NYPD Red 4 (24 page)

Sykes handed us a photo of a four-star general pinning the award on Hawk’s chest. “Hawk left the military two years ago,” he said. “Since then he’s been a champion for veterans’ rights. Bottom line: the man you arrested last night is a national hero.”

My stomach dropped. Kylie, however, tackled the news head-on.

“With all due respect, sir,” she said, “national heroes don’t steal millions of dollars’ worth of medical equipment.”

“Understood. But you’re thinking like a cop.”

“I thought that was my job, sir.”

“It is, but it’s my job to think about the public backlash that’s going to erupt when word gets out that my wife’s elite task force locked up America’s poster boy.”

“Sir, I am patriotic to the core,” Kylie snapped, “but a Silver Star isn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card. What are we supposed to do, unarrest him?”

“Rein it in, Detective,” Cates ordered. “Last night we had a police problem. You solved it. Now it’s about to become a political shit storm, and if you think that’s not your problem too, then you’re in the wrong unit. This team was founded to serve at the mayor’s pleasure. When she has a problem, we all have one.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kylie said. And then, in a rare moment for her, she apologized. “Howard, I’m sorry. What can we do to help?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m an ad guy. Muriel has only been mayor for three months. Before that, she was a U.S. attorney. We both swam with sharks, but they were toothless compared to the ones we’re up against now. Especially Woloch.”

I winced when I heard the name. “Dennis Woloch?” I said.

Sykes nodded.

Woloch is every ADA’s nightmare. He’s the most formidable defense attorney in the city—a cross between Clarence Darrow and Lord Voldemort. His remarkable ability to mesmerize twelve people in a jury box is so legendary that the press dubbed him the Warlock—a name that only enhances his mystique.

“He’s been retained by the Hudson Hospital Five,” Cates said. “He called the DA this morning. He wants the city to drop the case.”

Kylie exploded. “
Drop the case?
Captain, we caught them stealing the equipment. They
shot
at us.”

“It turns out they used nonlethal weapons and rubber bullets,” Cates said.

“Nothing is 100 percent
non
lethal.”

“The Warlock will claim that these were trained marksmen. They only used the guns to deter the police.”

“What about the ten hospitals they robbed?”

“He informed the DA that he plans to use the Robin Hood defense.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Kylie said, her tone barely on the right side of snarky, “but didn’t Robin Hood steal from the rich and give to the poor?”

“Yes, MacDonald. I read the book, saw the movie,” Cates said. “But according to Woloch, Congress has turned a deaf ear on the sergeant’s campaign for better health-care benefits for veterans, so Hawk and his band of Merry Men have decided to fund it on their own. They’re not selling the stolen equipment on the black market. It’s all going into an underground health clinic they’re building for veterans. A jury will eat it up.”

“A jury?” Sykes said. “The whole purpose of bringing Red into this was to keep everything out of the press. If this goes public, it will be a front-page nightmare of global proportions and a political disaster for Muriel.”

“I have a possible solution,” I said.

Sykes exhaled. “Tell me. Please.”

“You’re not going to like it,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter if I like it,” Sykes said, “as long as my wife likes it.”

“She’ll probably hate it,” I said. “It’s got no political artistry to it. It’s pretty much straightforward, get-the-job-done cop logic.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about political artistry,” Sykes said. “All I want to do is keep Woloch the Warlock from positioning Sergeant Hawk as a modern-day Robin Hood. Because if he does, my wife will come off looking like the goddamn Sheriff of Nottingham.”

“THE MAN IS
in over his head,” Cates said as soon as Howard Sykes left her office. “I don’t care what he did in advertising. He’s got a lot to learn about damage control.”

“At least he was smart enough to give us the green light on Zach’s idea,” Kylie said.

“Good luck making it work,” Cates said. “Ivy League smarts are no match for a street fighter like Woloch. He’s got the mayor up against the hot pipes, and he’s going to ask her for the moon. The son of a bitch is cunning.”

“Speaking of cunning,” I said, “Max Bassett has been lying to us big-time.”

“About what? He copped to shooting Jeremy Nevins.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” I said. “A grand jury won’t indict him for shooting a home invader who killed his brother.”

