NYPD Red 4 (15 page)

“And Hudson Hospital just bought two of them,” I said.

“I know their CEO, Phil Landsberg,” Howard said.

“And we know their head of security, Frank Cavallaro,” I said.

Howard Sykes sat back in his chair and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. He closed his eyes for at least fifteen seconds and finally looked up. “Do you think you can actually pull this off?”

“Not without you on board,” I said. “What do
you
think, sir? Can you help us?”

“What do I think? I think it’s nuts. Totally, certifiably crazy,” he said. “But I’ll call Phil Landsberg in the morning and see if I can convince him to join us in our insanity.”

JEREMY NEVINS, WEARING
nothing but a pair of black bikini briefs, padded across the room and explored the contents of the hotel minibar. “Do you believe the prices on this shit?” he said. “A jar of macadamia nuts and a bottle of Heineken cost more than my first car.”

Leo Bassett, lying naked under the sheets, laughed and stared at the sinewy, sculpted, perfect thirty-two-year-old body standing only ten feet away.

Spending Wednesday nights in the penthouse suite at Morgans with Jeremy had become a tradition, their private little escape from the rest of the world. And with Elena’s death, the robbery gone bad, and Max’s craziness about selling the company name, Leo had more to escape from than usual.

“What are you thinking?” Jeremy said, popping the cap on the beer.

“How much I love you, and how much I hate Max.”

“I love you too. And Max isn’t so bad.”

“He’s insane. He wants to sell our soul to the devil. He’s going to turn the Bassett brand into McDonald’s.”

“That would be terrible,” Jeremy said. He took a macadamia nut out of the jar and seductively set it onto his tongue before easing it into his mouth. “And think of the fallout. You’d make jillions of dollars. Maybe zillions. I don’t know. I’m not good at math.”

“I don’t care how much I can make. The name Bassett stands for the ultimate in luxury. When I introduce myself, I can see the look in people’s eyes. It’s as if I said my name is Tiffany or Bulgari. Do you have any idea how good that makes me feel?”

Jeremy gave him a boyish pout. “I thought making you feel good was my job,” he said, setting down the beer and striking a pose.

Leo squirmed under the sheets. “Yes, it is, and you’re late for work.”

Jeremy tucked two fingers into his briefs’ elastic waistband, licked his lips, and slowly, tantalizingly, lowered the front of the briefs.

Leo’s eyes were wide, and his breathing was shallow.

They all love a good show
, Jeremy thought,
and Leo is a better audience than most.

“But first,” Jeremy said, letting the waistband snap back into place, “we have some business to attend to. I found the necklace.”

Leo sat up. “Are you serious? Why did you wait until now to tell me?”

“I was waiting for you to be in a receptive mood, and from where I’m standing, you look pretty damn receptive.”

“Who has it?”

“The same guy who ran off with it last night—Teddy Ryder. Only he gave it to his mother, and let me tell you, Leo, this broad looks like that little old lady from
The Golden Girls
, but boy, can she play hardball. She negotiates like the head of the Teamsters union.”

“How much does she want?”

“A hundred and seventy-five K.”

Leo shrugged. “It’s more than we’ve paid in the past, but it’s still a drop in the bucket. We’ll collect the eight million from the insurance company, and even though Max has to cut the big stones down, they’ll still be worth five, six mil.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say, so I told her we had a deal. I have the ninety you gave me. I just need another eighty-five thousand in cash before noon tomorrow.”

“No problem,” Leo said. “Just don’t run away with it.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Even though you claim not to care about becoming a zillionaire, I promise I won’t run away with your money.”

He was being honest. Annie Ryder would wind up with the hundred and seventy-five thousand. All Jeremy wanted was the necklace. He didn’t need Max to recut the stones. He had a diamond cutter lined up in Belgium and was booked on a KLM flight to Brussels tomorrow night.

“What do you think?” Jeremy said. “Enough business for one night?”

“More than enough.”

Jeremy picked up the remote to the stereo, turned up the music, and spent the next five minutes artfully shedding a few ounces of nylon and spandex. When the dance was over, he stood in the middle of the room, gloriously naked and heart-stoppingly desirable.

