NYPD Red (3 page)

“HEIL HITLER,”
Ian said, throwing his right arm in the air as Muhlenberg entered his trailer.

It wasn’t funny the first time. It wasn’t funny the hundredth. The director forced a smile.

Without makeup, Ian Stewart looked every day of his fifty-six years. He was a womanizing shit heel with a short fuse and a giant ego. “Russell Crowe Without the Charm,” one tabloid had called him. And Muhlenberg’s career was riding on him.

“I had a little talk with Edie,” Henry said.

“Little talk? You were in her trailer for nearly an hour. What’d you have to do?” he asked, rolling his tongue over his lips.

“Give me a break, Ian. This is your big scene. The one you insisted on. It added over three million dollars to the budget,” Henry said. “I did whatever it took. She’s ready to shoot. Now please, get into makeup before she changes her mind.”

Ian clicked his heels.
“Ja, mein Direktor. Danke schön.”

As far as Muhlenberg was concerned, the scene he was about to shoot was a total piece of shit. A black-tie wedding reception. Ian was the groom. Devon Whitaker, the twenty-two-year-old blonde Ian was banging, was the bride. Edie was the ex-wife. She crashed the wedding, gun in hand, and shot the happy couple.

But wait—it was all a dream sequence, so the big ham got to die dramatically on camera and still come back for the rest of the film. All it did was muddy up a script that already had the life sucked out of it by four different writers. But Ian wouldn’t make the movie without it.
Wanker.

“Hey, did you hear about Sid Roth?” Ian asked.

“Yeah, I heard he dropped dead over breakfast at the Regency. Heart attack.”

“More like poison if you believe the rumor mill.” Ian laughed. “Doesn’t surprise me. That bastard had so many enemies, it’s a wonder nobody killed him sooner.”

“I can see you’re all broken up about it,” Henry said.

“I’m thrilled,” Ian said. “With Roth dead, I move up another notch on the list of most hated people in show business. Three more and I’ll be in the top ten.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, you’re number one around here,” Henry said.
“Heil Hitler.”

CAPTAIN DELIA CATES is NYPD to the core. Born and raised in Harlem, she’s a third-generation cop with a career path that puts her on the fast track to becoming the city’s first female police commissioner—Columbia University, four years in the Marine Corps, and a master’s in criminal justice from John Jay College.

She’s somewhere north of forty, quite attractive, with dark brown eyes, flawless cocoa skin, and a warm, easy smile. Inside, she’s tougher than a three-dollar steak. She’s also a born leader and the best boss I’ve ever had.

It’s not every day she summons me for a one-on-one, and this morning’s invitation caught me off guard. I walked into her office at 7:55.

It was a typical no-nonsense Cates meeting. She spelled out what she wanted, I responded with a few well-placed “yeses” and “Captains,” and I walked out at 7:56 only slightly more conflicted than when I went in.

I headed for the briefing room and took a seat with Kylie and eleven other detectives. Cates walked in at 8:00 on the nose.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “As you all know, the mayor has rolled out a red carpet three thousand miles long in the hopes of winning the hearts and wallets of Hollywood’s movie moguls. Our job is to make them feel welcome and safe. Basically, it’s the same drill we go through every day, but this week we have five times as many people to serve and protect. A lot of the goings-on will be behind closed doors. Meetings, lunches, tours of production facilities—all in controlled environments, a lot of them with their own rent-a-cops.

“But there’s also going to be a number of high-visibility public events, and that brings out the stalkers, the fans, the paparazzi, and a shitload of other crazies. The biggest one is a red carpet shindig tonight at Radio City. I just spoke to the DI at Midtown North, and people are already starting to camp out. We’ll have at least a hundred uniforms working the crowd, plus another thirty in plainclothes, including all of you. The bad news is that this is going to be one damn long day. The good news is that the mayor loosened the purse strings, and there’s plenty of overtime money in the budget.

“Tuesday and Wednesday, there’ll be fewer public events, but you know these folks like to party after a hard day, so take your cell phones to the bathroom with you. Then on Thursday—”

Her cell went off. “See what I mean?”

We all recognized the ring tone. Cates called it her “bat phone.” Anyone who had that number took priority over whatever she was doing at the moment.

She answered. “Captain Cates.” She listened stone-faced for fifteen seconds, then said “We’re on it,” and hung up.

“We’re off to a bad start,” she said. “We have a dead Hollywood producer on the floor of the dining room of the Regency—Sixty-first and Park. Possible homicide. Jordan and MacDonald—get on it.”

