NYPD Red 4 (6 page)

I managed to
flag a taxi as soon as I stepped out of my apartment building. The bad news was that it turned out to be a Prius—a great little car for the environment, with the emphasis on
little.
There was no time to look for another cab, so I jammed my six-foot frame into a backseat designed for five-footers, and we headed uptown.

I sat there, cramped, hungry, and fuming mad. I was pissed at Kylie for manipulating me the way she had, and I was even more pissed at myself for buying into it. The visual of a candlelit dinner gone south and the look on Cheryl's face when I walked out the door was burned into my brain, and I tried to shake it out of my head.

The cabdriver didn't say a word. I couldn't blame him. Nothing says “keep your distance” like a nervous white guy dashing out of an Upper East Side apartment building and asking to be taken to a sketchy street corner in Harlem.

It was even sketchier than I expected. Harlem has changed dramatically in my lifetime. The stigma of street crime and urban decay has been replaced by trendy restaurants and designer boutiques, but the gentrification had not yet reached the corner of 129th and Park.

The avenue was dominated by the Metro-North train tracks that ran overhead. The street below was dotted by vacant lots, a fenced-in parking lot, and a combination BP station/twenty-four-hour food mart. The area around the pumps was well lit, and the driver pulled over and dropped me off there.

As soon as I squeezed my body out of the environmentally friendly little yellow box, I saw Kylie's car parked on 129th Street. I got in the passenger side, and she started driving.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“Baby D has several offices around town. One of them is a chicken-and-waffles place a few blocks away, on Lexington.”

“How'd you know where to find him?”

“Because I'm a cop, and my husband is an addict. I tailed Spence on a couple of his drug runs just in case anything like this ever happened.”

“You
tailed
him?”

“Don't judge me, Zach.”

“Tell me about this Baby D,” I said.

“Real name is Damian Hillsborough. Forget everything you know about these stereotype ghetto dealers hanging on the street corner, covered in tats and chains, peddling eight balls, and packing nine mils. Baby D is clean-cut, college-educated, and totally nonthreatening. He's carved out a nice little niche for himself in the upscale Caucasian market.”

“Does he have a rap sheet?”

“No. He's smart. He did a year at NYU law school before dropping out to go into a more profitable line of work.”

“And what's my role in all this?”

“I want you to score some blow. As soon as you make a buy, I'll step in.”

“Sounds like a great plan,” I said. “Except for that nasty little entrapment law the defense attorneys love to throw in our faces.”

“I thought you were done lecturing.”

“Kylie, it's not a lecture. It's Police Procedure 101. I've worked undercover. The criminal has to initiate the offense. A cop can't induce someone to commit a crime and then arrest him.”

“I didn't say I was going to arrest him. I'm trying to find my husband, and I need some leverage.”

We got to 126th Street and Lexington Avenue, where there was a cluster of storefronts: a McDonald's, a Dunkin' Donuts, a check-cashing place with the corrugated metal gate pulled down and locked, and a yellow awning that said “Goody's Chicken and Waffles.” We got out of the car and walked up to the window.

“That's him over there, the one with the green sweater,” Kylie said, pointing at a young black man sitting alone at a table, his fingers resting on the keyboard of a laptop.

“You want my take on your plan?” I asked.

“Go ahead.”

“It's piss-poor. You think this guy is going to sell me drugs? If he's as smart as you say he is, he wouldn't sell me an aspirin if I got hit by a bus.”

“Hey, I'm trying to figure this out as I go along. Do you have a better idea?”

“I've got something in my head, but it's going to take two of us, and I don't know if you're up to it—it's not going to be easy.”

“Don't be an idiot, Zach. Of course I'm up to it. I'll do whatever it takes. What's your idea?”

“I'll go inside the chicken place and work on Baby D. You stay outside.”

“And do what?”

“Nothing. Don't call me. Don't hand-signal me. And since I can't stop you from watching me through the window, don't barge in and tell me I'm doing it wrong.”

“So you just want me to hang outside and do nothing?”

“Hey, I told you it wouldn't be easy. I'm going in. Don't screw it up.”

She hesitated.

“Kylie, do you want my help or not?”

“Go ahead,” she said. “Do it.”

I walked through the front door of Goody's before she had time to change her mind.

I had no plan, no idea what I was going to do. All I knew was that it would be a hell of a lot easier to do it without her.

The first thing
I noticed about Goody's was how incredible it smelled. There were at least thirty people having dinner, and a few more at the counter, waiting to order.

Baby D was the only one not eating. And despite the fact that his fingers were resting on his keyboard, he was not typing. He was watching me.

