NYPD Red 2 Read online

  The counter on the video read 4:17, and the screen went dark.

  Nobody said a word. Even the mayor was silent. The Xanax had kicked in.

  Chapter 8

  Nice turnout, Gideon thought as a steady stream of voyeurs blew off their Monday morning plans and made a beeline for the carousel.

  That’s the thing about New Yorkers. They have five hundred homicides a year to choose from. Shoot an old lady getting out of a taxi on Madison Avenue, and people will step over the body to grab the cab. But put a dead rich bitch in a Hazmat suit on a painted horse in the middle of Central Park, and they’ll call in late to work and crane their necks to get a better view.

  He smiled. Give the people what they want, and they will flock to your door. You’re welcome, people.

  A hand tapped him on the shoulder. “So are you pro-Hazmat or anti-Hazmat?” asked a female voice behind him.

  Gideon froze. The park was lousy with reporters shoving cameras and microphones in front of the gawkers, hoping to catch sound bites for the next newsbreak. Returning to the scene was crazy enough, but doing an on-camera interview would be insane.

  He turned around slowly. Definitely not a reporter. Reporters don’t usually wear black sports bras on the job.

  “I’m sorry,” Gideon said. “Were you talking to me?”

  “Only if you feel like talking,” she said. “I’m Andie.”

  She was at least five years older than him, brown eyes, brown hair scrunched up and tucked through the back of an FDNY baseball cap. She was just shy of being pretty, but she knew her best asset, which was why she had nothing on over the sports bra this late in October.

  He pointed at her hat. “You a firefighter, Andie?”

  “It belonged to my ex,” she said, rolling her eyes to let him know she was glad the creep was out of her life. “Me? I’m much better at starting fires than putting them out.”

  Gideon was six two, with thick dark hair, full lips, and a hint of a bad-boy smile. He was used to getting hit on. And Andie was a pro. She positioned herself in front of him so he couldn’t talk to her without looking down at her world-class rack.

  Damn it, honey, your timing sucks. As much as I would love to take your hot, sweaty body home and drill you senseless, this morning the only aphrodisiac I need is this crowd.

  “Can you repeat the question?” Gideon asked.

  “I asked how you felt about the Hazmat Killer. From the way you were smiling, I figured you for a big fan.”

  I was smiling? Dumb. Thanks for the heads-up, Andie.

  “You think this guy has fans?” Gideon said.

  “Thousands, and I’m at the top of the list. You might think a nice Jewish girl from Queens would be a bleeding heart liberal, but you’d be wrong.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that he’s a vigilante?” Gideon said.

  “No. What this city needs is a couple of hundred more just like him.”

  “Wow,” Gideon said. “What happened to the nice Jewish girl?”

  “Date raped in college. Rich kid. Daddy bought off the cops, the judge, and the school. That’s when I changed my politics. Y’know, sometimes a staunch conservative is just another schmuck liberal who’s been mugged.”

  She held up her cell phone. “Did you see the video—the one Hazmat posted?”

  “Not yet,” Gideon said.

  “Get on it, man. It’s got like fifty thousand hits already.”

  Eighty-nine thousand last time I looked.

  “The victim’s name is Eleanor something,” Andie said. “She killed her girlfriend in cold blood, but she got away with it because she’s rich and her family knew how to play the system. But Hazmat gave her exactly what she deserved. I only wish I could shake his hand.”

  Gideon was breathing hard. Shake his hand? Hell—this girl wouldn’t be satisfied with a handshake. Any other time, Andie. Any other place…

  “It’s nice talking to you,” Gideon said, “but I have to run.”

  Andie wet her lips and lowered them into a pout. “Too bad you’re not running my way,” she said. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Brian,” Gideon said.

  She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Brian.”

  He took her hand and shook it.

  There you go, Andie. You got your wish.

  Chapter 9

  Cates’s cell rang. She checked the caller ID. “Matt Smith,” she said to us, and took the call.

  “This is Captain Cates. What did you come up with, Matt?”

  She listened for twenty seconds, her expression never changing. She thanked Matt and hung up.

  “It was our IT officer—our computer guy,” she said, simplifying it for the mayor. “He tried to trace the source of the video, but it was uploaded using VPN—that’s a virtual private network, sir. It masks the location of the originating IP address.”

  The mayor threw up his hands. “Of course it’s masked. But we’ve got millions of dollars’ worth of equipment and all these computer geniuses running around. Are you telling me none of our people can unmask it?”

  “Sir,” Cates said, “all of the uploaded data is encrypted. Whoever posted these videos creates a different user name and a different throwaway email address every time. So yes, we have a lot of equipment and a lot of smart people, but the killer knows how to hide his tracks. Hacking and tracing isn’t an option.”

  “Fine,” the mayor said. “So you can’t find this guy with all that technical mumbo-jumbo. Catch him the old-fashioned way. Legwork.” He stood up. “Irwin, do you need me anymore?”

  “No, and I know you have a busy day ahead of you,” Diamond said. “Give me a few more minutes, and I’ll catch up.”

  The mayor went through the motions of thanking us and left the room.