I can’t quite explain what happened next. Kylie was up and heading for the door. But I just sat there processing the reality of what had woken me up in the middle of the night. Kylie and I were a team, and we were going out on our first case together. It was quite a rush. It couldn’t have been more than three seconds, but it was three seconds too long for Cates.

“Jordan,” she barked. “Go.”

I went.

Cates snapped right back to the briefing. “For those of you who haven’t met her, Jordan’s new partner is Detective Kylie MacDonald. She’s on temporary assignment—”

Temporary assignment.

It’s the last thing I heard before I got to the door, but I no longer had any idea how I felt about that.

THE REGENCY WAS only five minutes away from the precinct.

“I can’t believe Cates threw me a homicide on Day One,” Kylie said as soon as we got in the car.

“Possible homicide,” I said. “And I can’t believe we invited all these Hollywood heavyweights to New York and one of them is dead before lunch.”

“What did Cates want when she called you in to her office?”

“Nothing important.”

“Cates is too busy to call you in for nothing important,” Kylie said. “If you don’t want to tell me, don’t tell me, but don’t dodge the question.”

“She wanted an update on Omar. I gave it to her.” It was a lie, and a pretty lame one at that.

Kylie didn’t buy it. “Zach, I’m on trial here. Cates wants to know if I’m going to cut it. The best way she can do that is to tell you to keep tabs on me and report in to her.”

“That’s bullshit,” I said. “Cates makes all her own decisions.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to be with me twelve, fourteen hours a day. She’s going to want your input.”

Which is exactly why Cates called me in to her office.

We caught a red light at 63rd and Park, and I turned to Kylie. “I hope you’re not going to spend twelve, fourteen hours a day overthinking shit like this.”

“Look, you don’t have to tell me anything. If she did ask you, she probably
told
you not to tell me anything. And if it makes you feel any better, I hope she did ask you.”

“Why?”

“You already know I’m a better cop than you are, so I don’t care if you get a vote.” She laughed. “As long as she doesn’t ask my husband. Spence is dead set against me getting this job on a permanent basis.”

The committee inside my head called an emergency meeting.
Spence knows you never got over Kylie. You’re a threat. He doesn’t want you spending sixty hours a week with his wife.

As far as I was concerned, the answer was clear, but I needed to hear it for myself. “What’s Spence’s problem with this assignment?” I asked.

“He wants me to get pregnant,” she said. “I was just about ready, but when Red came along I told him it was my dream job, and if I got it full-time, we’d have to put the baby on hold for a few years.”

The committee regrouped.
Spence isn’t in competition with you. He’s in competition with the job. If she stays on as your partner, she doesn’t get pregnant. Now what are we going to tell Cates?

There was a line of limos parked in the No Parking zone in front of the hotel. I had to hit the siren three times before the driver at the front of the line even looked at me, and twice more before he reluctantly gave up his spot.

We got out of the car.

“What’s the drill?” Kylie said. “You’re the senior. You want me to stay in the background, or jump in with both feet?”

“There are no senior partners or junior partners,” I said. “You’re here because you’re a good cop. Besides, Cates said the vic was a Hollywood producer, and you have the extra bonus of being married to a guy in the biz, so you understand what makes these people tick.”

Kylie shook her head. “I’ve got news for you, Six. Nobody knows what in the hell makes these people tick.”

“SETTLE DOWN, PEOPLE,” the assistant director bellowed. “Picture is up. Roll sound.”

Henry Muhlenberg took a deep breath. He was finally back in control. Thirty feet away, looking elegant in a vintage
Casablanca
black shawl-collar tuxedo, The Chameleon had the same thought.

“Speed.”

The clapboard snapped shut, and the assistant director called out, “Background action.”

The Chameleon and ninety-nine other wedding guests slid into character, chatting, laughing, drinking, all without making a sound.

“And action,” Muhlenberg called.

The bride and groom, Devon Whitaker and Ian Stewart, stepped onto the dance floor, and the assembled guests stopped pretending to talk and pretended to be enthralled as the happy couple began to dance.

The band pretended to play. The music would be added to the sound track in postproduction. Ian and Devon twirled around the room.

“Dancing, dancing, dancing,” Muhlenberg called out, waiting for the couple to hit their marks. “And now!”

Edie Coburn stepped into the scene wearing a pair of wide-legged, high-waisted Katharine Hepburn trousers and a loose-fitting chocolate brown silk blouse.

