NYPD Red 4 (19 page)

First we met with Howard Sykes. “I had a long talk with Phil Landsberg, the CEO at Hudson,” he said. “Needless to say, he’s not jumping up and down at the thought of his hospital being the target of the next robbery, but he finally caved. I’d like to tell you that it was my four decades as an advertising genius that won him over, but it wasn’t.”

“So now you owe him,” I said.

Sykes frowned. “Actually, Muriel owes him. I just have to break the news to her that she’ll be the guest of honor at their next fund-raiser,” he said. “I’ve done my part. What’s next?”

“We do ours,” Kylie said. “A mammogram machine that is 40 percent more effective at detecting breast cancer is newsworthy. We’ll have our PIO reach out to the media to spread the word. Then we’ll meet with ESU and the head of security at Hudson to work out the logistics. Do you want us to keep you in the loop as we go along?”

“Nobody likes a micromanager,” Sykes said. “You don’t have to report back to me till you’ve got those people locked up. But before I bow out, I have one message to pass on to the two of you from Phil Landsberg. He said, ‘You can let those bastards into my hospital, but whatever you do, don’t let them out.’”

By four p.m. the plan was in full swing. All we needed was for the gang to take the bait and move Hudson to the top of their hit list. At six we left the office.

“Did you tell Cheryl where we’re going tonight?” Kylie asked as we slogged through rush hour traffic on the FDR.

“Not exactly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I told her you and I would be working late, but she didn’t ask me for the details, so I didn’t volunteer. Plus she’s going out to dinner and the theater with her mom, so she won’t be home until eleven. If we’re lucky, I’ll be back by then.”

Traffic opened up after 34th, and we got to the Downtown Manhattan Heliport by 6:35. Rodrigo was waiting for us in the VIP lounge.

“When we get to the hotel, go to the front desk and ask for your key,” he said. “Just say ‘Mrs. Harrington, room 1178.’ Your name is in the computer.”

“I don’t have an ID with my married name,” Kylie said.

“Don’t worry. They won’t ask,” Rodrigo said. “It gets pretty noisy once we’re in the air. Any more questions?”

“Just one,” Kylie said. “I’ve had my IT people monitor Spence’s credit cards, but so far we haven’t gotten a hit. How did he check into the Borgata?”

“Corporate card. Silvercup Studios.” Rodrigo was not the chatty type. “We good?” he asked, signaling an end to the conversation.

Kylie nodded, and he led us across the tarmac to a waiting Sikorsky S-76C. According to the brochure tucked in our seat pockets, the Borgata was the biggest hotel in Jersey, with a 161,000-square-foot casino, a 54,000-square-foot spa, and a 2,400-seat event center.

“Spence should be easy to find,” Kylie said. “He’ll be holed up in his room.”

Thirty-seven minutes after liftoff we set down on the Steel Pier in Atlantic City. A car was waiting to drive us the two miles to the Borgata. Q had covered all the bases.

Walking into the main entrance of the hotel, my senses were bombarded by the over-the-top grandeur of the decor and the nerve-jangling flashing lights and clanging bells of the slot machines.

There were three clerks at the reception desk. “The one on the left,” Rodrigo directed.

Kylie walked up to him, said a few words, and the clerk responded with a broad smile and a flat plastic room key.

“Smooth as silk,” Rodrigo said as the three of us walked toward the elevator.

There was a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on Spence’s door. Kylie looked at me and silently mouthed two words:
Thank you.
Then she took the key card, slid it into the lock, and pulled it out. A green light flashed, and she pushed the door open hard.

Spence, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a single sock, was lying on the carpet, faceup, a trail of wet vomit trickling from the side of his mouth.

His drug kit had spilled onto the floor, and an empty syringe was only inches from his motionless body.

THE NUMBER OF
heroin overdose deaths among young white males has skyrocketed in recent years, and from the looks of him, Spence Harrington was well on his way to becoming the latest statistic.

His lips had a blue tinge, his pupils were black pinholes, and the ominous death rattle that came from the back of his throat was a sure sign that his respiratory system was shutting down permanently.

