NYPD Red 3 Page 7

  She actually laughed. “All right, all right, I know you know. I just mean wasn’t that amazing? We were standing right there, and the damn throwaway phone goes off. Did you see the look in Alden’s eyes? He didn’t know whether to piss his pants or butter his toast. Blackstone too.”

  “But not Janelle,” I said. “She was ready to answer the call. Do you think that means she doesn’t know Tripp is missing?”

  “Or it could mean that she thinks like a mother hen—she knows he’s been kidnapped, and she’s taking the ransom call no matter who the hell is in the room.”

  Gracie Mansion was only two minutes from Alden’s house. We checked in with security, asked to speak with the mayor, and in less than five minutes we were escorted to her office.

  It was the same office Mayor Spellman had occupied until midnight on December thirty-first, but it had been completely redecorated in less than two days. The walls, the carpeting, and the upholstery had gone from serious blues and brooding browns to more hopeful, playful shades of peach, mint green, and pale yellow. The ponderous mahogany command post of a desk had been replaced with a sleek, efficient chrome and glass table. Most important, the anxiety-plagued, glass-is-half-empty, sky-is-falling man who had hidden behind the desk was now a confident, upbeat woman in a cheery turquoise Hillary pantsuit.

  “Wow,” my never-too-shy-to-offer-up-her-opinion partner said. “Madam Mayor, you’ve transformed this place.”

  “Thanks. It’s a work in progress,” the mayor said, shrugging off the dramatic makeover. “What’s happening on the Peter Chevalier investigation?”

  “I wish we had half as much progress to report,” Kylie said. She recapped Alden’s drink-addled poolside tantrum.

  Sykes said nothing until Kylie got to the part where Alden didn’t pick up the burner phone.

  “He just let it ring?” Sykes said. “How could he not answer a phone call from the person who abducted his son?”

  “He must be playing by this guy’s rules. I guess that’s what you do when your kid’s life is on the line.”

  “It’s not what I’d do,” Sykes said. She had four kids and, judging by the family photo on the wall, a busload of grandkids. “That arrogant son of a bitch is stonewalling the very people who can help him.”

  “He specifically told us he doesn’t want our help,” I said. “At least not as far as Tripp is concerned.”

  “He might get his way if this were just about NYPD suspecting his son was kidnapped,” Sykes said. “But this is a homicide investigation. The police have to work under the assumption that whoever has Tripp in their custody also killed Peter—or at least has information that will help you find the killer. Hunter Alden is obstructing justice. Let me see if I can help.”

  She picked up the phone. “Wait in my outer office,” she said. “It’s never pretty to watch a politician sucking up to a billionaire.”

  “Did you see that?” Kylie said as soon as we closed the door behind us. “It’s about time the city of New York finally elected a female mayor.”

  “Hey, I’m all for girl power,” I said, “but it looks to me like all she’s doing is calling in a chit.”

  “Mayor Spellman would have called in a committee—all men. You don’t get it, do you Zach?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  She immediately launched into a manifesto about why women should run the world. “Bottom line,” she said, three minutes into her impassioned speech, “women are like heat-seeking missiles. We see what has to be done, and we slam into action. We know how to take charge.”

  “Some women are especially good at that,” I said. “If I recall, you’ve earned at least three commendations for slamming into action. Oh, no, wait—those were disciplinary reports that were filed because you forgot to tell the person in charge that you were taking charge.”

  “Those weren’t disciplinary reports,” Kylie said. “That was pure bureaucratic bullshit—”

  The mayor opened the door and cut her off midsentence. “Bureaucratic bullshit is highly underappreciated,” she said. “In some circles it’s considered an art form. I myself just had to tell my wealthiest supporter that his son was drunk, belligerent, and refused to cooperate with the police in the very first homicide investigation of my fledgling administration.”

  We went inside and shut the door. “How’d he take it?” Kylie said.