“Well, well, well!” she screamed, pointing a nine-millimeter SIG Pro at the couple. “The former Mrs. Minetti finally gets to meet the current Mrs. Minetti.”

The crowd reacted with appropriate horror. Muhlenberg looked at the video monitor on the close-up camera. Edie Coburn was calm and cold on the outside, but seething with rage on the inside. Hardly a stretch for her to play the jealous ex-wife, Muhlenberg thought, but still, she was brilliant.

Ian turned to her, his eyes filled more with anger than fear. “Put the gun down, Carla. If this is another one of your stupid melodramatic—”

Edie fired at the bride. Once. Twice. Blood stained the lace front of the wedding gown, and Devon collapsed to the floor. Ian let out a wail and charged toward Edie. She fired again. Blood spread across his white shirt. He staggered, and she fired again. Arterial spray spurted across the dance floor, and Ian fell down hard.

It was a spectacular film death, and Henry had it covered with four cameras. “And cut!” he yelled. “Brilliant.”

The assistant director helped the bloodied bride to her feet. “Ian, you need help?” he asked.

Ian Stewart didn’t answer. He gasped for air and let out a groan that turned into a full-throated wet gurgle as blood gushed from his windpipe and onto the parquet floor.

The special effects guy was the first to figure it out. The blood squibs on the wedding gown had exploded right on cue, but the blood pouring out of Ian Stewart was very real.

“Live fire!” he shouted as he barreled his way onto the set, grabbed Edie Coburn’s arm, and wrestled the gun from her hand.

Henry Muhlenberg was right behind him. He dropped to the floor and lifted the actor’s head. The blood had slowed to a trickle. Ian’s face was contorted, mouth agape, eyes wide open, seeing nothing.

“Get a doctor!” Muhlenberg screamed, knowing it was futile.

The extras were on their feet, some stunned, some crying, some shoving their way to the front to get a better look.

The Chameleon stood in their midst, motionless, just another horrified face blending in with the crowd.

KYLIE AND I entered the lobby of the Regency Hotel, and three men pounced on us. The general manager, the executive chef, and some guy from corporate. The manager informed us that one of their guests had suffered a heart attack, and Mr. Corporate said they were there to help in any way they possibly could.

In another era, the lead detective would have squared off with them and said, “Bullshit—you want the cops and the dead guy out of your dining room as soon as possible so you can get on with lunch and pretend this never happened.”

Today’s NYPD is different. We practice CPR—Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect. I thanked them for their help, exchanged business cards, and politely asked for their indulgence while my partner and I took a look at the deceased.

“We have a defibrillator on hand,” the manager said, like this was a dry run for the insurance investigation. “But it appears to be one of those sudden but deadly coronaries. There was no time to save him.”

The corporate guy, who was probably the vice president in charge of covering shit up, said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a heavy smoker.” Then he assured us that all the resources of the hotel were at our disposal to help resolve this tragedy in a timely fashion.

Short of tossing the body on a baggage cart and tucking it out of sight behind the bell desk, I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what resources he had in mind.

I have no idea how they describe the Regency dining room in their brochures, but I’d call it Old Money Posh. Thick carpeting, heavy drapes, silky fabric on the walls, and upholstered chairs, all in various shades of gold.

In stark contrast to all those golden hues was a brownish red puddle and the splayed body of a man who was definitely not flying back to LA first-class.

“His name is Sidney Roth, Bel Air, California, age fifty-three.”

It was Chuck Dryden, a crime scene investigator with a keen eye, remarkable instincts, and zero personality. With Chuck, there’s never any of the usual how’s-it-going cop banter. They call him Cut And Dryden because he gets straight to the point, without any mirth, without any chin-wagging.

I introduced him to Kylie, which I’m sure was a total waste of six seconds of his time.

“What’s the COD?” I said. “The hotel brass are pushing heart attack, but I’m sure they’ll be happy with any God-given untimely death that indemnifies them.”

“Heart attack victims don’t usually crap their pants,” Dryden said. “I think he was poisoned, but we won’t know for sure till we do an autopsy and a tox screen.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Chuck nodded and went back to work.

“Did you hear that?” Kylie said. “He said poison.”

“He said he thinks it was poison.”

“I hope he’s right,” she said. “I’ve never worked a poison homicide before.”

“In that case, can I give you a little free advice?”

“Sure.”

“A lot of people are watching us. Try not to look quite so happy about it.”