Kylie dropped to her knees and tried to breathe for him, but he was unresponsive. “Narcan!” she yelled. “My bag.”

I grabbed her black leather handbag, turned it upside down, and everything poured out: money, makeup, tampons, keys, and then a small blue pouch with large white letters printed on it.

O
VERDOSE PREVENTION RESCUE KIT

P
REVENCION DE SOBREDOSIS EQUIPO DE RESCATE

In the war against drugs, Narcan—naloxone hydrochloride—is saving lives one junkie at a time. Normally it’s issued to 911 responders, but Kylie had had the presence of mind to grab a kit at the station before we left.

I tilted Spence’s head back while she loaded the syringe, inserted one end into Spence’s nostril, and sprayed half the liquid up his nose. Then she switched to the other nostril, gave another short, vigorous push on the plunger, and shot the rest of the naloxone toward his brain receptors.

It worked instantly, and Spence bolted up, coughing, cursing, and fighting us off. There was no gratitude, just anger—the addict’s natural reaction when you screw up his high.

“Rodrigo,” Kylie said, “this stuff wears off in less than an hour. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

“I’m already on it, boss,” he said, cell phone to his ear. He swept his hand across the room. “This is nasty shit to leave for the chambermaid.”

Kylie grabbed Spence’s overnight bag from the closet and began picking up the drug paraphernalia.

I bent down to give her a hand.

“Don’t!” she said.

I backed off. She was destroying evidence at a crime scene, and she didn’t want me to help. “But you can put my stuff back in my bag,” she said.

There was a loud knock at the door.

“Housekeeping,” a deep male voice said.

Rodrigo opened the door, and three stone-faced men in dark suits entered, one pushing a wheelchair. Without a word, two of them lifted Spence up off the floor, plopped him down in the chair, and seat-belted him in tight.

I retrieved Kylie’s belongings while the extraction team helped her scoop up Spence’s shoes, pants, and whatever might connect him to the makeshift drug den. Less than thirty seconds after they arrived, they ushered us out the door. Dark Suits One and Two led the way down the long corridor, followed by the man pushing the wheelchair, then Kylie, then me. Rodrigo brought up the rear.

Spence was ranting about his rights, but none of the suits cared enough to shut him up. A young couple passed us in the hallway and barely looked at us. I got the feeling that seeing a phalanx of people remove a crazy man from an Atlantic City hotel was not all that unusual.

The entire operation was perfectly choreographed: service elevator to an underground garage to an unmarked van for the two-mile drive to AtlantiCare Regional Medical Center. As soon as they handed Spence over to the ER docs, the rescue team from housekeeping disappeared, and Rodrigo escorted us to a VIP waiting room.

Forty-five minutes later, a bleary-eyed young resident walked in and said, “Harrington.”

Kylie stood up. “How is he?”

“Lucky to be alive,” the doc said, his tone clearly unsympathetic to those who clutter up his ER with self-inflicted wounds. “He has bilateral pneumonia. His lungs were compromised by the vomit he aspirated, so we’re keeping him on an IV antibiotic drip for the next seventy-two hours.”

“But he’ll be okay,” Kylie said, looking for reassurance.

The doctor shrugged. “This time around.”

“Can I see him?”

“He said he’d rather not have any visitors.”

Kylie flashed her shield. “I’m a cop. He’s a junkie. Take me to his room.”

SPENCE WAS IN
bed, staring at the ceiling, when Kylie and I entered. “Congratulations. You found me,” he said, not turning his head to look at us. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Kylie said, almost playfully. “For starters, I thought I’d save your life.”

“Who asked you? I left New York to get away from you trying to save my life. Leave me alone, Kylie.”

“Honey,” she said, doing her best to stay composed, “I’m just trying to help you get through this.”

He twisted his body so he could look at her. “
Help?
Is that what you call it when you kick my friend in the balls? Get it through your stubborn
I’m-a-rock-star-detective
brain, Kylie. You can’t help me. I’m an addict. I tried rehab, and it didn’t take.”

“Bullshit!” she yelled, giving up the tolerant, empathetic wife charade that has never been her style. “You were clean and sober for eleven years. You can do it again.”

