NYPD Red 4 (28 page)

Irwin gave her his best payback’s-a-bitch smile. “Have I got it right so far?” he said.

“Cut to the chase, Mr. Diamond,” she said. “How do I prosecute?”

“You don’t. Not unless you want to be a very unpopular one-term mayor.”

“That’s your answer? Do nothing?”

“Did I say do nothing? No. I said don’t lock up a bunch of do-gooder war heroes for trying to help their less fortunate comrades. Instead, I suggest you give them what they want.”

“Which is what?”

“They want a state-of-the-art, fully funded ambulatory health-care facility for the men and women who put their lives on the line for this country. And you, Madam Mayor, should lead the charge to see that they get it.”

“How am I supposed to—”

“For starters,” Irwin interrupted, “the city should generously give them the land. Trust me: you have plenty just sitting around doing nothing. Then you should call the heads of all the hospitals that were robbed and ask them to donate all the equipment that was stolen and to kick in a few million apiece to put up some bricks and mortar.”

“They’d hang up on me,” Sykes said.

“They didn’t hang up on me,” Irwin said. “I’ve called seven since yesterday, and here’s what they’ve pledged so far.” He handed her a sheet of paper.

“Twelve million dollars?” Howard said, looking at the list over her shoulder.

“Howard, you of all people should know what these institutions spend each year on advertising. A couple of million is chump change to these guys. And if you position this as a joint venture between the city and the private sector for the benefit of veterans, I guarantee you that every hospital—whether they were robbed or not—will want to be on the list of donors.”

“Very creative thinking, Mr. Diamond,” the mayor said, “but these people broke the law.”

“I spoke to the district attorney, who also doesn’t want to be the bad cop in this scenario. He’s willing to offer them a long-term community-service commitment. I’m sure they’d rather work at the new medical facility than pull jail time. What do you think, Madam Mayor? Would you like to be the one who helps these heroes get what they fought for?”

For the first time since I’d met him, Howard Sykes went on record before his wife had a chance to react. “I think it’s brilliant,” he said. “Muriel is only three months into her first term, but you’ve given us a boatload of bullet points and photo ops for her reelection campaign.”

He turned to his wife. She sat quietly for a solid twenty seconds, then slowly got out of her chair and walked around the table. “Howard is right, Mr. Diamond. You’ve taken a worst-case scenario and turned it into a golden opportunity. Thank you.” She extended her hand to her former opponent.

Irwin stood up and wrapped both of his hands around hers. “A pleasure to be of service, Madam Mayor.”

“Muriel,” she said.

“Irwin,” he responded.

“Well then, Irwin, how would you feel about staying on and helping us nail down the details? We could discuss it over dinner tomorrow night. My house.”

“I’ll be there, Muriel,” the Fixer said with a warm smile. “I believe I know the address.”

AT THREE O’CLOCK,
Kylie left the precinct and walked to the Hertz office on East 64th Street.
One more chance
, she thought as she got behind the wheel of the Chevy Malibu.
Just give him one more chance.

How many times had she said those words? And the answer was always the same.

“I can’t, Kylie,” her mother had said. “I love your father, but I’m out of chances.”

She was ten when her parents got divorced. She couldn’t understand her mother’s logic. If you loved someone, really loved them, how could you not give them one more chance to make the marriage work?

Twenty-five years later, faced with the same life choice as her mother, she was able to make some sense of it.

She loved the man she married ten years ago, but that was not the man whose heart was filled with vitriol when he attacked her from his hospital bed. Spence’s drug addiction had taken its toll on them both. How had she become the woman who handed her husband a loaded gun when he threatened to kill himself?

They’d talked since then, and with each phone call he was starting to sound more like the old Spence. He was talking the talk, and she was hoping he could pick up the pieces and get back to walking the walk.

