NYPD Red 4 (7 page)

I GOT HOME
at 6:52, eight minutes under the deadline. Cheryl was in the kitchen, spreading a pungent buttery mix on both sides of a split loaf of ciabatta.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“I’m making garlic bread.”

“My keen detective instincts picked up on that,” I said. “But I thought we were going out to dinner.”

“Who said anything about going out? I asked you how you felt about Italian food. You said
‘Fantastico,’
so that’s what I’m making. There’s a lasagna in the oven. It’ll be ready about seven thirty.”

“This is amazing,” I said.

“It’s not amazing,” she said. “It’s called dinner. Normal couples do it every night.”

I came around behind her, cupped her breasts in my hands, and let my lips and tongue nibble the back of her neck. “And what do normal couples do if they have thirty-five minutes to kill before their lasagna is ready?”

“Keep your pants on, Detective Horndog,” she said, wriggling away. “At least until after dinner. For now, why don’t you open a bottle of wine and turn on the TV? It doesn’t get any more normal than that.”

I put my badge, my gun, and my cell phone down on the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the dining area, pulled a bottle of Gabbiano Chianti from the wine rack, and poured two glasses.

I found the TV remote, flipped on
Jeopardy!
, and sat down on the sofa. Five minutes later, Cheryl joined me, and the two of us spent the next half hour vying to see who was the fastest at coming up with the right answer. It was a lopsided contest. She trounced me.

It was pure, unadulterated domestic boredom, and I loved it.

“Loser does the dishes,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.

I turned off the TV and went to the bathroom to wash up. I was looking in the mirror when my eye caught the pink bathrobe hanging next to my white one on the back of the door. Cheryl was not the first woman I had lived with. But this was the first time in my life that I wasn’t having second thoughts.

By the time I got back, the overhead lights in the dining area were dimmed, two flickering candles lit the room, and dinner was on the table: a steaming pan of lasagna, a salad bowl filled with greens and cherry tomatoes, and a basket of garlic bread.

“Are you sure this is normal?” I said. “Because it looks pretty
fantastico
to me.”

Cheryl was standing next to the breakfast bar. “Don’t sit down,” she said. She had my cell phone in her hand. “It rang while you were in the bathroom.”

“Whoever it is, tell them I’m eating dinner. I’ll call back.”

“It’s your partner,” Cheryl said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “She needs a cop.”

I took the phone. “Kylie, unless someone has a gun to your head, it’ll have to wait.”

“Zach, I’m at a gas station up in Harlem.”

“Doing what?”

“I tracked down one of Spence’s dealers.”

“Why? After everything the counselors at the rehab told you, why the hell would you—never mind, I know why you do the crazy shit you do. What I don’t know is why you’d go up there on your own without any backup.”

“Because I thought I could handle it on my own.”

“But you can’t.” I looked at Cheryl and mouthed the words “I’m sorry.” I turned back to the phone. “Okay, just tell me what’s going on.”

“The dealer’s name is Baby D. I confronted him and told him I was looking for my husband. He said he hasn’t seen Spence in months, but he’s lying. I know because he’s wearing Spence’s new watch.”

“You can’t bust him for that, Kylie.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jordan!” she yelled. “Are you going to give me a lecture on all the things I
can’t
do? I thought you said you’d help. Forget it.”

She hung up.

I stood there, seething.

“What’s going on?” Cheryl said.

“Same old, same old. She’s in over her head, she’s out of control, and she needs help.”

“Did you tell her to call for backup?”

“She can’t. It’s not police business. It’s her own crazy shit. I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said, tilting my head at Cheryl, hoping she’d pick up the baton.

“Don’t give me that puppy-dog look,” she said. “You know exactly what you’re going to do. You’re just hoping I’m the one who tells you to do it. Well, it’s not going to happen.”

Of course it wasn’t. I pressed the Recent Calls button on my phone and tapped the top one.

Kylie picked up on the first ring. “What?” she demanded.

“I told you this morning that I’d help, and I meant it.”

“Fine. Then get your ass up to the BP station on 129th and Park as fast as you can.”