Kylie was right. He didn't look anything like the stereotypical drug peddler you see in the movies or, for that matter, in real life. He looked more like a model who had stepped out of a J. Crew catalog. Tan chinos, tattersall shirt, and a V-neck sweater with the sleeves rolled up past his wrists. He was about twenty-five, clean-shaven, and damn good-looking.

I walked up to his table.

“Good evening, officer,” he said.

“What makes you think I'm a cop?” I said.

“You don't exactly fit the profile of the neighborhood clientele.”

“Neither do you,” I said.

“Point taken,” he said. “And what can I do for New York's Finest this evening?”

He may just as well have said “Checkmate.” He had made me for a cop, he understood the laws of probable cause, and he knew there was nothing I could do except stand there like a rookie and ask him questions he didn't have to answer. The smug look on his face said it all. I was his entertainment for the evening. I hated him.

“You look hungry, officer,” he said. “You know what you might like? Goody's Barnyard Platter.” He flashed me a self-satisfied smile. “It's all
white-meat chicken.
”

That did it. I snapped. My brain hadn't come up with a plan, so my testosterone took over. I grabbed him hard and pulled him from his chair. It shocked the hell out of both of us.

“You have no right to grab me like—”

“Shut your mouth, D bag.” I bent his left arm back and pulled the gold watch from his wrist.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I've been trained to deal with people who are rich, famous, and used to getting their asses kissed. If a cop wants to make the cut at Red, he's got to be even-tempered, self-disciplined, emotionally stable. Kylie can sometimes cross the line, which is why Cates teamed us up. I was the voice of reason. But suddenly, without warning, I had become Dirty Harry.

I flipped the watch over and read the inscription. “Who's Kylie?” I said.

“I don't know.”

“The back of your watch says she loves you always,” I said, twisting his arm.

He yelped. “I bought it in a pawnshop.”

I shoved him back down in his chair. “Let me see the receipt.”

By now most of the people in the restaurant had looked up from their food and were watching the angry white guy push around the preppy-looking black kid. None of them looked like they were contemplating getting involved, but I flashed my shield just in case, and they quickly went back to the all-important task of filling their bellies and hardening their arteries.

Then I held the shield up to Baby D. “Detective Zachary Jordan,” I said, sitting down directly across from him.

“You just broke every rule in the Boy Scout handbook, Jordan.”

“Well, now you know what kind of cop you're dealing with. Where's Spence Harrington?”

“I already told the lady cop—”

“Her name is Kylie. Like it says on your watch.” I handed it back to him.

“I already told her. I don't know where her old man is.”

I unsnapped my handcuff holster and pulled out the cuffs.

“What's that for?” Baby D said.

“I'm arresting you for selling drugs.”

He laughed. “Dream on, Detective. Do you think I'm stupid enough to be holding?”

“I haven't quite figured out how stupid you are yet, Damian, but I'm the one who's holding. I've got a baggie with an eight ball of booger sugar right here in my jacket pocket, and when I take you in, I'm going to say you sold it to me.”

“Bullshit. That's a goddamn lie.”

“You're right.” I leaned forward and whispered, “I borrowed it from the evidence clerk at my precinct, but I'm going to swear you sold it to me. So either step outside and talk to my partner, or an hour from now your pretty little baby face is going to bring joy to the hearts of a lot of lonely men in a holding cell at Central Booking.”

Drug dealers don't give up their customers' whereabouts to the cops. It can be bad for their business. Or their health. Damian stared at me. Was I lying? Or did I really have cocaine in my pocket that I'd say was his?

I gave him my best Clint Eastwood stare back, but I didn't have the balls to say, “Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”

He blinked. He stood up and closed his laptop, and I walked him out to Lexington Avenue.

“Mr. Hillsborough has had a change of heart,” I said to Kylie. “Ask him anything.”

“When did you last see my husband?” she said.

“He didn't tell me he was married to a cop.”

“Answer the question,” she said.

“Yesterday. He was on a shopping spree, but he was a little low on cash, so we negotiated, and I got this handsome timepiece, and he got…well, you know what he got.” Damian held out Spence's watch. “Take it. It's yours.”

Kylie shook her head. “No. Technically, it's yours. Where is Spence now?”

“Look, lady, I'm a dope dealer, not a travel agent,” he said, putting the watch back on his wrist. “I don't know where to find your husband, but he knows where to find me. And the way that boy was fiending, trust me: he will.”

Kylie pulled her card out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Here's your get-out-of-jail-free card, Damian,” she said. “Don't lose it.”

