NYPD Red 4 (23 page)

“We're going to
need some firepower,” Woodruff said, grabbing a Smith & Wesson .308 semiautomatic rifle and a Mossberg 500 tactical shotgun from the gun rack. “Which one of you is the better shot?”

I pointed at Kylie, and she took the Mossberg.

“A lot of hunters set up trail cams,” Woodruff said. “The one in that tree is probably his. If the motion detector picks you up, it'll send an instant picture to his cell phone. It's got a range of about seventy-five feet, so keep your distance.”

Even with him pointing straight at it, I could barely make out the camouflaged box that blended in with the bark. “How about you point them out along the way?” I said.

He grinned, took the lead, and headed into the woods. Kylie and I flanked out to either side and kept ten feet behind. It had been thirty minutes since Bassett had plowed into our van, and by now my right knee had swollen to the point where it strained against my pant leg, and I was favoring it by limping.

Woodruff spotted two more trail cams, and we gave each one a wide berth. We were about a half mile in when we heard the shot.

The three of us hit the dirt and waited. Nothing. Just the single gun report.

“It was a pistol,” Woodruff said. “Maybe a quarter mile away.”

An engine roared to life. “Shit. He's got a trail bike.”

We listened as the bike drove off and faded into the distance.

“He shot the hostage,” Woodruff said. “She made sense when he had the car, but once he swapped it for two wheels, she was excess baggage.”

We stood up and ran toward where the shot came from, Woodruff and Kylie in the lead, me hobbling behind.

We came to a clearing, and there was the Rover parked at the far end. Right next to it, facedown in the dirt, was Annie Ryder. As I got closer, I could see the pool of blood around her head.

Just as Kylie knelt beside the body, an automatic weapon coughed a hail of bullets into the tree over our heads.

“That was a warning shot,” the voice behind us bellowed. “The next one won't be.” I didn't have to turn around. It was Bassett.

“Now drop your weapons,” he commanded. “One at a time. Ladies first.”

Kylie set down the shotgun, took the Glock from her holster, and lowered it to the ground.

“All your guns, Detective,” Bassett yelled.

She added her ankle piece to the pile. Woodruff and I went through the same drill.

“On your feet, Grandma,” Bassett ordered, and Annie Ryder came back from the dead.

She stood up, brushed herself off, and wiped the blood from her hair and face. A gutted rabbit carcass was still on the ground where her head had been.

“Give the old lady your cuffs, officers,” Bassett said.

We each produced a pair of handcuffs and gave them to Annie.

“Now the three of you hold hands and make a circle around that tree.”

We joined hands and hugged the trunk.

“Cuff 'em,” he yelled.

Annie came up behind me, put the bracelet around my left wrist, and ratcheted it shut. “Sorry,” she said.

“Shut the fuck up,” Bassett shouted.

Annie turned. “I was apologizing for your bad behavior, asshole.”

The AR15 in Bassett's hands opened up, and a barrage of bullets splintered the tree not more than six inches above my head.

“I'm not anxious to kill three cops and have half the uniforms in the state of New York looking for me,” he bellowed, “but I will if I have to.”

“He means it, Annie,” I said. “Just cuff us.”

She snapped the other half of my cuffs onto Kylie's right wrist, then hooked Kylie's left wrist to Woodruff.

Annie moved behind Woodruff and me, then fumbled with the last set of cuffs.

“Faster,” Bassett yelled.

“My hands are freezing,” Annie yelled back. “If you don't like my work, find someone else.”

She finally managed to link my wrist to Woodruff's.

“Move away,” Bassett told her, and she slowly backed off.

He lowered his weapon, sidestepped over to the tree, and yanked hard on each set of handcuffs. They held tight.

“Good job, Granny,” he said, turning to her. “I meant what I said about not wanting to kill them. You, on the other hand, are totally expendable. No cop is going to give a shit if you're alive or dead, and they're certainly not going to rise up in force to avenge your death.”

“Please don't,” she said, raising her hands in the air and holding them behind her head.

“Don't? Oh, but I must. But not with this,” he said, setting the AR15 down. “I'm going to use Detective MacDonald's gun.”

He picked up Kylie's Glock from the pile. “Nice piece,” he said, examining it with the eye of a professional.

Max Bassett knew a lot about guns, but he didn't know enough about people. He certainly didn't know anything about the seventy-year-old woman standing thirty feet away with her hands held high in the air.

Annie Fender was only fifteen when a carnival came to Enid, Oklahoma. When it left, she left with it, having fallen madly in love with a German trapeze artist.

For the next five years, young Annie's life was filled with fire-eaters and fortune-tellers, knife throwers and blade box queens, pitchmen and pickpockets.

And then she met Buddy Ryder. Within days, she dumped her high-flying boyfriend to spend the next forty-seven glorious years with the smooth-talking confidence man.

Max Bassett knew nothing of Annie's backstory. Had he known, he might not have been quite so cavalier when he leveled the Glock at her chest and said, “Any last words?”

“Just three,” she said defiantly.

