NYPD Red 4 (17 page)

“Why would you need a
heads-up?
”

“I don’t know. Maybe just in case I got to the office and you were in a pissy mood. But I’m happy to see you’re nothing but sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.”

She lifted one hand from the keyboard and gave me the finger.

“What’s your problem?” I said. “Cheryl cleared you for duty. End of story.”

“Not for Cates. She wants both of us in her office. Now.”

“
Both
of us? This is between you and the captain. Why does she want me?”

“I don’t know, Zach. Maybe Cheryl’s opinion wasn’t enough. Maybe you get a vote too. Do you think I’m fit for duty, Dr. Jordan?”

“Hell, if we’re going to play good cop/bad cop, you’re totally fit for baddest-ass cop ever. Otherwise, you’re going to have to be on restricted duty.”

She lifted the other hand so she could flip me the bird with both barrels.

“You’re overreacting,” I said. “And for the record, Mrs. Harrington, the boss didn’t find out about Spence from Cheryl. That little card in his wallet that said ‘I’m married to an NYPD detective’ was the equivalent of sending up a Bat Signal. It lit up the radios across all five boroughs. It was the system that
ratted you out
, not Cheryl.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.” She stood up, mental body armor in place, ready to do battle with whatever the system had in store for her next. I followed her to Cates’s office.

“I’m sorry to hear about Spence,” Cates said as we walked through the door. “I know what it’s like to be married to a man with a drug addiction.”

That stopped Kylie cold. “I … I didn’t know that,” she said, her body language softening.

“Not many people do. It’s ancient history. I’m only telling you because I wanted you to know that Delia Cates understands what you’re going through—”

“Thank you,” Kylie said.

“—but
Captain
Cates is about to come down on your ass like the hammer of Thor!” She pounded her desk to punctuate her point. “Last night you were called to a crime scene. As a witness—
not as a cop
, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“After you learned that the victim was not your husband, did the lead detective on the case ask you for any help?”

“Detective Varhol asked if I recognized the victim. I gave him—”

Cates cut her off. “Did he ask you to
assist
him in his investigation?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So if Varhol made it clear that this was not your rodeo, why do I have a civilian complaint from Seth Penzig saying that you and Jordan stormed your way into his apartment and told him he was a suspect in the murder of his friend?”

“
Stormed the apartment?
That’s totally bogus. Zach and I had cause. You could smell the pot wafting out of Seth’s place from a block away.”

“Could you smell it from the Bronx? Because that’s where you were when you told Detective Varhol that you had no idea where Penzig lived.”

“We did a little digging after we left the Bronx.”

“
Digging?
In what universe is it okay for you to shanghai an investigation and question a person of interest in another cop’s homicide?”

“I was trying to find my husband.”

“And Detective Varhol was trying to find Penzig, but you decided that your personal needs were more important than the mission of this department.”

Some people find themselves in a deep hole and look for a way out. Not Kylie. She just grabs a bigger shovel. I jumped in before she could dig deeper.

“Captain,” I said, “I’m just as much to blame.”

“You’re damn right you are,” Cates snapped back. “Why do you think you’re here?”

“It was a big mistake, and I apologize if you took any heat over it. There’s no excuse for what the two of us did.”

“And yet, I’ve heard nothing but excuses from your partner.”

“She wasn’t thinking straight. They told her that Spence was dead, and she snapped. It won’t happen again.”

Cates grunted. “Do you want to put in for family leave?” she asked Kylie.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then if you want to look for your husband, do it on your own time, which, judging by your caseload, is going to be in short supply,” Cates said. “But if you ever flash your department shield to solve your civilian problems again, you’ll find yourself with more personal time than you ever dreamed of. Dismissed.”

“You realize that you never even apologized to her,” I said as soon as Kylie and I were back at our desks.

“It sounded to me like you were repentant enough for both of us.”

“That’s not how the concept works. You’re supposed to own your—”

The text alert on Kylie’s phone chirped, and she immediately tuned me out to look at the message. “Oh God,” she said.

“What’s going on?”

She didn’t answer. She just handed me her phone.

It was a text from Q.

Just got this pic from one of my girls. Q.