She hadn’t told him she was coming. He might say no, and Kylie hated taking no for an answer. It was time for her to clean up her side of the street, and as unaccustomed as she was to apologizing for her actions, there was one thing she knew for sure: you don’t phone in your amends.

She would meet him halfway. He could move back home. She’d be there for him when he needed her, but she wouldn’t try to micromanage his recovery. He had to want it as much as she did.

It was six p.m. when she got to AtlantiCare Regional. She freshened up in the ladies’ room, and then, hair, makeup, and ego in place, she went to his room.

“Can I help you?” the woman in Spence’s bed asked.

“I’m sorry. I thought this was my husband’s room.”

“This is 202,” the woman said.

“Oh,” Kylie said. “My mistake.”

There was no mistake: 202 was Spence’s room. She went to the nurses’ station.

“I’m looking for Spence Harrington,” she said. “Can you tell me what room he’s in?”

“Harrington?” the nurse said, checking her computer screen. “He was discharged this morning.”

“Are you sure?”

The nurse gave her a look: she was sure. “But don’t take my word for it,” she said. “Give him a call.”

Spence had a burner phone. Kylie dialed the number. He answered on the first ring. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Things are crazy at work,” Kylie said. “We have a meeting scheduled with the mayor. She should be here any minute. What are you doing?”

“Nothing much. You know hospitals.”

“How about if I drive down and say hello tomorrow or Wednesday?” Kylie said.

“That’s probably not the best idea,” Spence said. “Zach gave me this NA hotline number, and I called it yesterday. There’s a real good recovery center right here in Atlantic City. They have an opening, and someone is going to pick me up in the morning and check me in.”

“That’s great, Spence. I can visit you there.”

“Not right away. They’re pretty strict. Even tougher than the rehab in Oregon. No visitors. No phones.”

“How long will you be out of touch?”

“Not long. Four weeks, tops.”

“And then what?”

“Hey, babe,” he said, laughing. “Not a fair question. I’m supposed to be doing this one-day-at-a-time shit.”

“Spence …”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“About everything. Especially Thursday night when I tried to give you my gun.”

He laughed again. “Don’t try that next time you arrest some asshole. He might take it and shoot you. Hey, the guy with the food cart is here with my dinner. I should go.”

“Mayor Sykes just got here. I’ve got to go too.”

“Kylie …”

“What?”

“I’m sorry too.”

“About what?”

One more laugh—not because it was funny, but because it eased the pain. “I’ll make a list and send it to you,” he said. “I better go before my dinner clots.”

“I love you, Spence.”

“I love you too, Kylie. I always have. I always will.” He hung up.

She believed him. Not the blatant lies about being in the hospital, or the food cart arriving, or checking into a recovery center. But she believed with all her heart that he loved her.

And she knew in her heart that she would always love him.

But they were both out of chances.

THERE HAD BEEN
an Evite in my email inbox that morning, and I’d printed it and carried it with me all day. The picture was a bottle of Chianti and two glasses on a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. The copy was pure Cheryl.

You are cordially invited to Cheryl’s Lasagna Dinner: Take 2 My place. 7:30 p.m. Don’t screw it up.

I arrived at her apartment ten minutes early. She put her arms around me and kissed me sweetly in the open doorway, lingering on my lips. She tasted like heaven.

“I come bearing gifts,” I said, handing her a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine several notches up from the Chianti on the Evite.

“It would be gracious of me to say ‘Oh really, you shouldn’t have,’” she said, closing the apartment door and clicking the lock. “But who am I kidding? Of course you should have.”

“There’s more,” I said, taking a plastic CVS bag from my pocket. “A housewarming gift.”

She opened the bag. Inside was a package of men’s underwear and a brand-new toothbrush.

“Oh, Zach, thank you. It’s just what I always wanted,” she said. “And I have a gift for you.”

She took me by the hand and led me into the bedroom.

The lights were low, and the light scent of her perfume was in the air. “I’m ready for my gift,” I said.
Oh God, am I ready.