Leo pulled back the sheets. “Come to Papa, baby.”

Jeremy crawled into bed, and the fat, pasty man pulled him close, shoved a thick tongue into his mouth, and reached down between his legs.

Jeremy moaned convincingly. It was all in a day’s work.

THERE ARE THREE
reasons why I love Paola’s restaurant. First, there’s the incomparable Italian cuisine that Paola Bottero brought to America from Rome.

Second is the unabashed hospitality that greets me every time I walk through the door. Tonight was no different. Paola’s son, Stefano, welcomed us with an enthusiastic “
Buona sera
, Dr. Robinson, Signor Jordan” and warm hugs that made me feel like we weren’t customers but friends invited over for dinner.

And third, it’s my go-to place to bring a date after I’ve made a fool of myself.

“You’re nothing if not predictable,” Cheryl said after we’d been seated and our wine had been poured. “Every time you and I have come here, it’s been for dinner and an apology.”

“There’s a method to my madness,” I said. “If you dump me, at least I still get a great dinner out of it.”

“I’m not going to dump you. I love being with you. I’m just not sure I can handle living with you.”

“I’m sorry. I really screwed up last night.”

“I’m not sure you screwed up. I think you were just Zach being Zach.”

“But it’s not the Zach you deserve. You planned this fantastic evening, and when the phone rang, I walked out on you.”

“Ran out.”

“In my head, I kept thinking, ‘You’re a cop. This is what cops do.’ But it wasn’t a cop call. It was …”

I stopped. This was tougher than I thought, and I was afraid I was going to make matters even worse.

“It was what?” Cheryl said.

I drank some wine. “This morning I went to the diner, and I told Gerri what I did. Her immediate reaction was, ‘Why did you walk—’ Sorry. ‘Why did you
run
out?’ And I said, ‘That’s what I do whenever there’s a damsel in distress.’”

Cheryl laughed.

“Well, at least
you’re
laughing,” I said. “Gerri went batshit. She told me Kylie was definitely not a damsel in distress. And she’s right. Kylie can handle herself. She kicked a guy in the balls today. The poor bastard probably won’t walk straight for a week.”

“I agree with Dr. Gerri. Kylie can fend for herself.”

“Anyway, I thought about it, so this afternoon, when I had five minutes, I googled ‘Men who try to rescue women.’ I’ve got what you psychologists call the White Knight Syndrome.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Zach. No, you don’t.”

“I don’t?”

“Absolutely not. Would you like my professional opinion?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Instead of googling everything that troubles you and then accepting as gospel whatever some idiot blogged about on the Internet, why don’t you talk your problems out with a shrink?”

“I’m in luck. I’ve got one right here.”

“Fat chance. You’re going to have to find one you haven’t slept with.”

“Hmm … that’s going to be a challenge.”

She dipped two fingers in her water glass and flicked it at me. “This conversation is officially over. Let’s talk about some fun stuff—like what did Howard Sykes think about my idea?”

“Nervous, but willing. Can I just say one more thing on the topic you don’t want to talk about?”

“One, and that’s it.”

“I just want you to know I’m trying. I told Kylie we were going out to dinner and not to call me. I figured if I were trying to lose weight, I wouldn’t stock the house with Oreos and Häagen-Dazs ice cream. Same principle. Out of sight, out of mind.”

She didn’t say a word. This time, the conversation
was
officially over.

For the next hour, we ate, we drank, we laughed, we talked—dinner was everything I could have hoped for. We were both too full to order dessert, but that didn’t stop Paola from sending a mind-blowing lemon tart to our table and then joining us for five minutes to catch up on how we were doing.

As of that moment, we were doing just fine.

And then my cell rang. I looked at the caller ID, hit Decline, and shoved the phone back into my pocket.

“Who was it?” Cheryl asked.

“It was Kylie, but I’m not accepting calls from damsels in distress this evening.”

Cheryl laughed. “Are you serious? Was it really Kylie? After you told her not to call?”

“Looks like I’m not the only one who needs a shrink,” I said.

Our waiter was just bringing me the check when Cheryl’s phone rang. She took one look at the caller ID, and her expression changed. This was a serious call. She answered.

