In my world, billionaires are as common as fig trees. Do not think you have been invited to this meeting because of your assets. You have been handpicked because of your ideology.”

  “And what ideology is that?” Hunter asked.

  “Greed.”

  It was a day that had changed Hunter Alden’s life. A secret he had thought impossible to unearth. And yet…

  He opened his eyes, and his gaze settled on the silver framed picture of Marjorie sitting on his desk. Tripp, then only four, was on her lap. The weekend before she died, Marjorie had told him she was pregnant, and there were so many times that he wished they’d had that second child.

  His phone rang, jolting him back to the present. It was Silas Blackstone.

  And then there were times like this, Hunter thought, picking up the phone, when he knew his life would have been so much easier if he’d had no children at all.

  “Those two cops found the Prius,” Blackstone said. “It was on 136th Street. I went straight there as soon as I left your house. They were still with you, but by the time I got uptown they were already there. How the hell did they find it so fast?”

  “I gave them the address.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Why do you think? They pressed me. I had to give them something. It doesn’t matter. What happened after they found the car?”

  “They did a quick scan from the outside, then they left. I had Tripp’s keys, so I searched the car. Nothing. I was about to leave when the cops came back. I thought maybe they picked up a warrant to search the car, but no—they went straight to one of the buildings and interviewed a tenant.”

  “Who?”

  “Some old lady. She came to the window a couple of times while the cops were there. She was pointing and yakking away, so I figured she must have seen what went down with Tripp, and she was filling them in.”

  “Talk to her. Find out what she saw.”

  “Done,” Blackstone said. “As soon as they left, I rang her bell. At first, she didn’t want to let me in, so I told her I was a PI looking for a missing kid. I showed her Tripp’s picture, and she wigged out. Said he was a terrorist, and the cops arrested him yesterday.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Hunter said, taking a swig of his eighty-proof coffee. “The cops never told me they arrested him.”

  “They didn’t,” Blackstone said. “It’s all in her head. She saw some guy with a red beard drag Tripp off in a blue van. She told Jordan and MacDonald that he was an undercover cop, but I’m sure they know better.”

  “I knew the kid was taken. The package I got last night made that abundantly clear. The problem is, now the cops know it. Find Tripp before they do—that’s all I care about.”

  “Whoever took Tripp took his buddy too. Do you care about him?”

  “What buddy?”

  “A short dark kid. They were shooting a movie together. The old lady says he’s an Arab terrorist.”

  “Arab? Is she nuts? He’s Puerto Rican. Lonnie Martinez—he’s helping Tripp with the movie for my father. Why would anyone take him? He’s a dirt-poor hood rat, lives with his grandmother—not worth a nickel to a kidnapper.”

  “Then he’s in on it,” Blackstone said. “Whoever is behind this knows they can’t get close to you and your family, so they recruited this Lonnie kid to be the inside man. Who knew where they were going to be filming?”

  “Just me…and Lonnie.”

  “Looks like he set Tripp up.”

  “Little bastard. I’d send you to his house, but I have no idea where he lives.”

  “No worries, boss. I scrolled through Tripp’s GPS. The name Lonnie is at the top of the list.”

  “Then get your ass over there and see what you can find out from the grandmother.”

  He hung up the phone, dumped what was left of his coffee into a large potted plant, and refilled the cup with straight Johnnie Walker Blue.

  He sat back in his chair and picked up the note delivered by his dead driver. There’s money to be made.

  He took a long swallow of Scotch and sneered. “We’ll see about that, motherfucker.”

  Chapter 10

  “Mrs. Gittleman wasn’t the most credible witness,” I said. “She thought Tripp was a terrorist, and she was positive that the guy with the paddy wagon that could only be locked with a stretchy cord was one of New York’s Finest.”

  “I liked her,” Kylie said. “She was feisty.”

  “I’m not too keen on feisty women,” I said. “Usually they try to hog all the glory, and they drive too fast.”

  She punched me in the shoulder.

  “However,” I said, “her whole story about Red Beard and the stun gun, and the other kid using a box cutter to try to get away, helps explain why Tripp Alden is nowhere to be found. “We can’t call him, but I’m not about to sit around and wait till school lets out to find out if he’s been abducted or not.”

  “Finally,” Kylie said, “we agree on something.”

  She turned on the lights and siren, shot down Amsterdam, hung a hard left at 110th, careened around the traffic circle at the north end of the park doing fifty, and ran the lights along Central Park West until we got to 88th Street.

  “Was that too feisty for you?” she asked, parking in a crosswalk in front of the imposing six-story building that had been the home of Barnaby Prep since the early nineteenth century.

  The first two students we passed in the hall were talking about Tripp’s driver’s murder.

  “I guess the strict cell phone rules Alden told us about aren’t being enforced today,” Kylie said. “And if those two know, everybody knows.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “If Peter Chevalier had been an ordinary citizen, his murder might have gone unnoticed in a city of eight million people. But he was a billionaire’s chauffeur in a car that cost more than a house.”