“What the hell
was that all about?” Kylie said as soon as we were back in the car.

I shrugged. “I don't know. He pissed me off. I guess I lost my shit.”

“You could have lost your job, Rambo. You're lucky Damian is a dope dealer. If he was Joe Citizen, he'd lawyer up and call you out on police brutality.”

“I'm not worried. The definition of police brutality is the use of excessive force by a cop when he's dealing with a civilian.”

“It looked pretty damn excessive to me.”

“Yeah, but I wasn't a cop. I was off duty.”

“So that must have been your off-duty shield you flashed,” she said, laughing.

“Are you finished yet, Judge Judy?”

“Almost. I've got one more thing to say.” She stopped the car at a light on 116th Street. She turned to me, and a generous smile spread across her face. “Thanks, partner.”

“I was wondering when you'd get around to that.”

“My timing sucks, but I mean it, Zach: thanks. When I tracked Baby D down, I thought I'd ask him a few questions, and that would be it. I didn't know he'd be such a hard-ass. It threw me off. That's why I called you. I couldn't have done it without you.”

“Anytime, partner,” I said. “The problem is I don't know how much it's going to help. All he told you was that Spence scored some coke yesterday. I'm sure you must have figured that out this afternoon when you were standing ankle-deep in the wreckage at Silvercup.”

“It helps a lot more than you think,” she said. “Spence pulled five thousand dollars out of our bank account yesterday morning, which means he had enough cash to buy a quarter of a key.”

“I don't get it,” I said. “If he had that much money, why did he pay Baby D for the drugs with his watch?”

“For the same reason he busted up those sets. He was sending me another message.”

“Which is…?”

“If it has anything to do with me, he's going to destroy it or get rid of it.”

“Ouch,” I said. “That hurts.”

“It sure does,” she said. “That's why he's doing it.”

The light turned green, and we rolled south on Lexington. I pulled my phone out of my pocket. It was after nine. At this point calling Cheryl wouldn't cut it. I put the phone in my lap and stared out the window.

Kylie must have read my body language. “Do you want me to call Cheryl and apologize for screwing up your dinner?”

“Absolutely not.”

“From the look on your face, I'm guessing she was pissed that you had to leave.”

“Let's just say she wasn't happy.”

“She better get used to it, Zach. She's living with a cop now. It's the nature of the beast. We get called out day and night.”

“She works for the department, Kylie. I'm pretty sure she knows what being a cop is all about.”

“So what's her problem?”

“This wasn't a cop call,” I said.

I could see Kylie connecting the dots in her head. Knowing her, this had been all about NYPD putting the squeeze on a bad guy. She'd completely forgotten that the entire operation was personal.

“Oh,” she said. “Right. It won't happen again.”

I doubted it.

We were at 86th and Lexington, nine blocks from my apartment, when the phone in my lap went off.

“You see?” Kylie said. “She can't be that mad if she's calling you.”

I looked at the caller ID. Private caller.

“It's not her,” I said. I answered the phone. “This is Detective Jordan.”

“My man, Zach,” a familiar voice on the other end said. “This is Q. You looking for a couple of scrubs who are holding a necklace so hot they're almost ready to pay someone to take it?”

“Everybody is looking for them,” I said, “and I'm at the top of the pile.”

“That's why I called you first. I'm upstairs at the Kim.”

My adrenaline was pumping. “We're less than five minutes away,” I said.

“
We're
less than five minutes away?” he said. “Does that mean you're with that knockout partner of yours?”

“Yes, I'm with Kylie.”

“At this hour? Sounds like you two are pulling the night shift. I hope I'm not interrupting any undercover work,” he said, following up with a lecherous laugh just in case I didn't get the joke.

“You're a pig.”

“That's funny, Zach,” he said, still chuckling. “First time a cop ever called
me
a pig. I'll see you in five.”

He hung up, and I turned to Kylie. “Change of plans. We're meeting Q Lavish at the Kimberly Hotel.”

She hit the gas, and we sped past a familiar brick building on 77th and Lex. My apartment is on the tenth floor.

I craned my neck, looking up, trying to see if the lights were still on, but we were going too fast.

“What are you doing?” Kylie said.

“Nothing. I'm just checking to see if Cheryl's home.”

“Of course she's home. Do you think she moved out because you bailed on one dinner?”

“No. I'm just antsy. We're still working out this living together thing.”

“Zach, it's going to work out just fine. And Cheryl's not going anywhere. She's a smart woman. She knows the score.”

“Yeah, she does,” I said.

Old girlfriend, one. New girlfriend, zero.