I could only hear her side of the conversation. She didn’t say much, but the few words she did manage to get out sounded ominous.

“Oh no. Are they sure? Oh God, I am so sorry.” And finally, “Zach and I are at 92nd Street and Madison. Pick us up. We’re going with you.”

She hung up, and tears were streaming down her face. “That was Kylie,” she said. “She just got a phone call from the captain of the Four Four in the Bronx.”

“Jesus. What happened?”

“They found Spence’s body in a vacant lot. He was shot through the head.”

“ANY DETAILS?” I
asked.

“Bare bones,” Cheryl said. “Anonymous tip to 911. First cop on the scene was able to ID Spence—his wallet was on the ground. No cash, but his emergency contact said ‘Wife: NYPD Detective Kylie MacDonald.’ That kicked the system into high gear. It’s like ‘officer down’ once removed. That’s all I know except that Kylie is on the way to identify the body.”

“God, I hope she’s not driving.”

“She’s not that crazy, and even if she tried, no one is crazy enough to let her.”

We were on the corner of Nine Two and Madison, and I stepped off the curb to get a better look down the avenue. Flashing lights about a mile away. No sirens, but moving fast.

“Here they come,” I said to Cheryl. “I don’t know when I’ll be home, but I’ll text you and keep you posted.”

“Text me?”
she said, her voice suddenly sharp. “Zach, where’s your head? I’m going with you.”

That threw me. “Cheryl, it’s a crime scene. Since when does—”

“
Since when?
A police officer’s husband was murdered. It’s
my job
to evaluate Kylie to determine whether or not she’s fit for duty, and having done this far too many times in the past, I can tell you my best guess: she’s not.”

“Sorry,” I said. “We’re all in shock. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

She didn’t say a word, and I wondered if I’d just undone the last two hours of brilliant fence-mending with one dumb remark.

The convoy pulled up: two squad cars followed by a Ford van, then another two squad cars. The van stopped directly in front of us, and a uniform jumped out and slid the door open. I climbed into the back, and Cheryl sat in the center row next to Kylie. She’d been crying, and Cheryl put a comforting arm around her, although I wondered how much comfort was possible.

“It’s my fault,” Kylie said as soon as we started rolling. “I should never have kicked him out of the apartment.”

“You didn’t kick him out,” Cheryl said. “You checked him into rehab.”

Kylie shook her head. “It was a day program. I could have let him live at home.”

“Do you really think that would have made a difference?” Cheryl said, her voice consoling and without a trace of judgment. “Addicts put their lives at risk every day—it’s what they do. No one can stop them, and when it ends in tragedy, it’s never anybody’s fault but their own. I know you know that.”

Kylie nodded her head and whispered “Thank you.” Cheryl took a quick look over her shoulder and made eye contact with me just in case I still didn’t understand why she was along for the ride.

The traffic was thin, and the ribbon of strobe lights quickly scattered everyone in our path as we sped through Spanish Harlem and over the Madison Avenue Bridge into the southern tip of our city’s most ravaged borough.

Back in the seventies, the South Bronx was the epicenter of murder, rape, robbery, and arson in the U.S., and the cry
“The Bronx is burning”
was heard across America. Today, many of the burned-out buildings have been replaced, but with half the population living below the poverty line, the area is still a magnet for gangs, drug peddlers, and violent crime.

As we turned onto East 163rd Street, I thought about all the “safer places” in the city to cop drugs, and I wondered what drew a white-collar junkie to the dark, unwelcoming streets here in the shadow of Yankee Stadium.

And then Cheryl’s words echoed in my brain.
“Addicts put their lives at risk every day—it’s what they do.”
Spence Harrington had done it once too often.

The van pulled to a stop, the door opened, and a tall man in an NYPD windbreaker introduced himself to Kylie. “Detective Peter Varhol,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss, Detective MacDonald.”

He led the way to the crime scene. Kylie and I had seen it many times before: a fetid patch of ground in the bowels of the city, a drug buy gone bad, a body lying under a sheet. Some cops say they’re immune to it, but for me it’s always gut-wrenching. Only this time it was personal.