NYPD Red 4

Chapter 1

Nothing attracts a crowd like a dead celebrity.

By the time Kylie and I arrived at the crime scene, a wave of humanity had descended on the Ziegfeld Theater, bearing candles, flowers, stuffed animals, and, of course, pictures of the late Elena Travers.

The Daily News would sum it up with one word in their morning edition.

“Zach! Zach Jordan!”

I looked up and saw Stavros Kellepouris walking toward us. Sergeant Kellepouris was old-school, tough on his officers and even tougher on himself, which is why cops who work for him either respect him, hate his guts, or both.

“Zach, I knew they’d kick this one up to Red,” he said, shaking my hand. He turned to Kylie. “And you must be Detective MacDonald.”

“Kylie. Good to finally meet you, Sergeant. And for the record, it didn’t get kicked up. It came down from on high. What have you got so far?”

“A dead movie star, a limo driver in the OR with a bullet in his back, two perps in the wind, and a video which won’t give you much to go on.”

“You’re right,” she said. “We’ve seen it.”

“The whole damn city has seen it,” Kellepouris said. “There were maybe fifty, sixty people here when they thought she was showing up alive. But stretch her out in a pool of blood on the sidewalk, and an army of vultures shows up with their camera phones hoping to capture a piece of Hollywood history.”

“Give us a rundown of what went down before the shots were fired,” I said.

“Quiet night, just the usual paparazzi you have to wrangle and keep behind the ropes, but it was no problem. I had more cops than I needed.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s all part of the Hollywood bullshit game. Travers was wearing this zillion-dollar necklace, and somebody in PR thought it would look better with twelve cops to guard her instead of four. The studio pays the city for the security, so they can hire as many as they want. We were all just props in blue uniforms, until the shit hit the fan.”

“Tell us about the man who was in the car with her.”

“Craig Jeffers. He’s her personal trainer, but from what he told me, they had another kind of personal relationship going on that they kept under wraps.”

“What can you tell us that we didn’t see on the video?”

“It looks like it started out as a simple snatch-and-grab. Two mooks with guns stopped the limo. I don’t think they had any intention of hurting anyone. They just wanted to heist some bling.”

“What went wrong?”

“It was Jeffers. He’s a bodybuilder — macho to the core. He decided to go all Jason Statham and wrestle the gun away from one of the perps. It didn’t work out the way he planned.”

Kylie shook her head. “Men are such assholes,” she said.

Kellepouris grinned at me. “You got lucky, Zach. I like this one. She sounds a lot like my wife.”

“Anything else?” I said.

“I got stripes, Zach, no shield, so I didn’t dig very deep. Also, Jeffers seemed too devastated to handle a lot of questions. What he did was beyond dumb, but you’ve got to feel sorry for him. That poor bastard will have Elena Travers’s blood on his hands for the rest of his life.”

“That’s what I like about you, Stavros,” I said. “You never hold back on your opinions.”

“I hate to disappoint you, Detective, but that’s not my opinion. Those are Craig Jeffers’s words, not mine.”

Chapter 2

We walked past the sandwiched remains of the limo and the searchlight truck and made our way to the red carpet, where Chuck Dryden was kneeling next to the body of Elena Travers.

Dryden, who has all the charisma of a medium security prison, looked up. His normally stoic facial expression softened when he saw Kylie, but he was still all business, no foreplay. “She took a 9mm slug to the abdomen,” he said. “She bled out.”

“Thanks,” Kylie said, giving him her practiced you’re-my-favorite-crime-scene-investigator smile.

“It’s my job,” he said, and returned to the work at hand, signaling that his report was over.

We entered the Ziegfeld, which was empty except for a few cops and a man sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, his head in his hands.

“Mr. Jeffers,” Kylie said softly.

He raised his head. His eyes were red, his face contorted with pain. “I told her I was sorry,” he said. “Before she died, I held her in my arms and told her I was sorry. She didn’t say anything, but I know she heard me.”