“Give me twenty minutes,” I said, looking straight at Cheryl. “In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “And, Zach?”

“What?”

“Bring cash.”

I hung up the phone.

Cheryl walked over to the table, blew out the candles, then turned on the lights.

I grabbed my gun and badge from the counter, threw on my jacket, and went out the door.

Neither of us had said a word, which, in hindsight, was probably the smartest thing we could have done.

I MANAGED TO
flag a taxi as soon as I stepped out of my apartment building. The bad news was that it turned out to be a Prius—a great little car for the environment, with the emphasis on
little.
There was no time to look for another cab, so I jammed my six-foot frame into a backseat designed for five-footers, and we headed uptown.

I sat there, cramped, hungry, and fuming mad. I was pissed at Kylie for manipulating me the way she had, and I was even more pissed at myself for buying into it. The visual of a candlelit dinner gone south and the look on Cheryl’s face when I walked out the door was burned into my brain, and I tried to shake it out of my head.

The cabdriver didn’t say a word. I couldn’t blame him. Nothing says “keep your distance” like a nervous white guy dashing out of an Upper East Side apartment building and asking to be taken to a sketchy street corner in Harlem.

It was even sketchier than I expected. Harlem has changed dramatically in my lifetime. The stigma of street crime and urban decay has been replaced by trendy restaurants and designer boutiques, but the gentrification had not yet reached the corner of 129th and Park.

The avenue was dominated by the Metro-North train tracks that ran overhead. The street below was dotted by vacant lots, a fenced-in parking lot, and a combination BP station/twenty-four-hour food mart. The area around the pumps was well lit, and the driver pulled over and dropped me off there.

As soon as I squeezed my body out of the environmentally friendly little yellow box, I saw Kylie’s car parked on 129th Street. I got in the passenger side, and she started driving.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“Baby D has several offices around town. One of them is a chicken-and-waffles place a few blocks away, on Lexington.”

“How’d you know where to find him?”

“Because I’m a cop, and my husband is an addict. I tailed Spence on a couple of his drug runs just in case anything like this ever happened.”

“You
tailed
him?”

“Don’t judge me, Zach.”

“Tell me about this Baby D,” I said.

“Real name is Damian Hillsborough. Forget everything you know about these stereotype ghetto dealers hanging on the street corner, covered in tats and chains, peddling eight balls, and packing nine mils. Baby D is clean-cut, college-educated, and totally nonthreatening. He’s carved out a nice little niche for himself in the upscale Caucasian market.”

“Does he have a rap sheet?”

“No. He’s smart. He did a year at NYU law school before dropping out to go into a more profitable line of work.”

“And what’s my role in all this?”

“I want you to score some blow. As soon as you make a buy, I’ll step in.”

“Sounds like a great plan,” I said. “Except for that nasty little entrapment law the defense attorneys love to throw in our faces.”

“I thought you were done lecturing.”

“Kylie, it’s not a lecture. It’s Police Procedure 101. I’ve worked undercover. The criminal has to initiate the offense. A cop can’t induce someone to commit a crime and then arrest him.”

“I didn’t say I was going to arrest him. I’m trying to find my husband, and I need some leverage.”

We got to 126th Street and Lexington Avenue, where there was a cluster of storefronts: a McDonald’s, a Dunkin’ Donuts, a check-cashing place with the corrugated metal gate pulled down and locked, and a yellow awning that said “Goody’s Chicken and Waffles.” We got out of the car and walked up to the window.

“That’s him over there, the one with the green sweater,” Kylie said, pointing at a young black man sitting alone at a table, his fingers resting on the keyboard of a laptop.

“You want my take on your plan?” I asked.

“Go ahead.”

“It’s piss-poor. You think this guy is going to sell me drugs? If he’s as smart as you say he is, he wouldn’t sell me an aspirin if I got hit by a bus.”

“Hey, I’m trying to figure this out as I go along. Do you have a better idea?”

“I’ve got something in my head, but it’s going to take two of us, and I don’t know if you’re up to it—it’s not going to be easy.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Zach. Of course I’m up to it. I’ll do whatever it takes. What’s your idea?”