  “It’s not just that,” Kylie said. “The New York press loves body parts, and whether a torso washes up on Rockaway Beach or a head goes missing in Riverside Park, it’s going to be fodder for every media outlet from tabloids to prime time. I’ll bet you by now the text messages, Twitter feeds, and Facebook updates have spread through this school like a virus.”

  We found the headmaster’s office and were escorted right in. G. Martin Anderson was young, preppy, and totally tuned in. I had barely gotten my shield out of my pocket when he said, “Terrible thing about Mr. Chevalier. Everyone here is quite upset. These kids know they live in a tough city, but when it hits this close to home…What can I do to help?”

  “We realize it’s the middle of a school day,” Kylie said, “but we’d like to talk to Tripp Alden.”

  “Tripp?” Anderson said. “Oh, he’s not here today. Under the circumstances, I’d have been surprised if he had come in. I know he was very fond of Peter.”

  Tripp had never showed up. Point for Gittleman.

  “He has a friend,” I said. “Someone he’s shooting a film with.”

  “Lonnie Martinez,” Anderson said. “Just a second.”

  He ran his finger down a computer printout and stopped midpage. “I thought I’d seen his name on the absentee sheet. He’s not here today either.”

  Another point for Gittleman.

  “We know how to reach the Aldens,” Kylie said, “but it would hel
p if we could talk to Lonnie’s parents. Do you know how we can get in touch with them?”

  “I have every student’s contact numbers right here,” he said, sitting down in front of his computer. “Here we go: Alonso Martinez. Everyone calls him Lonnie. He lives with his grandmother, Juanita Martinez. He’s a scholarship student—great kid. Very popular.”

  “What else can you tell us about him?” I asked.

  “What you said before about Tripp and Lonnie shooting a film together—they’re quite good at it. Mr. Madison, who chairs our film studies department, says both boys have a bright future in the industry. In fact, he can probably tell you more about them than I can. We have a mentoring program here at Barnaby, and because of their passion for film, putting Lonnie and Tripp with Ryan Madison was a perfect match. I’m sure he was in touch with both boys over the holiday break—the deadline for a lot of college applications was December thirty-first.”

  “How soon can we talk to Mr. Madison?” I asked.

  “Immediately. I’ll send for a runner to escort you to his class.” He jotted a phone number on a piece of paper. “This is my personal cell,” he said. “Whatever I can do to help.”

  We thanked him, gave him our numbers, and waited for the runner.

  “You making any sense of this?” I asked Kylie.

  “I totally figured it out,” she said. “Tripp sent a text to say his car was at Riverside Park, but the car turned out to be on 136th Street. Alden told us Tripp was in school, but Tripp isn’t here. Gittleman said some guy in a red wig and a phony red beard cuffed Tripp and hauled him off in a van, but Alden swears he heard from Tripp last night, and all’s right with the world.”

  “That about sums it up,” I said. “So what did you figure out?”

  She cocked her head to one side and grinned. “Elementary, my dear Jordan. Clearly, somebody is lying their ass off.”

  Chapter 11

  In the post-Columbine landscape, classroom doors have to be tough enough to deter an intruder. But because the maniac with a gun is often a student, school officials always have to be able to look inside. The doors at Barnaby Prep were all solid oak with thick two-by-two glass inserts at eye level.

  Our runner, Jeffrey, was a tall, gangly kid with age-appropriate acne and braces. He walked us up to the third floor, stopped in front of room 314, and pointed through the glass. “That’s him,” he said, laughing. “That’s Mr. Madison.”

  We peered inside. A man wearing black jeans and a navy turtleneck was standing on top of the teacher’s desk, his arms raised high. He had a Barbie doll in one hand and pounded his chest with the other. Every kid in the room watched with rapt attention.

  “Film class,” Jeffrey said. “They’re studying King Kong.”

  Kylie threw him a look. “Really, kid? I was going to go with Bambi.”

  Madison jumped up and down on the desk, swatting at imaginary airplanes. Suddenly he jerked backward in pain, mortally wounded. He slunk down, gently set Barbie on the desk, and slumped slowly to the floor.

  “It was beauty killed the beast,” Jeffrey the ever-helpful tour guide said. “I took the class last year.”

  The kids applauded. Madison stood up, ran his fingers through his hair, then looked our way. I beckoned with one finger. He smiled, said something to his students, and came out.

  “I don’t think we’ve met,” he said. “Ryan Madison. Are you prospective parents?”

  “NYPD. We’d like to talk,” I said, “but we can wait till your class is over.”

  “Hell, no,” he said. “This is a perfect chance to sneak a smoke. You’re not the tobacco police, are you?” He laughed. “Let’s go up to the roof. It’s cold as hell up there, but it’s legal.”

  Jeffrey took off, and we followed Madison up three more flights of stairs. He was in his midthirties, full of energy, and loaded with attitude.

  “Sorry about the cigs,” he said, lighting up. “I watched too much film noir as a kid. How can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for Tripp Alden,” I said.

  “He’s not here today.”

  “We know. The headmaster thought you might be able to help us find him.”