Kylie knelt beside him. “We’re going to find the men who did this.”

“I did it,” he said. “It was my fault as much as anybody else’s.”

“Can we talk?” Kylie said, standing up.

Jeffers stood. He was blond, six two, with wide shoulders, a thick neck, and bulging pecs that strained against his bloody shirt.

It’s possible that he’d hit the genetic jackpot, but I’m enough of a gym rat to know a steroid user when I see one. The disproportionately developed upper body, the bulging veins on his hands, and the prominent acne told the story. Craig Jeffers was a juicer.

“We were at a red light,” he said. “Two guys with guns came out of nowhere. They forced the driver to roll down the windows, and one of them pointed his gun at Elena. I’m sure she would have given him the necklace if he asked, but no — he had to dig his fingers into her chest and yank it off. The bastard drew blood. He hurt her, and she screamed. That’s what set me off — the scream.”

“What do you mean, set you off?” Kylie asked.

“I snapped. I went for his gun. I know they tell you not to, but you don’t think when the adrenaline kicks in like that. I had one hand on his wrist, and I was about to punch him with the other when the gun went off.”

I’d heard it before. A man, armed with nothing more than an overabundance of testosterone, decides to try his luck at hand-to-gun combat. It might work for Jackie Chan in the movies, but it failed for Craig Jeffers in real life.

“And then what?” Kylie asked.

“He fired another shot. I found out later that it hit the driver. But everything else is a blur. All I could focus on was Elena.”

“Can you describe the two men?” Kylie asked.

“They had their faces covered with green surgical masks, and they were wearing black knit caps. The one who reached in the back wasn’t wearing gloves, so I could see his hands. He was white.”

“What was your relationship with Elena Travers?” I asked.

“I loved her.”

“You were also her personal trainer?”

“That’s how it started, but six months ago I asked her out on a date. I never thought it would go anywhere, but it did. I couldn’t believe it. Elena could have had any guy in Hollywood, but she only wanted to be with me. I was ready to spend the rest of my life with her. And now...”

He shook his head. The interview was over, but Kylie and I gave the man a few moments to reflect on his loss.

The three of us stood there in the vast open space of the Ziegfeld lobby, red carpet beneath us, crystal chandeliers glittering above, half a dozen larger-than-life-size pictures of Elena Travers assaulting our senses from every angle. Finally, Jeffers broke the silence.

“It’s all my fault,” he said. “If Elena had gone with Leo like she was supposed to, she would still be alive.”

And just like that, the interview was no longer over.

“Who is Leo?” I asked.

Chapter 3

Leo, it turned out, was someone Kylie had met.

“I doubt if he’d remember me,” she said when we were back in the car.

“How is that possible? You’re the most unforgettable cop on the force.”

“I wasn’t a cop that night. It was an industry party, and I was there as Mrs. Spence Harrington. Leo was so starstruck he barely said hello to me. People like him don’t waste their time talking to the wives of people who make movies.”

We found Bassett’s number in Elena Travers’s cell phone. I called him and told him we had a few questions.

“My brother and I have some questions of our own,” he said. “Can you meet us at our place?”

By the time we got there, the street was clogged with news trucks, paparazzi, and the usual assortment of homicide junkies. Two squad cars and a pair of traffic agents wearing Day-Glo yellow vests had been dispatched to the scene to help maintain sanity.

Working for Red, I get a firsthand look at how the other half lives. Of course, the Bassett brothers weren’t exactly the other half. They were more like the 1 percent of the 1 percent, and their “place” was more like a palace.

Back when New York was in its industrial heyday, lower Manhattan was peppered with loft buildings intended for commercial or manufacturing use but off-limits for residential. In the early eighties, the law changed, and the smart money gobbled up the cold, bleak, rat-infested buildings for next to nothing.

The Bassetts got in early and transformed a six-story warehouse on West 21st Street into two spectacular triplex apartments. Leo occupied the lower half of the building, and Kylie and I took the elevator to the third floor.