  “Detectives,” Diamond said, “I don’t have to tell you that this could be a deathblow to the mayor’s reelection campaign.”

  “Sir, I don’t know much about politics,” I said, “but Parker-Steele’s video is filled with damning details. I believe she killed Cynthia Pritchard.”

  “Of course she did,” Diamond said.

  “Then why doesn’t this hurt Muriel Sykes? First she says it’s a bogus confession. Then she flips it and says if Parker-Steele is a murderer, it’s the mayor’s fault that she got off. She’s talking out of both sides of her mouth.”

  “You’re right, Detective,” Diamond said. “You don’t know much about politics. Rule number one: Whoever speaks out of both sides of their mouth the best wins the election.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Diamond,” Cates said, “unfortunately, I do know a little about politics, and as long as we’re sworn to secrecy, can we put it all on the table? Information is currency, and the more Detectives Jordan and MacDonald know, the better their chances of solving this.”

  Diamond weighed the question in his head. “All right, Captain,” he finally said. He turned to Kylie and me. “Muriel Sykes makes one undisputable point. It was the mayor’s fault that Evelyn Parker-Steele went scot-free. Commissioner Harries wanted a thorough investigation, but Evelyn’s family convinced the mayor to stand behind the coroner’s ruling that it was an accident. He agreed, and the case went away.”

  “Convinced?” I said.

  “You don’t need to know the details,” Diamond said. “What’s important is that right now the mayor is in a deep hole. And the worst part about it is that he dug it himself.”

  Chapter 10

  You can never go wrong buddying up to the precinct desk sergeant. One call to Bob McGrath at the One Nine and there was a brand-new Ford Interceptor waiting for us outside the mansion. Keys in the ignition, no numbnuts driver.

  I got behind the wheel and turned left onto East End Avenue.

  “You think we can nail this guy in a week?” Kylie asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “If we work together as a team.”

  Her head snapped around. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you still ragging on me because I didn�
��t show up the minute you wanted me? Look, I’m sorry I made us late, but give me a break, Zach, we’re still partners.”

  “Did you just say you’re sorry you made us late?”

  “You heard me. I am sorry, and I appreciate that you covered for me.”

  I made a right turn onto 86th Street and pulled the car into a bus stop. I turned in my seat so I could look Kylie in the eyes.

  “I don’t know if you’re lying to me,” I said, “or just holding back a big chunk of the truth, but you saying you’re sorry is the same as some guy bringing flowers home to his wife after he spent the afternoon banging his secretary. ‘Sorry I’m late, honey. All kinds of crazy shit happening at the office.’ Look, Kylie, I’m a detective, and I know half a story when I hear one. You’ve been late or off the grid three times in the last month, so either tell me what’s going on, or tell me that the person I trust my life to doesn’t trust me enough to tell me what the hell is going on in hers.”

  To her credit, she didn’t waffle. “It’s Spence,” she said. “He really did fall in the shower this morning. He was high on pills.”

  She paused to let it sink in. I didn’t change my expression or say a word.

  “It’s been three months since…since the incident with The Chameleon,” she said. “The surgeon wrote him a scrip for one Percocet every six hours, but he’s popping them like Tic Tacs. Oh, he’s cagey—the bottle on his dresser goes down a few pills a day as prescribed. But he’s stockpiled them, and has them stashed all over the apartment. Last night, I found fifty of them wrapped in tinfoil inside a sock in his gym bag.”

  “Where does he get them?” I asked.

  “Dr. Feelgood or any one of those quacks on the Internet who writes scrips from Bolivia,” she said. “Anyway, after they stitched him up at the ER this morning, I confronted him with it. I told him if he weren’t my husband, I’d bust him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He just stood there with his glassy eyes, his puffy face, and his gym bag full of oxy, and he told me I was wrong. He said he may have upped his dosage a little, but he has it under control, and as soon as his feet get a little bit better, he’ll switch over to Advil. He’s in total denial, and at this point I just don’t know what to do.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” I said. “He’s a recovering drug addict. He’s been clean for a long time—”

  “Eleven years,” Kylie interjected.

  “So he knows what to do,” I said. “Go to meetings, call his sponsor, even check into rehab if it’s that bad. But he’s the one that has to do it. You can’t pull him out of the gutter.”

  She took in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. “Zach,” she said, “I’m a cop, and right now I’m afraid that if anyone finds out I’m married to a drug addict, he’ll pull me down into the gutter with him.”

  “Nobody is going to find out,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thanks,” she said, her eyes welling up. “Partner.”

  I put the car in gear and headed west on 86th.

  I fell in love with Kylie the first time I met her at the academy. She had recently dumped her drug addict boyfriend, and I was happy to be the guy who caught her on the rebound. But Spence wanted her just as much as I did. He went to rehab, came back clean twenty-eight days later, and begged her for one more chance.

  She said “yes,” and a year later she said “I do.”

  For the past ten years, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that Kylie and Spence are rich, happy, and in love—the beautiful couple that everybody who is anybody in New York is thrilled to have over for dinner at their penthouse in the city, their home in the Hamptons, or their yacht.