“Then spit them out, bitch, because nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be the one who snuffs out your wretched exist—”

What happened next went down so fast that it was over before I could process it. Annie's right arm came hurtling down with all the force and precision of a former big-league pitcher at an old-timers' day game. The three-and-a-half-inch gut hook skinning knife, which had only seconds earlier been tucked in a sheath at John Woodruff's right hip, came whirring through the air, and the blade sank deep into Max Bassett's chest. A red splotch blossomed over his blue denim shirt, and he dropped to the ground like a stone.

Annie walked slowly to the body, looked down, and said the words that Maxwell Bassett would never hear.

“I hate guns.”

 

Monday. A week
ago people were mourning the death of Elena Travers. Today they were celebrating the life of the woman who avenged her murder.

Annie Ryder—tough-talking, fast-thinking, knife-wielding Annie Ryder—had gone from obscurity to notoriety with a single fling of her practiced right arm.

The saga of the trap we set for Max Bassett was on the front page of every city paper and at the top of the hour on every TV news program. It was the kind of story that left everyone smiling.

Everyone except our boss, who was fuming. “Annie Ryder is a penny-ante crook, a blackmailer, and a con artist,” Cates said, “but they're making her out to be a hero.”

“Technically, she is,” I reminded her.

“Bullshit. Her son stole the necklace, was an accessory to murder, and the DA's office decided to cut a deal with the devil.”

It seemed like a bad time to remind Cates that less than forty-eight hours ago, she was the one who had urged us to recruit Annie to trap Max Bassett.

“If it's any consolation,” Kylie said, “the DA is thrilled that the devil came through. Mick Wilson would have given up a thousand Teddys to bring down a high-profile murderer like Bassett.”

“It's a win-win-win, boss,” I said. “Mama Bear bought her son immunity, the DA will milk this for all the votes he can muster, and Red gets credit for solving the murders of Elena Travers, Jeremy Nevins, and Raymond Davis.”

“I know. I saw your pictures in the papers,” she said. “I'm glad the photographers didn't get there while you were still handcuffed to a tree with a game warden.”

“You can thank Annie for that,” Kylie said, a smirk spread across her face. “She unlocked the cuffs.”

“Next subject,” Cates said, not cracking a smile. “Howard Sykes called. He and the mayor are coming here at six o'clock to hear how you're going to solve her problem with the Warlock and his Robin Hood defense.”

“The plan was for us to meet her at city hall at noon,” Kylie said.

“The mayor bagged that idea when she heard who you're bringing to the party. She doesn't want the press corps to know that they're even talking to each other.”

“Six o'clock?” Kylie said. “I was planning to leave early and drive down to Atlantic City to bring my husband home.”

“No problem. Zach and I can handle it,” Cates said. “I'm glad to hear he's doing better.” The phone rang and she grabbed it, grateful for the interruption.

“Send her to my office,” she said to the caller. Then she hung up and turned to us. “Speak of the devil.”

“Mayor Sykes is here?” Kylie asked.

“I didn't say the mayor,” Cates said, smiling for the first time that morning. “I said the devil.”

A minute later, Annie Ryder walked in. She looked twenty years younger. The gray hair had been colored, her makeup was flawless, and her dress and coat were a far cry from the grimy pants and Rutgers sweatshirt she had on the last time we saw her. I introduced her to Cates.

“Annie, you look fantastic,” Kylie said.

“I know. Lavinia Begbie had her people give me a makeover. I'm going to be a guest on her cable show tonight. Also, now that we're doing a book together, she doesn't want me to look like a bag lady.”

“You're writing a book?”

“
Jewelers to the Stars.
Lavinia is writing it. I'm supplying the juicy details. I didn't mean to interrupt your meeting. I just came to thank you and to say good-bye.”

“Where are you going?”

“Vegas. Me, Teddy, and my late husband. Buddy always wanted to move there. We could never afford it, but Bassett's insurance company agreed to pay me the two hundred and fifty thousand reward money for recovering the stolen necklace.”

“I guess they had to,” Cates said, “but they must have been pretty upset to cough up that much for a fake.”

“Hell, no,” Annie said. “Now that they can prove the Bassetts set up this scam, they're going to help the other insurance companies reopen the prior claims and sue the estate for nineteen million. I'm their star witness, so I'll be getting a piece of the action.”

That was more good news than Cates could handle. “Sounds like you're going to have a grand time in Vegas,” she said, coming around her desk and ushering Annie to the door.

“I'd have a much grander time if I could become a blackjack dealer,” Annie said, “but they have a thing about people with a criminal record. That really pisses me off.”

“Then why go?” Cates said.

“Nice weather,” the old con artist said with a wink. “And suckers with money.”

Irwin Diamond was
a legend in New York politics. For forty years he had cut through red tape, party lines, and political bullshit to get things done. The press referred to him as the Fixer, the Deputy Mayor in Charge of Damage Control, and the Jewish Godfather.