The door opened into a vast room with vaulted ceilings, massive windows, and museum-quality furniture. The two men who were waiting for us looked nothing like brothers.

One was big and burly, with a smoky-gray beard and icy blue eyes. He was wearing faded jeans and a nondescript T-shirt. “Max Bassett,” he said.

The other was short, with soft, doughy features and inkblack hair that could only have come from a bottle. His outfit, a red smoking jacket over deep-purple silk pajamas, looked like it was right out of Hugh Hefner’s closet.

“I’m Leo,” he said. “Thank you for coming. We are devastated, and there’s no real information on television. Please tell us what happened.”

We sat down, and I gave them the highlights.

“I don’t understand,” Leo said. “We’ve been robbed before. Jewel thieves almost never get violent. Why did they have to shoot her?”

“You’re not listening,” Max said. “They shot her because her idiot boyfriend grabbed for the gun.”

Leo lashed out. “So you’re saying it’s all my fault?”

Max came right back at him. “Jesus, Leo, how the hell did you manage to make this about you?”

“Because I was the one who was supposed to go with her. If someone stuck a gun in my face, I’d have said, ‘Take the necklace, take my wallet, take what you want — just don’t hurt us.’ But I didn’t go, and now she’s dead.”

“Why didn’t you go?” I asked.

“It was a stupid accident,” Leo said. “I was—”

“More like a stupid decision,” Max said. “He didn’t go because he got cocktail sauce on his jacket. Elena didn’t care. She asked him to go anyway. But he said no.”

Leo stood up. “Thank you, Max. Because I didn’t feel bad enough as it is.” He turned to me. “I’m not feeling well. If you have any more questions for me, I’ll be happy to talk to you in the morning. Alone.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned and walked out of the room.

“There you have it, Detectives,” Max said. “My brother’s MO. Grand entrances and even grander exits. He’s a total drama queen even when the drama isn’t about him. This is a terrible tragedy. How can I help you find the people who killed Elena?”

“Can you describe the necklace?” I said.

“Seeing as I designed it, yes. There are twenty emeralds — absolutely superbly matched stones, four carats apiece. Each one is surrounded by a cluster of round and pear-shaped diamonds. They’re tiny, five points each, but the effect was dazzling. She looked gorgeous.”

“Who knew she’d be wearing the necklace?” I asked.

Max shook his head. “Everybody. It was one of Leo’s misguided publicity initiatives.”

“It sounds like you don’t see eye to eye with your brother,” Kylie said.

“Not remotely. Maybe once upon a time you could trot Marilyn Monroe or Elizabeth Taylor down the red carpet wearing an eight-million-dollar necklace and hope that the stunt would cast some kind of magic halo effect over the brand. But not anymore. I told Leo he was still living in the second half of the twentieth century. The hype would be all about Elena, and no one would even remember she was wearing an original Max Bassett. Well, I was wrong. Now everyone will remember me as the man who designed the necklace Elena Travers died for.”

“Mr. Bassett, whoever took the necklace is going to try to sell it,” Kylie said. “We need to get pictures and laser inscriptions to the JSA and the FBI as soon as possible.”

“Our publicist, Sonia Chen, will have it for you within the hour,” he said. “I’m impressed. Most cops aren’t familiar with the Jewelers’ Security Alliance.”

“We’ve had a bit more experience in this area than most cops,” Kylie said. What she didn’t say was that when you’re assigned to Red, stolen jewelry is as common as shoplifting.

Chapter 4

Under normal circumstances, getting home five hours after my shift ended wouldn’t be a problem, but for the past twenty-four days my life had been anything but normal. Cheryl and I were living together.

Or at least we were trying to, but I was doing a lousy job of holding up my end of the living arrangement. This was the fifth night I’d come home late since she’d moved in, plus I’d been called into work two out of the past three weekends.