She opened a dresser drawer. It was empty.

“Ta-da! It’s all yours,” she said, tossing the underwear and the toothbrush inside.

“Thank you,” I said, wrapping my arms around her and pressing her close.

“Hold that thought,” she said, breaking away. “Dinner is served.”

I followed her into the kitchen, opened the wine, and poured two glasses.

“A toast,” she said. “To the team of Jordan and MacDonald, best damn cops in the city.”

I downed most of my drink and refilled my glass. “And to the team of Jordan and Robinson, best damn couple in the city.” I took another big drink.

“Wow,” she said. “You’re really pounding that wine. Tough day?”

“No,” I said. “Pretty great day, actually. But I plan to spend a long romantic evening with the woman I love, and if Cates calls, I want to make sure I have enough alcohol in my bloodstream to be able to tell her I’m too liquored up to protect or serve.”

She kissed me again, lit the candles, and set two steaming plates of lasagna on the table.

We sat down. “And what happens if Kylie calls?” she said, her dark eyes playing with me.

“She won’t. She drove to Atlantic City to bring Spence home. In fact”—I raised my glass—“here’s to MacDonald and Harrington: together again, at last.”

“But what if she does call?” Cheryl said. “I know you. You can’t say no to Kylie.”

“You’re right,” I said. “If she calls, I can’t say no.”

I stood up, took her by the hand, and walked her back to the bedroom. I opened my new dresser drawer, buried my cell phone beneath the underwear, shut the drawer, pulled her out of the room, closed the bedroom door, and the two of us went back and sat down at the table.

I took one more sip of my wine. “Now,” I said, sliding my fork onto the tender pasta and inhaling the intoxicating aroma of perfectly seasoned meat, cheese, and tomatoes, “where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”

The authors would like to thank NYPD detectives Sal Catapano, Daniel Corcoran, Kevin Gieras, Brian O’Donnell, and Thomas Mays; NYPD transit bureau officer J. C. Myska; Dr. John Froude; Dr. Lawrence Dresdale; Dan Fennessey; Richard Villante; Robert Chaloner; Mike Winfield Danehy; Brian Sobie; Lani Crescenzi; Marina Savina; Gerri Gomperts; Bob Beatty; Mel Berger; and Jason Wood for their help in making this work of fiction ring true.

Rio de Janeiro, Saturday, July 12, 2014
2:00 p.m.

CHRIST THE REDEEMER appeared and vanished in the last clouds clinging to jungle mountains that rose right up out of the city and the sea. Then the sun broke through for good and shone down on the giant white statue of Jesus that looked over virtually all of Rio from the summit of Corcovado Mountain.

In the prior two months, I’d seen the statue from dozens of vantage points, but never like this, from a police helicopter hovering at the figure’s eye level two hundred and fifty feet away, close enough for me to understand the immensity of the statue and its simple, graceful lines.

I am a lapsed Catholic, but I tell you, I got chills up and down my spine.

“That’s incredible,” I said as the helicopter arced away, flying over the steep, jungle-choked mountainside.

“One of the seven modern wonders of the world, Jack,” Tavia said.

“You know the other six offhand, Tavia?” I asked her.

Tavia smiled, shook her head, said, “You?”

“Not a clue.”

“You without a clue? I don’t believe it.”

“That’s because I’m unparalleled in the art of faking it.”

My name is Jack Morgan. I own Private, an international security and consulting firm with bureaus in major cities all over the world. Octavia “Tavia” Reynaldo, a tall, sturdy woman with jet-black hair, a lovely face, and beguiling eyes, ran Private Rio. And we’d always had this teasing chemistry between us.

The two of us stood in the open side door of the helicopter, harnessed and tethered to the ceiling of the hold. I hung on tight to a steel handle anyway. The pilot struck me as more than competent, but I couldn’t help feeling a little anxious as we picked up speed and headed southeast.