“Then what is he lying about?”

“He ID’d the necklace that Chuck Dryden found in Jeremy Nevins’s backpack as the one that was taken the night of the robbery.”

“And the insurance company confirmed it,” Cates said.

“Not exactly. All they did was confirm it’s the one they insured. Once they got it back, they were off the hook for eight mil, so why bother doing forensics to see if it was the same one that was stolen?”

“The
same
one? You’re telling me there was more than one necklace?”

“We think so.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on the fact that when your brother is lying in a pool of blood, and you just shot the man who killed him, your story on how it all went down can’t be so perfect that it sounds like you’ve rehearsed it for hours. We knew Max was hiding something, but we didn’t know what, so we had Chuck run a DNA test on the necklace. The crime scene photos showed that Elena’s neck and chest had been lacerated during the robbery, but the necklace that came out of Nevins’s backpack didn’t have a single trace of her hair, her skin, or her blood.”

Cates shrugged. “So Nevins had it steam cleaned, or whatever jewelers do to get the gunk off and the shine back.”

“It wasn’t clean. Dryden said the necklace was ripe with a buildup of grease and skin oils, but none of the DNA belonged to Elena.”

“Because she never had it around her neck,” Cates said, connecting the dots.

“We think the Bassetts gave Elena a fake, then had it stolen so they could collect the insurance on the real one,” Kylie said. “So we contacted the insurance investigator. Turns out the Bassetts filed three claims for theft in the past twenty-two years, each with a different insurance company. Each claim was paid in full, a total of nineteen million. This robbery was probably supposed to go down just like the others, but it all went to shit when Elena got killed.”

I picked up the story. “After that, they all turned against each other. Nevins shot Davis. Teddy Ryder took off with the bogus necklace, which he probably thought was real. Then Nevins kills Leo. And finally Max conveniently overhears them fighting, kills Nevins, and plants the real necklace on him. He won’t collect the insurance, but he doesn’t care, because it looks like the case is all neatly tied up, so the heat’s off.”

“And with his brother dead,” Kylie said, “Max would now be the sole owner of the company, which is probably an even bigger payout than eight million.”

“Can you prove any of this?” Cates said.

“The only way we can prove anything would be to find the fake that Elena Travers was wearing.”

“Then find it, because the DA will laugh you out of his office if you ask him to hang a case on a
lack
of DNA. Do you even know where to look?”

“We’ll start with Annie Ryder,” Kylie said. “If her son, Teddy, has it, she may be willing to turn it over if we cut him a deal.”

“Talk to her and see what she wants,” Cates said.

“If we can find her,” I said. “The way the bodies have been piling up, we’re hoping she’s still alive.”

MAX BASSETT PULLED
the Land Rover off the Taconic at the Shrub Oak exit and was happy to catch the red light at the bottom of the ramp. It gave him time to take another quick look at the
New York Post
sitting on the passenger seat.

He grinned. His picture was on the front page. He read the headline for the tenth time.

BIG GAME HUNTER BAGS ELENA JEWEL THIEF

He flipped to page three and reread the first sentence of the story.

Maxwell Bassett, the big-game-hunting, Hemingway-esque celebrity jeweler, added “hero” to his list of accomplishments when he shot and killed Jeremy Nevins, the man behind the murders of actress Elena Travers and Bassett’s brother, Leopold.

The car behind him honked, and Max turned west onto Route 6. “I’m a hero, Leo,” he said. “Too bad you’re not around to throw one of your soirees in my honor.”

The fifty-minute drive from Manhattan had been a breeze, but the last leg required his full attention. He tossed the newspaper to the floor of the car so he could focus. It was early spring, and while Mohegan Lake had thawed, the three-mile stretch of winding unpaved road that led to his twelve-million-dollar waterfront home was still patched with the ravages of a brutal winter.

Ten minutes later, he eased the Land Rover into the garage and went directly to the boathouse. His Skeeter FX-21 had been idle since October, but one phone call to his longtime caretaker, Tom Messner, and the sleek twenty-one-foot bass boat was ready for the season. He opened the cooler Tom had stowed on board. Inside were the roast beef sandwiches, thermos of coffee, and cigars he’d requested, along with something the eighth-grade-educated Messner hardly ever left: a handwritten note.