I’d met Dr. Cheryl Robinson about four years ago. I was on the short list of candidates for NYPD Red, and she was the department shrink assigned to evaluate me. I know it’s what’s on the inside that counts, but it’s impossible to meet Cheryl and not be dazzled by the outside. Most of her family is Irish, but it’s the DNA of her Latina grandmother that gives her the dark brown eyes, jet-black hair, and glorious caramel skin that turn heads. I was instantly smitten.

She had only one drawback: a husband. But good things come to those who wait, and about a year ago, Cheryl’s marriage to Fred Robinson crashed and burned, and we went from friends to lovers to whatever it is you call it when two people start living together but hang on to both apartments because they’re not so sure it’s going to work out.

“Hurry up,” she said as soon as I opened the front door to my apartment.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “I was—”

“I know, I know,” she said. “It’s coming up on the eleven o’clock news.”

She was on the sofa wearing black running shorts and a turquoise tank top, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She patted the cushion next to her, and I sat down.

“You must be starved,” she said, leaning over and giving me a kiss.

I was, but you don’t come home five hours late and ask what’s for dinner. I didn’t have to. Cheryl had set a plate of cheese, olives, salsa, and chips on the coffee table along with a bottle of wine and two glasses. I dug into the food as a somber anchorman led off with the murder of Elena Travers.

The report was interspersed with film highlights of Elena’s career, the limo crash, her body on the red carpet, and a still shot of the missing necklace. And since Kylie and I had been involved in three high-profile cases in the past year, the reporter thought it was newsworthy to point the cameras at us and mention us by name as we entered the Ziegfeld to question Craig Jeffers.

The piece ended with a shot of a teenage girl, tears streaming down her face, kneeling down to add a bouquet of flowers to the makeshift memorial.

“It’s terrible,” Cheryl said, her own eyes watery and ready to spill over. “I’m glad you and Kylie are on the case. You’ll solve it.”

“It won’t be easy,” I said. “It seems like a robbery gone bad, so there’s no direct link between the killer and the victim.”

“Don’t look so down. You’ve cracked tougher cases.”

“I know, but it’s going to mean working overtime. I’m sorry.”

“Stop it,” she snapped.

I didn’t know what I’d done, but clearly it wasn’t good. “Stop what?” I said.

“Apologizing.”

“I thought women liked apologies,” I said, turning on my boyish smile. “Especially if they’re accompanied by flowers or jewelry.”

She muted the TV. Not a good sign. “I don’t know what other women like, Zach, but the woman you’re living with doesn’t like you apologizing on spec.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“It means you just apologized to me in advance for working overtime. It’s manipulative. You’re trying to preempt any negative reaction I might have the next time you come home late.”

“I thought I was taking responsibility for my actions.”

“And I think you’re asking for a free ride. ‘How can Cheryl be mad? I told her this would happen.’”

“What can I say? I feel guilty for all the times I’ve worked late.”

“Why? You’re a cop. I know you keep crazy hours. In fact, you may remember that I’m one of the people who helped you land this job.”

“So what’s my best course of action here, doctor?” I said. “Should I retract the apology, or should I get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness for having made it?”

That cracked the code. She laughed. “I have a better idea,” she said. “We’ve both spent the whole night focused on death. Let’s do something that reaffirms life.”

She took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. She dimmed the lights to a warm golden hue, and we undressed slowly, deliberately, not touching, leaving just enough space between us for the anticipation to build.

“Not yet,” she whispered as I stood there naked, clearly ready. It was agonizing and tantalizing at the same time. I waited as she pulled back the sheets and lay on the bed.

“Now,” she breathed softly.

I lowered my body gently to meet hers, let my tongue caress her breasts, and slid effortlessly inside her.

And there in the soft light, entwined with the woman I was growing to love more and more every day, all the harsh realities of carrying a badge and a gun melted away. My anxieties about the past and my fears of the future disappeared.

There were no words. Just the calming peace of being with the only person in the world who really mattered. It truly was life affirming.