  “Oh, of course. This is about Peter Chevalier’s murder, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. We’d like to talk to Tripp as soon as possible.”

  “I’m not sure if he even knows about it,” he said, turning his head and blowing smoke into the freezing January air. “Wait a minute—that’s stupid. He must know about it by now. Hell, everybody in school does. But he didn’t seem to know about Peter’s death last night. At least he didn’t say anything.”

  “You spoke to him last night?” Kylie said.

  “Texted.”

  “What time?”

  Madison dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out his cell. “It was 12:07.”

  “Tripp Alden sent you a text after midnight,” I said. It was half statement, half question. “What did he say?”

  He read the text to us: “Lonnie and I are headed upstate for a few more interviews. Sorry to blow off class tomorrow and Friday. Back Saturday. Can we book the editing room over the weekend?”

  Madison showed us the text, then put the phone back in his pocket. “Today’s our first day after the Christmas break,” he said. “Can you believe they started us back up on a Thursday? Tripp and Lonnie aren’t the only kids cutting school today and tomorrow. So I wrote back, ‘Don’t sweat it,’ and I booked the editing suite for them. Haven’t heard from him since.”

  “What interviews was he referring to?” Kylie asked.

  “He’s making a film about his grandfather. The old man has family in Rochester. Tripp and Lonnie have gone up there a few times to interview some of his cousins.”

  “Do you know any of their names?”

  Madison had one of those boyish grins that I’m sure endeared him to his students. He tried it out on Kylie. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say some of them are probably named Alden, but I have no idea.”

  She did not grin back.

  “Sorry if that sounded snarky, Detective,” he said, going from boyish to sheepish. “My job is to give these kids guidance on mise-en-scène, but I’m not involved in production.”

  “How would they get upstate?” I asked.

  “Tripp has a car—a Prius.”

  “Thank you,” I said, giving him my card. “If you hear from either one of them, have them call this number.”

  “Hey, why wait? I’ll text Tripp. I’ll bet he and Lonnie would love to hang with you guys.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “I’m freezing. Let’s get inside.”

  We reentered the building and walked back down to the third floor.

  “Why do you think Tripp and Lonnie would want to hang out with us?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? Those two are crime film junkies. They’ve staged a bank robbery, a carjacking—all that cool stuff you guys do in real life.”

  Kylie blurted out the obvious next question before I could. “Did they ever stage a kidnapping?”

  “Not that I know of,” Madison said, “but that’s a cool idea. They’re pretty good at staging these crime scenes. The irony is that they do it all guerrilla-style. No permits, so technically, they’re breaking the law every time they shoot. Are we good for now? I’ve got to get back. Now that I’ve got their attention with the monkeyshines, I want to get into the good stuff, like the film’s blatant undertones of racism during a period of increasing racial and social tension in America. You’re welcome to sit in. Don’t worry: I won’t blow your cover.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I think we’ll pass.” My cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. “That’s our boss. Now I’m sure we’ll pass.”

  Madison went back inside the classroom, and I took the call from Cates. “Yes, Captain,” I said.

  “I just heard from Mayor Sykes,” she said.

  Red had been held in very high esteem by the previous administration, and we were all hoping that the new
mayor would be just as supportive. “That’s a good sign,” I said. “I think she’s going to be your new best friend.”

  “Our new best friend,” Cates said. “She wants a rundown on the murder of Alden’s driver. She’ll be here in fifteen minutes. You be here in fourteen.”

  Chapter 12

  “He was cute,” Kylie said as she sped downtown on Central Park West.

  Kylie is a world-class ballbuster, and I knew she was going to retaliate for my crack about feisty women hogging all the glory. This was her first attempt.

  “He was okay,” I said.

  “Okay? Zach, he was hot. I’d go out with him.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He seems a little young for you. I think you and Jeffrey should at least wait till his skin clears up and his braces come off.”

  “I’m talking about Madison, and you know it,” she said. “I’d take the class just to look at those gorgeous blue eyes.”

  “Oh, you mean the teacher—Madison? He was freaking adorable,” I said. “Definitely the second cutest guy up there on the roof.”

  She laughed, and I felt like maybe I’d won that round. But just to be on the safe side, I swiveled my body and edged closer to the passenger side door so she couldn’t punch me again.

  We whipped across the 65th Street transverse to the east side and pulled up in front of the One Nine on East 67th five minutes ahead of our deadline.

  We were walking up the steps of the precinct when the front door flew open, and Cheryl came racing out.

  “Zach,” she said.

  “Hey…I thought you were taking the train up to the hospital this morning.”

  “I made the mistake of coming in to wrap up some work, and I was bombarded with calls from people who spent the holiday making big plans for the new year and needed to pick my brain on all of them immediately.”

  “Aren’t you the shrink who taught me that ‘No’ is a complete sentence?” I asked.

  “I did say no to most of them,” Cheryl said, “but Captain Cates needed me for something that couldn’t wait. I called Fred and asked how Mildred was doing, and he said she might only have a few days. Cates only needed me for a few hours, so I stayed. I finally pried myself loose.”