At the moment, the legend was sitting in the precinct's roll-call room, arms folded across his chest, head resting against the back of the chair, eyes closed.

Cates and I exchanged a knowing smile. Irwin, who was a master of the five-minute power nap, was charging his battery for his head-to-head with the mayor.

The alarm on his cell phone beeped, his eyes popped open, and his entire body sprang to life. He was geared up and ready for action. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was 6:17.

“The mayor is not usually this late,” Cates said, half apologizing for something that was out of her control.

“She'll be here in three minutes,” he said.

“And you know that how?” Cates demanded. Not many people could openly challenge Irwin Diamond's pronouncements, but over the years, the fortysomething African American cop and the septuagenarian investment banker–political adviser had spent enough time in the same foxhole to become close allies.

“Because she's afraid if she keeps me waiting a half hour, I'll walk, but she's pissed at me for backing Spellman in the election, so she's sending me a message. She's in, I'm out.”

“Ha!” Cates said. “You may have retired when Sykes took office, but you will never be
out.
”

“Thank you, Delia. Don't get me wrong. Muriel Sykes was a damn good U.S. attorney, but she knows bupkis about politics. She's only been mayor for a hundred days, and it shows. She'd have been smarter to get here
before
I did. It might not have thrown me off my game, but it would have let me know she doesn't think like a rookie.”

“On the other hand,” Cates said, “if she had your political savvy, you wouldn't be here helping her out of a jam.”

I sat there quietly soaking up their camaraderie.

At exactly 6:20, Mayor Sykes entered the conference room, her dutiful husband at her side, a large chip on each shoulder. She sat at the far end of the table.

“Madam Mayor,” Irwin said politely.

“Mr. Diamond,” she said. “Detective Jordan thinks you can help. I'm all ears.”

“Let me see if I can sum up your unfortunate dilemma,” he said.

She hardly needed a summary, but the old political warhorse wanted to send a message of his own.
You need me more than I need you.

“Some bad guys stole a lot of expensive medical equipment from your most prestigious hospitals. Very embarrassing. So your hubby recruited your elite police force to quietly catch the bad guys, who turned out to be good guys, which was even more embarrassing. As an officer of the court, you want justice, but as the fledgling mayor of our fair city, you are afraid that you'll look like a complete ass in the court of public opinion. As they say in political parlance, you, Madam Mayor, are in deep shit.”

Irwin gave her his best payback's-a-bitch smile. “Have I got it right so far?” he said.

“Cut to the chase, Mr. Diamond,” she said. “How do I prosecute?”

“You don't. Not unless you want to be a very unpopular one-term mayor.”

“That's your answer? Do nothing?”

“Did I say do nothing? No. I said don't lock up a bunch of do-gooder war heroes for trying to help their less fortunate comrades. Instead, I suggest you give them what they want.”

“Which is what?”

“They want a state-of-the-art, fully funded ambulatory health-care facility for the men and women who put their lives on the line for this country. And you, Madam Mayor, should lead the charge to see that they get it.”

“How am I supposed to—”

“For starters,” Irwin interrupted, “the city should generously give them the land. Trust me: you have plenty just sitting around doing nothing. Then you should call the heads of all the hospitals that were robbed and ask them to donate all the equipment that was stolen and to kick in a few million apiece to put up some bricks and mortar.”

“They'd hang up on me,” Sykes said.

“They didn't hang up on me,” Irwin said. “I've called seven since yesterday, and here's what they've pledged so far.” He handed her a sheet of paper.

“Twelve million dollars?” Howard said, looking at the list over her shoulder.

“Howard, you of all people should know what these institutions spend each year on advertising. A couple of million is chump change to these guys. And if you position this as a joint venture between the city and the private sector for the benefit of veterans, I guarantee you that every hospital—whether they were robbed or not—will want to be on the list of donors.”

“Very creative thinking, Mr. Diamond,” the mayor said, “but these people broke the law.”

“I spoke to the district attorney, who also doesn't want to be the bad cop in this scenario. He's willing to offer them a long-term community-service commitment. I'm sure they'd rather work at the new medical facility than pull jail time. What do you think, Madam Mayor? Would you like to be the one who helps these heroes get what they fought for?”

For the first time since I'd met him, Howard Sykes went on record before his wife had a chance to react. “I think it's brilliant,” he said. “Muriel is only three months into her first term, but you've given us a boatload of bullet points and photo ops for her reelection campaign.”

He turned to his wife. She sat quietly for a solid twenty seconds, then slowly got out of her chair and walked around the table. “Howard is right, Mr. Diamond. You've taken a worst-case scenario and turned it into a golden opportunity. Thank you.” She extended her hand to her former opponent.

Irwin stood up and wrapped both of his hands around hers. “A pleasure to be of service, Madam Mayor.”

“Muriel,” she said.

“Irwin,” he responded.

“Well then, Irwin, how would you feel about staying on and helping us nail down the details? We could discuss it over dinner tomorrow night. My house.”

“I'll be there, Muriel,” the Fixer said with a warm smile. “I believe I know the address.”