It was a picture of a stunning young black woman in a glittery low-cut top. Next to her was a bleary-eyed man with a drink in one hand and the other resting on the woman’s bare shoulder. There were splashes of blue, purple, and hot pink behind them—the official pyrotechnics of every after-dark club everywhere. Below the picture was a text.

This the white boy you looking for? He say his name Spence.

THE SILVER S550
Mercedes was parked outside the precinct. Q’s driver, Rodrigo, opened the rear door, and Kylie and I got in.

Q, in a custom-tailored navy suit, white shirt, and blue and gold repp tie, looked more like a captain of industry than a purveyor of fine flesh and priceless information. “First things first,” he said to Kylie. “Let me have your phone.”

She handed it to him, and he deleted the picture he’d sent. “To quote the incomparable John Ridley,” he said, “‘Discretion—it never goes out of style.’”

“Where is Spence?” Kylie asked.

“Atlantic City. The Borgata. Room 1178.”

“Yesterday he was in a flophouse on the Bowery. He’s traded up. How did you find him?”

“My business is a lot like yours,” Q said. “We both cater to the rich and powerful. If Spence had been holed up in a warehouse down by the Holland Tunnel, I’d never know. But five minutes after he rolled into the hotel, I got two texts: one from a valet, another from a bellman. I asked Tanya, the young lady in the photo, to get visual confirmation. For the record, she’s not
with
him. She just worked him long enough to get the picture … in case you were wondering.”

“For the record,” Kylie said, “of course I was wondering. Thank you. It’s very reassuring. Maybe I can have a T-shirt made: ‘My Husband Isn’t Cheating. He’s Just on a Drug Bender.’”

“It appears that he’s upped his game. I have it from a trusted source that the paperboy hooked him up with Aunt Hazel.”

There’s a vast lexicon of street terms the illegal drug trade uses to shroud their activity in mystery. New code names pop up every day, but the maiden aunts have been around for decades. Aunt Mary is marijuana, Aunt Nora is cocaine, but Aunt Hazel is the most deadly of them all: heroin.

“I’m sorry to be the messenger of such dire tidings,” Q said, “but at least you know where he is—for now. If I were you, I’d get down there in a hurry.”

“A hurry?”
Kylie said. “Atlantic City is a six-hour round-trip.”

“Not if you’ve got lights, sirens, and you push the needle to triple digits.”

“The department tends to frown on cops who use the company car to resolve their marital issues,” Kylie said. “I appreciate your help, but I can’t leave the city for that big a chunk of time.”

“How about if I have Rodrigo expedite things for you?”

“
Expedite?”
Kylie said. “Because nothing says ‘loving wife’ like having someone stuff your husband into the trunk of a Benz and hauling him a hundred miles up the Jersey Turnpike.”

Q laughed. “I forgot how your cop brain works. I was just offering to get you there by helicopter. NYC to ACY in thirty-seven minutes.”

“You own a—” Kylie twirled a finger in the air.

“Let’s just say I have
access.
My employees are on call 24/7, so I can hardly rely on public transportation. Besides, it’s an amenity my clientele are happy to pay for.”

“Your clients have the five grand it costs to be airlifted to hooker heaven,” Kylie said. “I can’t afford that kind of happiness.”

Q did his best to look offended. “Please—since when has our relationship ever been sullied with talk of money? The ride is a gift.”

“If you take your mom up for a spin, it’s a gift. If you take a cop, it’s a bribe. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Damn it, Kylie, I do you favors; you do me favors. That’s the basis of our relationship. I’m helping you track down a drug addict. Someday you’ll pay me back. Straight-up quid pro quo. Why change the rules now?” He turned to me. “Zach, talk some sense into this girl.”

“Only if you tell me what’s going on,” I said.

Q gave me a blank stare. “What are you talking about? Nothing’s going on. I’m trying to help your partner out.”

“You
did
help her. You found her husband. This is where you would normally walk away. But you’re still
helping.
So I have to ask myself: why is Q so invested in getting Kylie to Atlantic City that he’s willing to fly her there at his own expense? The only answer I can come up with is there’s something in it for you. Would you like to share that with us?”