  “To his credit, Hutch is genuinely upset about Peter’s death and said he’d do whatever he can to help us find the killer. I told him the two lead detectives would be right over to ask him some questions.”

  “Did you tell him we’re looking for his grandson?” I asked.

  “No. That’s police work, not politics. Besides, I think you should be there and get a firsthand look at his reaction when you tell him.”

  I was beginning to think Kylie was right. Sykes was highly enlightened, extremely effective, and delightfully human. Maybe women should be in charge for a couple of hundred years and we’ll see if they screw things up any worse than men have.

  “Thank you, Madam Mayor,” I said. “This is a big help.”

  “Anytime,” she said. “And I mean that. But do me one favor—don’t be too tough on him. This place is starting to grow on me. I may want to renew my lease down the road, and I definitely will need Hutch Alden on my side.”

  Chapter 21

  Five minutes after the cops left, Hunter Alden finished his second bottle of wine and announced to Janelle that he was taking a nap.

  He woke up two hours later, showered, went to his study, and popped a Lavazza Espresso Classico into his Keurig. The sleep and the coffee helped, and as he sat at his desk, sipping his third cup, he started to feel his brain coming back online.

  He tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

  Fact: Anybody could have taken Tripp.

  Rich families were always a target. That’s why he had kidnap and ransom insurance. For less than twenty thousand dollars a year, the K & R covered Tripp for up to ten million. If this was just a kidnapping, he told himself, he’d have called in NYPD and paid the kidnappers out of his insurance company’s pocket.

  Fact: Whoever took Tripp knew about Project Gutenberg.

  That was clear from the five-word note that came with Peter’s head. This was more than a kidnapping. This was blackmail.

  He knew there were other investors involved in Gutenberg, but he had no idea who they were, and they in turn wouldn’t know him. Joost, the lawyer, couldn’t be behind it either. He was a functionary, not a kidnapper. That left the nameless blond man who had orchestrated the entire operation. Hunter had no idea who he was, where he came from, or where in the world he could be now. But for the moment he was the only logical choice.

  The door to his study opened. It was Janelle. “Were you able to sleep?” she said.

  “A couple of hours.”

  She sat down in the leather chair on the other side of his desk. “Can I get you some dinner?” she asked.

  “The coffee is all I need right now. You want some?”

  “No. Well, maybe just a taste of yours,” she said.

  He passed her the cup. He knew she wasn’t interested in how the coffee tasted. Only in how it smelled.

  She inhaled deeply and took a small sip. “Mmm,” she said. “It’s excellent.”

  Translation: It’s alcohol-free.

  “Can I ask what went on downstairs at the pool before?” Janelle said.

  “Nothing you need to worry about. It’s under control.”

  “Then where’s Tripp?”

  “You heard the cops,” Hunter said. “He went up to Rochester to get some more footage of the family.”

  “Oh, you mean Uncle Gavin and Aunt Lucy.”

  Hunter nodded. “Exactly.”

  “I just called Gavin,” Janelle said. “He and Lucy are in Atlantic City. They’ve been there since New Year’s Eve, and they’re not going home till Saturday. So let me ask you again: where’s Tripp? He hasn’t called and he has
n’t answered his phone.”

  “For God’s sake, Janelle. Last night you were telling me he’s a big boy—stop chasing him.”

  “Last night Peter Chevalier wasn’t murdered. Last night the cops weren’t here looking for Tripp. Last night you were micromanaging—now you’re hiding something.”

  “I’m not hiding anything.”

  “Then whose cell phone is that?” she asked, pointing to the burner on his desk.

  “Mine,” Hunter said.

  “But you don’t answer it when the cops are in the room? What if it rings now? Will you pick up with me in the room?”

  Hunter’s voice kicked up a notch. “It won’t ring with you in the room, because you’re leaving. Now.”

  “Leaving? You think I’m one of your flunkies, like Silas Blackstone? By the way, he left the house with Tripp’s computer—told me he’s dropping it off at school for Tripp. You two really ought to get your story straight. Is Tripp in school? Is he in Rochester? Or are those two cops right—he’s missing?”