Dear Mr. Bassett. Sorry to here about your bother Leo. From, Tom.

“My
bother?
” Max said, laughing out loud. “Good news, Tom. My bother Leo won’t be bothering me anymore.”

Max turned over the Skeeter and piloted it slowly toward the center of the lake. He reflected on what had happened since he’d last been on the boat.

It started six months ago at one of Leo’s overpriced vanity parties. As soon as Sonia arrived with Jeremy Nevins in tow, Max recognized the type: a pretty-faced sleazebag who would fuck anyone who could get him close to the rich and powerful. Max said a cold hello and watched as Jeremy’s eyes darted hungrily to Max’s rose gold and diamond Audemars Piguet watch. Pretty
and
greedy, Max noted.

Leo, of course, couldn’t stop drooling over the boy. That night, the brothers had their usual screaming match over franchising the Bassett name. It ended with Leo storming out, shrieking, “Over my dead body.”

So be it
, Max decided. The next day he invited Jeremy to lunch.

“Let me cut to the chase,” Max said as soon as the drinks had been served. “My brother has a crush on you. I’d like you to ask him out.”

“Why doesn’t he ask me himself?” the young cocksman said, sipping a Kir Royale.

“He’s not stupid. You’re thirty years younger and totally out of his league.”

“True. Then why would I go out with him if
you
ask me?”

“Because,” Max said, removing the eighty-thousand-dollar watch from his wrist and sliding it across the table, “I think you appreciate the finer things in life, and you’ll do what it takes to get them.”

Maxwell Bassett had stalked elephants in Africa, rhinos in Namibia, and crocs along the Nile, so baiting the trap for a rat was easy. Jeremy’s hand trembled as he picked up the watch.

After that it was a simple game of raising the stakes. It all went flawlessly until Leo had a hissy fit and bailed out of the limo, and Jeremy’s bungling minions shot the wrong person. But Max adapted, and on Thursday night, it all fell into place in Leo’s kitchen. There was only one last loose end: find the cultured crystal necklace he had crafted before the cops did.

And then, out of the blue, it found him. An email had arrived last night with a picture of the fake, the words For Sale, and a phone number.

He called. The seller was none other than Annie Ryder. Negotiating with her dim-witted son would have been easy: agree to any price, and as soon as Max had the necklace in his hands, he’d pay Teddy off with a single bullet. But Jeremy had clued him in on the old con woman. She was too smart to believe that Max would roll over without bargaining. He’d have to haggle, make her think she was working for the money, and finally let her win.

All he needed was a little patience. And a second bullet.

He killed the engine midlake and the boat drifted to a stop. The NorCross HawkEye depth finder on the dash told him it was fifty-nine feet to the bottom.
Deep enough.
Teddy and Annie Ryder would be at the house at two p.m. By nightfall, they’d be at the bottom of Mohegan Lake, their feet weighted and their stomachs slit to keep the gases from letting them float to the surface.

A few days after that, the cops would release Leo’s body, and Max would pose solemn-faced and grief-stricken for the press at his funeral. After that he’d sign the contract with Precio Mundo, and his first design would be a tribute to his dear departed brother.

He lit one of the cigars Tom had left, sat back, and soaked up the April sunshine. The hunt was almost over.

IN AN ALTERNATE
universe, Annie Ryder decided, she and Max Bassett would have made a great team. He was a master at forging high-end jewelry, and she … hell, she was a legend.

They could have made millions, but she’d have dropped him like a bad check the minute the shooting started. She could deal with the big-game-hunter shit. It was a dick thing. But killing Elena Travers—that was a deal breaker. Bassett didn’t pull the trigger, but he’d hired Raymond to do his dirty work, and that left Teddy facing an accessory-to-murder rap.

The Partner That Might Have Been was now her sworn enemy, and Annie Ryder was on her way to settle the score.

“This guy’s driveway is like a hockey rink,” Teddy said as he navigated the beat-up Chevy van down a stretch of icy road leading to Bassett’s house.