“I’ll go inside the chicken place and work on Baby D. You stay outside.”

“And do what?”

“Nothing. Don’t call me. Don’t hand-signal me. And since I can’t stop you from watching me through the window, don’t barge in and tell me I’m doing it wrong.”

“So you just want me to hang outside and do nothing?”

“Hey, I told you it wouldn’t be easy. I’m going in. Don’t screw it up.”

She hesitated.

“Kylie, do you want my help or not?”

“Go ahead,” she said. “Do it.”

I walked through the front door of Goody’s before she had time to change her mind.

I had no plan, no idea what I was going to do. All I knew was that it would be a hell of a lot easier to do it without her.

THE FIRST THING
I noticed about Goody’s was how incredible it smelled. There were at least thirty people having dinner, and a few more at the counter, waiting to order.

Baby D was the only one not eating. And despite the fact that his fingers were resting on his keyboard, he was not typing. He was watching me.

Kylie was right. He didn’t look anything like the stereotypical drug peddler you see in the movies or, for that matter, in real life. He looked more like a model who had stepped out of a J. Crew catalog. Tan chinos, tattersall shirt, and a V-neck sweater with the sleeves rolled up past his wrists. He was about twenty-five, clean-shaven, and damn good-looking.

I walked up to his table.

“Good evening, officer,” he said.

“What makes you think I’m a cop?” I said.

“You don’t exactly fit the profile of the neighborhood clientele.”

“Neither do you,” I said.

“Point taken,” he said. “And what can I do for New York’s Finest this evening?”

He may just as well have said “Checkmate.” He had made me for a cop, he understood the laws of probable cause, and he knew there was nothing I could do except stand there like a rookie and ask him questions he didn’t have to answer. The smug look on his face said it all. I was his entertainment for the evening. I hated him.

“You look hungry, officer,” he said. “You know what you might like? Goody’s Barnyard Platter.” He flashed me a self-satisfied smile. “It’s all
white-meat chicken.
”

That did it. I snapped. My brain hadn’t come up with a plan, so my testosterone took over. I grabbed him hard and pulled him from his chair. It shocked the hell out of both of us.

“You have no right to grab me like—”

“Shut your mouth, D bag.” I bent his left arm back and pulled the gold watch from his wrist.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I’ve been trained to deal with people who are rich, famous, and used to getting their asses kissed. If a cop wants to make the cut at Red, he’s got to be even-tempered, self-disciplined, emotionally stable. Kylie can sometimes cross the line, which is why Cates teamed us up. I was the voice of reason. But suddenly, without warning, I had become Dirty Harry.

I flipped the watch over and read the inscription. “Who’s Kylie?” I said.

“I don’t know.”

“The back of your watch says she loves you always,” I said, twisting his arm.

He yelped. “I bought it in a pawnshop.”

I shoved him back down in his chair. “Let me see the receipt.”

By now most of the people in the restaurant had looked up from their food and were watching the angry white guy push around the preppy-looking black kid. None of them looked like they were contemplating getting involved, but I flashed my shield just in case, and they quickly went back to the all-important task of filling their bellies and hardening their arteries.

Then I held the shield up to Baby D. “Detective Zachary Jordan,” I said, sitting down directly across from him.

“You just broke every rule in the Boy Scout handbook, Jordan.”

“Well, now you know what kind of cop you’re dealing with. Where’s Spence Harrington?”

“I already told the lady cop—”

“Her name is Kylie. Like it says on your watch.” I handed it back to him.

“I already told her. I don’t know where her old man is.”

I unsnapped my handcuff holster and pulled out the cuffs.

“What’s that for?” Baby D said.

“I’m arresting you for selling drugs.”

He laughed. “Dream on, Detective. Do you think I’m stupid enough to be holding?”

“I haven’t quite figured out how stupid you are yet, Damian, but I’m the one who’s holding. I’ve got a baggie with an eight ball of booger sugar right here in my jacket pocket, and when I take you in, I’m going to say you sold it to me.”