  Hunter didn’t answer. For Janelle, the silence was answer enough.

  “He is missing, isn’t he?” she said. “That’s why the police were here. They want to help. Why won’t you let them? Hunter…he’s our son.”

  Hunter pounded a fist on the desk and bolted to his feet. “No, Janelle. My son, not yours. My problem to solve, not yours. My decision to make, not yours.”

  She stood up, reached across the desk, and slapped him across the face. “Fuck you, he’s not my son,” she said. “He’s missing. I don’t care if you need my help or not. Tripp does.”

  “Stay out of it, Janelle,” Hunter said, lowering his voice to a menacing whisper. “I’m warning you. Stay out of it, or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what? Bully me like you bully everyone else? Shit on me like you shit on Marjorie? I’m not everyone else, Hunter, and I’m certainly not Marjorie. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m going to damn well find out.”

  She walked out of the room and slammed the door.

  Hunter picked up his cup and walked to the bar. He added a shot of Scotch to the espresso, sat back down, and stared at the burner phone.

  His cheek stung, and he massaged it with one hand.

  “Bitch,” he muttered.

  He knew her well. She was definitely going to be trouble.

  Chapter 22

  “The FDR or Fifth?” Kylie asked as we got to the top of the driveway at Gracie.

  “I’m busy,” I said. “Surprise me.”

  She turned left and headed south on East End Avenue. “Busy with what?”

  “I’m checking out Hutch Alden.” I had pulled up Safari on my iPhone and typed his name in the Google search bar. “According to Forbes, he’s the forty-second richest person in America and number seven in the state of New York.”

  “That’s a big help, Zach. Why don’t you try asking the Magic 8 Ball if he knows where his grandson is?”

  My phone rang, and Cheryl’s picture flashed on my screen.

  I answered, still haunted by the high-school-sophomore, but-I-thought-you-were-going-to-the-prom-with-me tantrum I had thrown that afternoon. “Hey, how’s it going?” I said with every ounce of sensitivity my bruised male ego could drum up. “How’s Mildred?”

  “It’s almost over,” she said, and I could hear the resignation in her voice. Cheryl doesn’t create drama. “Almost over” meant exactly that.

  “I’m sorry. But I’m glad you got up there in time,” I said.

  “Thanks. I think she recognized me when I got here, but an hour later she slipped into a coma. I’m just sitting here at her bedside, holding her hand, talking to her, hoping she can hear me. I can’t leave her. I’m spending the night.”

  I, on the other hand, have been known to create drama. Especially in my own head. I’d have liked myself a lot more if my natural instinct was to be compassionate and supportive, but I wasn’t thinking about Cheryl being there for Mildred. I was thinking about the fact that Mildred was going to die, and then Cheryl would be spending the night in Westchester being there for her needy ex-husband.

  I reined in the craziness. I’d already spent enough time today with my foot in my mouth. “She’s lucky to have you,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. Good night.” She hung up. I sat there, not happy about the situation, but relieved that I hadn’t made it any worse.

  We had crossed 79th Street, and Kylie turned left onto Fifth Avenue. “I only heard one side of the conversation,” she said, “but it sounded like you handled it very well.”

  “And I have you to thank, Dr. MacDonald. With all that good advice you gave me on the precinct steps this afternoon, I couldn’t possibly have screwed it up.”

  “I’m glad I could help. It’s just too bad you’re dining alone tonight.”

  “It’s the manly man thing to do,” I said. “Any time the asshole who dumped your girlfriend needs her back at his side so he can have a shoulder to cry on, a real man ships her out and tells her to spend the night with him.”

  “Zachary Jordan, you are the poster boy for benevolence and understanding. And as good fortune would have it, my current husband is in drug rehab, so I have some room on my dance card. Can I interest you in an evening of wings, beer, and cop talk?”

  “Yes, yes, and no.”