“Don’t you get it?” he yelled back, thumping his fist on the mattress. “I don’t
want
to do it again. I’m a junkie, and I’m back in full-blown junkie mode. I need the high. I want the high. I don’t want to do anything except get high, and all you want to do is preach the same program bullshit. It doesn’t help, so unless you’re here to arrest me, get out and stop trying to save me. If I want to kill myself, that’s my business.”

“You want to kill yourself, asshole?” Kylie said, spitting out the words in a low growl. She reached into her holster, pulled out her gun, and shoved it at him, butt first. “Go ahead. Blow your brains out right here and spare me the agony of another long ride in the back of a police van to identify your body.”

Spence turned his head and looked away.

“Not ready yet?” Kylie said. “Call me when you are. I’ll keep it loaded.” She holstered her gun and stormed out the door.

“Don’t go,” Spence said.

“Too late,” I said.

“I mean you, Zach,” he said, rolling over and sitting up. “What the hell did she mean about identifying my body?”

“Your buddy Marco went up to the Bronx last night with a wallet full of money,” I said. “Your wallet.”

“So I lent a friend some money. Since when is that a crime?”

“You didn’t
lend
him anything, Spence. You sent him on a drug run to a war zone and gave him enough cash to make him a target. It worked. Somebody put a bullet through his head. And since he had your ID in his pocket, your wife spent a couple of hours thinking it was you. She doesn’t want to go through it again. And neither do I.”

Spence didn’t say a word.

“You’re right about one thing,” I said. “Kylie can’t help you. I don’t think you even want help. But just in case you ever feel like you do, hang on to this number.”

I took a piece of paper out of my pocket.

He looked at me in disgust. “I already have your number, Zach. Don’t hold your breath waiting for the phone to ring.”

Kylie opened the door. “Cates called. We have to roll. Now!”

I handed him the number. “Good luck,” I said, and left the room wondering if I’d ever see him alive again.

“I didn’t tell Cates where we were,” Kylie said as we double-timed our way down the hallway. “I just told her we’re on our way to the scene.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Another hospital robbery.”

“If only,” she said. “It’s a double homicide, and it’s got Cates climbing the walls.”

“And she called
us
in on it?” I said. “She knows we’re already stretched six ways to Sunday. Why would she dump two more bodies on us?”

“Probably because these two have our names written all over them.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“No positive ID, but they’re lying on the kitchen floor of the Bassett brothers’ loft building.”

“IF IT MAKES
you feel any better,” I said to Kylie once we were in the car on the way back to the chopper, “you saved his life.”

“That’s what cops do,” she said. “But this is the first time I ever felt like I owed an apology to the guy whose life I saved.”

“You don’t owe Spence anything,” I said. “There’s nothing you can do that you haven’t already done.”

“How about you? I saw you give him your phone number.”

“It wasn’t my number. It was the twenty-four-hour hotline to NA right here in Atlantic City. There was a tear-off sheet on the bulletin board in the waiting room. I figured he’s never going to call his counselor in New York, but on the outside chance that Marco’s death is a wake-up call for him, maybe he’ll reach out to a total stranger.”

“Thanks.” She turned and stared out the window to let me know the conversation was over.

We were almost at the helipad when my phone rang. “Oh crap,” I said as soon as I checked caller ID.

“Sounds to me like it’s either the boss or your girlfriend,” Kylie said, “and since Cates just called, I’m guessing it’s Cheryl.”

It was. I had hoped to be back in New York before she knew I was gone, but like a lot of people in Atlantic City, I had gambled and lost.

“Hey,” I said, answering the phone. “It’s not even nine thirty. I thought you and your mother were at the theater.”

“It was abysmal,” she said. “We left at intermission. I thought you’d be home by now. Where are you?”

“Atlantic City.”

“Atlantic—what’s Red doing down there?”

“It’s not police business. Kylie tracked down Spence, and she needed some help, so—”

“So you drove down there with her?”

“Actually, we took a chopper.”

“Are you kidding me? The department paid for a helicopter just so Kylie could pick up her husband?”

“It’s a private charter. A guy we know was trying to help Kylie out, and—look, it’s a long story.”