  I probably never fell out of love with her, but at least I moved on, and after bouncing around the New York singles market with one short-term relationship after another, I finally found Cheryl.

  Cheryl Robinson was the first woman I ever dated that met the impossible standards I set for myself after I lost Kylie. We’d known each other for a few years, but it began to get serious only three months ago, and I was starting to hope that Cheryl could be the one. And now, suddenly, it was looking like Kylie’s relationship with Spence was starting to unravel.

  If she were any other partner, I’d be rooting for her to get back together with her husband and get her life back on track.

  But Kylie MacDonald wasn’t just any other partner. And right now, I had no idea how I felt.

  Chapter 11

  Somewhere between 86th Street and the crime scene, I focused on the fact that, as crazy as I was, there was a guy out there with an unlimited supply of Hazmat suits who was even crazier.

  “Screw the election,” Kylie blurted out, and I knew that her head had gone to the same place mine had. “Irwin Diamond got it right. We’re not politicians. We’re cops, and our job is to catch Hazmat before he kidnaps and kills another innocent—correction—not-so-innocent victim. Where do we start?”

  “Dryden gave me the names of the two detectives working the case—Donovan and Boyle out of the Five—but I’d rather hold off on calling them. I never got a chance to tell you, but there were two guys from Anti-Crime working the park. They called in the one eighty-seven. I recruited them and told them to do some legwork for us. Let’s check in with them first.”

  “Legwork,” Kylie said. “So much more efficient than those newfangled computer machines.”

  “Hey, give the poor mayor a break. Police work is not his strong suit.”

  “Then he should never have blocked the department from investigating Cynthia Pritchard’s death. If he loses the election, he’ll be getting what he deserves,” Kylie said. “And as long as I’m sharing all my deepest, darkest secrets with you, there’s one I’ve been holding back.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whether we solve this case by next Tuesday or not, I’m still voting for Sykes.”

  The area surrounding the carousel looked like ground zero for a flash mob. “Is this our crime scene,” Kylie said, “or a Bon Jovi concert?”

  As soon as I got out of the car, someone yelled, “Detective Jordan!”

  It was Casey and Bell, working their way through the crowd. They had cleaned up from their homeless routine, but they looked frazzled.

  “Boy, are we glad you’re back,” Casey said.

  “Sorry to cut and run,” I said. “You guys in over your head?”

  Bell grinned. “Maybe a little.”

  “Maybe a lot,” Casey said. “This is light-years bigger than anything we’ve ever worked, but we got some good stuff for you, and one thing you’re going to hate.”

  “First, meet my partner,” I said. “Detective MacDonald, these are the two guys I shanghaied, Detectives Casey and Bell.”

  Head nods all around.

  “Okay,” I said, “what’ve you got?”

  “We found one of those folding shopping carts in the trees alongside the Sixty-Fifth Street transverse,” Casey said. “Those things are valuable commodities around here, so it couldn’t have been there for long, or somebody would have scooped it up. You said Parker-Steele disappeared on Friday, so he didn’t kill her in the park. He killed her someplace else and dumped her here.”

  Dryden had already told us that, but I let them go on.

  Bell picked up the narrative. “Our best guess is that after he killed Parker-Steele, he stuffed her in a bag, drove her to this neighborhood, and parked his car somewhere nearby.”

  “Can you guys check with Traffic for any parking tickets that were issued within a ten-block radius of key entry points?” Kylie said. “East and west sides.”

  “Will do, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” Bell said. “Parking is a bitch during the day, but after ten p.m., there are lots of legal spaces he could have used.”

  “So he parked his car nearby,” I said. “Then what do you figure?”

  “He loaded the body into the shopping cart and walked through the park as invisible as any of the homele
ss guys who roam the city streets,” Casey said. “That’s the way me and Bell have been blending in. Then he cut the lock on the gate, strapped her on the horse, hot-wired the electric panel to get the music and the carousel going, relocked the gate, dumped the shopping cart, hopped over the stone wall, and walked along the transverse back to his car.”

  The two of them stood there looking at us like puppy dogs who had just fetched a stick and were waiting for a pat on the head.

  “Good job,” I said. “You see anybody that looked suspicious in the crowd?”

  They turned to each other and laughed.

  “Everybody in that crowd looks suspicious,” Bell said. “A dead woman in a Hazmat suit on a carousel is like a magnet for wackos. For the killer to stand out, he’d have to be wearing a sign that says ‘I did it.’”

  “Hey!… Hey! You!”

  I turned around. Two men scooted under the crime scene tape and headed straight for Kylie and me.

  “What the hell kind of crap are you guys trying to pull?” one of them yelled.

  “Hang on to your hat, Detective Jordan,” Casey said.

  “You know these guys?” I asked.

  “We just met them ten minutes ago. Remember I said there’s one thing you’re going to hate? Here it comes.”

  Chapter 12

  “Their names are Donovan and Boyle,” Casey said. “They’re acting like jerks, going around telling everybody that they’re—”

  “I know what they’re telling everybody,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll handle it.”

  Kylie grabbed my arm. “Zach, I’m in a foul mood. Let me take it out on somebody besides you.”