  “So that would be a yes on the wings, another yes on the beer, but you’re not in the mood to ruin dinner by discussing the shit we’ve had to wade through all day,” she said. “Sounds reasonable. It’s a date.”

  I’d like to think of myself as a mature, enlightened man. The fact that Cheryl was willing to stay and help a jerk like Fred was a testament to what a sympathetic and caring soul she was. You’d hope I might feel good about that. But there was another part of me that was insanely jealous and downright pissed. What I really wanted to do was call Cheryl back and say, “Hey, it’s fine with me if you’re up in Westchester holding your ex-husband’s hand. While you’re doing that, I’ll be in New York, pounding down beers with my ex-girlfriend. Have a nice night.”

  Of course, I’d never do it. I may not be all that mature, but I’m definitely not stupid.

  Chapter 23

  As soon as we pulled up to 808 Fifth Avenue, the doorman hustled out and opened the driver’s side door.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Alden,” Kylie said.

  “Police?” he said.

  “Are we that obvious?” Kylie said.

  “No, no. Mr. Alden told me to keep an eye out for you.” He escorted us to the elevator.

  “Alden is in the triplex,” the elevator operator said. “Thirty-one, -two, and -three. They told me to take you to thirty-two. Someone will be there to meet you.”

  The elevator door opened onto some kind of palatial foyer, but I didn’t have time to take it in. A man in a dark gray suit was waiting for us.

  “This way,” he said. “Leave your coats on. It’s freezing out there.”

  He ushered us briskly through opulence and grandeur that few people ever get to see even fleetingly, led us up a flight of marble stairs to the thirty-third floor, and opened a glass door to a vast terrace that could only be described in architectural terms as fucking awesome.

  It was colder out here than it was thirty-three floors below, and I pulled my collar up and put on my gloves.

  “He’s waiting for you over there,” our escort said. He quickly hopped back inside the warm and cozy little mansion in the sky and closed the door behind him.

  “Over there” was a corner of the terrace where a man in a gray parka with a fur-lined hood was standing behind the biggest telescope I’d ever seen outside of a planetarium.

  “Officers,” he said. “You got a minute? Take a look at this before we start.”

  He stood me behind the monster telescope.

  “Quadrantids,” he said as I leaned into the eyepiece. “The January meteor shower. It’s nature’s version of the Fourth of July.”

 
; “I don’t see any fireworks,” I said.

  “They go by intermittently. You may have to wait an hour or so, but this is the best night of the year to see them. Meanwhile, you’re looking at Arcturus—fourth brightest star in the sky. Most people in New York can’t see it, but this is a decommissioned telescope I bought from Butler University. Pretty spectacular, isn’t it? Let your partner have a look.”

  “Mr. Alden,” Kylie said, “I’d be happy to gaze at the stars with you all night, but right now we’re on a much less heavenly mission.”

  “Sorry. I can get caught up in these things and lose all track of time,” Alden said, walking toward the terrace door. “I don’t know how I can help you solve Peter’s murder, but I’ll do what I can.”

  The manservant opened the door for us and took our coats, and Alden led us to a crackling fireplace. A maid materialized and set down three steaming cups of hot cocoa.

  “Muriel Sykes called,” Alden said. “Told me my son was being uncooperative. I don’t understand. Peter was family. We’ll do whatever we can to help.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “For starters, what can you tell us about his personal life?”

  “He has a brother in Haiti. A doctor.”

  “How about his friends in New York? He worked for your family a long time. Surely you must know something about his habits, who he hung out with when he was off the clock—those are the kind of details that would help.”

  Alden smiled. “Did you ever hear the story of the man who walks past the mental hospital?” he said. “He can hear all the patients inside shouting, ‘Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen!,’ but the fence is too high for him to see what is going on. Then he spots a knothole in one of the planks. He looks through it, and bam—a stick pokes him in the eye, and he hears the inmates all shouting, ‘Fourteen! Fourteen! Fourteen!’”