“Okay, full disclosure. I’m hosting a party at the Borgata this weekend. My best customers: seven oil dudes from Texas, all white, all married, and they love the ladies of color. Money is no object. All they care about is privacy—I don’t even know their real names. Sunday morning they pay me in cash and fly home. It’s a huge payday, and I’m afraid Spence could fuck it up.”

“How?”

“Because he’s a big-time TV producer
and
a cop’s husband. If he’s found dead in a bed, that hotel will turn into a media circus, and my camera-shy cowboys will pull the plug on the party before it starts. Can you help me out?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Step out of the car so Kylie and I can talk.”

I didn’t have to ask twice.

“Do you want to take a personal day and drive down there now?” I said to Kylie as soon as we were alone.

“No. I’m done putting Spence’s addiction ahead of my career. I’ll punch out at six, rent a car, and be back by morning. You stay and cover for me.”

“It would be a lot faster if you went by chopper.”

“I’ve done a lot of stupid things, Zach, but I’ve never taken a bribe.”

“It’s not a bribe,” I said. “Q is our best CI. He just gave us Raymond Davis and Teddy Ryder. Like he said, quid pro quo. We can’t give him a get-out-of-jail-free card, but we can help him eliminate a minor business annoyance. We both fly down tonight. I help you drag Spence’s sorry ass to a rehab, and if our phone rings, we’re only thirty-seven minutes away. Win-win.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “I’ve created a monster. You’re starting to think like me.”

“It sounds like you and I are in violent agreement.”

“Hell, yeah,” she said, a broad grin spreading across her face.

It was the first time I’d seen her smile since she kicked Seth Penzig in the balls. Things were starting to look up.

ANNIE RYDER KNEW
better than to burden her son with too many facts. What she failed to tell Teddy was that Tow Truck Bob was also known as Lieutenant Robert Beatty, U.S. Marines—a lone-wolf sniper who had taken out high-profile targets in Lebanon, Somalia, and Nicaragua, plus in a few top secret locations known only to a handful of generals and their commander in chief, Jimmy Carter.

Jeremy might look like a candy-ass, but he’d already murdered Raymond Davis and barely missed killing Teddy. Annie wasn’t taking any chances. Bob didn’t know any of the details, but if Jeremy had thoughts about going after her, he’d have to get past 260 pounds of muscle, grit, and combat training.

Bob pulled the Jeep into the Edison ParkFast on Essex Street, and the unlikely couple walked around the corner and one block west to 205 East Houston.

They’d already gone over the logistics. Annie went in first. As soon as she walked through the door, she inhaled the intoxicating aromas of corned beef, matzo ball soup, chopped liver, and artery-clogging pastrami that Buddy had said was worth risking his life for.

Katz’s Deli was one of New York’s most popular tourist attractions—a mecca for foodies of every stripe. For Annie it was the perfect drop spot. There was safety in numbers, and with the lunchtime crowd streaming in, she would be just another anonymous old lady to be ignored.

She went to the counter and ordered Teddy’s lunch to go, along with knoblewurst on rye and a bottle of Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda for herself. She found a table in the rear and watched as Bob entered, bought a sandwich, and took a seat twenty feet away from her.

Jeremy showed up at noon on the dot. He bypassed the counter, scanned the room, spied Annie, and sat down at her table.

“Let’s do this fast,” he said, unslinging a canvas messenger bag from his shoulder and setting it on the floor. “The money is all here. You can check to see if it’s real, but don’t ask if you can take it into the ladies’ room to count it.”

Annie picked up the bag and unbuckled the front flap. The packets of hundred-dollar bills inside looked, felt, and smelled real. She closed the bag and hefted it up and down several times.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jeremy asked.

“I don’t have to count it,” she said. “A ten-thousand-dollar stack of hundreds weighs about the same as a Big Mac. This feels like you got my order right.” She put the bag down on the floor.

Jeremy grinned. “At first I made you for one batshit old broad, but it turns out you’re as smart as you are nasty.”

“Well, aren’t you the sweet talker,” Annie said. “Maybe when this is all over, the two of us can be Facebook friends.”