Chapter 5

I got to Gerri’s Diner the next morning and settled into my favorite booth. Gerri herself came out from behind the counter and brought me coffee.

“I saw you on the news last night,” she said.

“How’d I look?”

“You looked like you could use a good night’s sleep, but from the way you dragged your ass in here this morning, I’m guessing you didn’t get one. Breakfast will help,” she said. “What would you like?”

“Eggs over easy, bacon, toasted English.”

“Would you like anything else with that?” she asked.

“No, thanks.”

“It doesn’t have to be on the menu,” she said. “I take special care of my special customers.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Gerri,” I said as soon as I realized I was being snookered.

Gerri Gomperts is a take-no-prisoners, abide-no-fools Jewish grandmother who serves up home cooking along with a side order of her sage but snarky wisdom on what makes relationships work.

“Do I look like I need therapy?” I asked.

“Who said anything about therapy?” she asked, all wide-eyed and innocent. “All I know is that Cheryl moved in with you three weeks ago, last night you didn’t get home till God knows when, and then you showed up this morning looking more stressed out than a virgin at a lumberjacks’ convention. So I’m going to go out on a limb and say that your troubled mind is more troubled than usual. If therapy would help, then you’ve come to the right diner.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” I said.

“Sounds like I struck a nerve. I’ll be right back.”

She returned with my breakfast, topped off my coffee, and sat down. “You do this all the time,” she said. “You show up with that needy-guy look on your face, I offer to help, and you play hard to get. Either tell me what’s going on, or I’ll find someone else who appreciates what a woman with my life experience brings to the table.”

I told her.

She shrugged. “So you’re busy. It goes with the territory. Cheryl’s not going to move out because you’re on a high-profile case and have to work late.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said. “I know too many cops whose relationships imploded because they put the job first.”

“Your job isn’t the problem, Zach.”

“Then what is?”

She picked up the sugar packet dispenser and dumped it on the table.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“It’s the diner version of a PowerPoint presentation.”

She picked up a pink packet of Sweet’N Low and a blue packet of Equal. “The blue is you, and the pink is Cheryl,” she said. “And here you are, together at home.” She put both packets back into the empty dispenser.

“Over here is work,” she said, picking up a saltshaker and putting it on the other side of the table.

“Now, every day, you go to the salt mines,” she said, moving the Zach packet from home to work, “where you are joined by a lot of your fellow men in blue.” She surrounded the saltshaker with Equal packets.

“And your ex-girlfriend Kylie.” She added a single pink packet to the blue pile. “Then you and Kylie go off and spend the next ten to fourteen hours together.” She moved the Sweet’N Low and an Equal to a vacant spot on the table.

“So,” she said, “do you still think it’s about working overtime, or are you apologizing to Cheryl for spending those late nights with Kylie?”

“I hope you’re not charging me for this,” I said, “because your entire analysis is based on old news. I’ve moved on. Kylie is the past. Cheryl is the future. The Zach Jordan soap opera is over.”

“I’m sure you believe that, but you forgot one thing. When you moved in, you and Cheryl went from dating to cohabitating. You’re living with her now, and I’ll bet that every night you’re out late playing cops and robbers with your past, you’re haunted by the fact that your future is all alone in the love nest waiting for you to come home.”

She handed me the dispenser with the solo pink Sweet’N Low packet in it. “Mull it over,” she said.

Before I could respond, my phone vibrated and a text popped up. It was from Captain Cates.

“Gerri, I’ve got to go,” I said, standing up.

“Wait a minute,” she said, pointing at the packets of artificial sweetener scattered all over the table. “Are you going to just leave this mess here?”

“Since when is that my job?” I said.

A victory smile spread across her face. “It’s all part of the therapy, Zach. It’s your life. You clean it up.”

Chapter 6

Muriel Sykes had been mayor of New York for only three months, but Kylie and I were already on her speed dial. We had done her a real solid when she was a candidate, and as good fortune would have it, the new mayor believed in reciprocity.

The brass at Red, who knew the benefits of being in bed with the politicians in power, loved the fact that one of their teams had become the mayor’s go-to cops. So when Cates’s text came telling us to go to Gracie Mansion, we didn’t waste time prioritizing. Mayor Sykes was our priority.

Kylie was waiting for me outside the One Nine.

“Do you know what the mayor wants?” I asked as soon as I got in the car.

“No,” Kylie said. “I was in the office when Cates got the call. There were no specifics. She just told me to roll.”

“Did you fill Cates in on where we are on the Elena Travers case?”

“It’s more like I filled her in on where we aren’t. We got nothing. All I could tell Cates is that these guys weren’t high-end jewel thieves. They’re a couple of mooks who are in over their heads and will try to unload the necklace fast. I told her we put the word out on the street, and we’re hoping to get a hit from our extensive CI network.”

“Extensive? We’ve got a call in to three CIs. She didn’t buy that bullshit, did she?”

“Of course not. But it did get a laugh.”

Two minutes later, we arrived at Gracie and let the guard at the gate know we were there to see Mayor Sykes.

“You better hurry,” he said. “She’s going to be wheels up in less than a minute.”

The mayor’s black SUV was parked in front of the mansion. I recognized her driver.

“Charlie, what’s going on? We just got a call that the mayor wanted to see us.”

“And she just got a call that the governor wanted to see her. We all have to dance for someone, Zach.”

Kylie and I walked up the porch steps just as the front door flew open, and Muriel Sykes stormed out. She was wearing a warm purple coat and a cold, hard scowl.

“Good morning, Madam Mayor,” I said.

“America’s sweetheart was murdered in my city on my watch. What the hell is good about it?” she said. “Where are you on the case?”

“We’ve got nothing of substance to report yet,” I said.

“Nothing of substance seems to be the theme of my day,” she said. “I’m on my way to Albany to be lied to.”

She walked down the porch steps and headed for the SUV. Charlie opened the rear door as she approached.

Kylie and I followed. “Mayor Sykes,” I said, “you sent for us. Was it just to get an update on the Travers case?”

“Hell, no. I knew you had nothing because nobody from Red called to say you had something.”

She climbed into the backseat of the car, and Charlie closed the door. Sykes rolled down the rear window. “I called for something else. It’s a nasty can of worms, and I can’t trust anyone to deal with it but you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Do you have time to give us the details?”

“Detective, I don’t have time to wind my watch. Howard can give you the details. He’s waiting for you inside.”

She rolled up the window, and the SUV took off for the 145-mile trip to the state capital.

“I’ve never seen her in such a foul mood,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to be Charlie.”

“Hell,” Kylie said, “if this is the real Muriel Sykes, then I wouldn’t want to be Howard.”

That got a laugh out of me. Howard Sykes was the mayor’s husband. We went back up the porch steps to find out what nasty can of worms he was about to entrust us with.

Chapter 7

Muriel Sykes was a scrappy kid from the streets of Brooklyn who worked her way through law school, was appointed U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York, then crushed a sitting mayor in her first run for office. If she had one defining quality that propelled her along the way, it was grit.

Her husband was neither gritty nor scrappy. A privileged child raised on New York’s affluent Sutton Place, Howard Sykes had navigated his way from the city’s private school system to the Ivy League and ultimately to Madison Avenue, where his white-bread good looks and well-bred patrician manner made him a natural fit in a world where image was often more valued than substance.

But there was a lot more to the man than a proper golf swing and a gift for captivating his dinner guests with advertising war stories. Howard was a virtuoso at orchestrating marketing campaigns that won the hearts of consumers and sweetened the bottom lines of his clients. He retired at the age of sixty to manage his wife’s political campaign and was credited with being the force behind making her the first female mayor of New York City.

And to top it all off, he was a hell of a nice guy. Kylie and I had met him at several charity functions, and he had a way of always making us feel as important as any billionaire in the room.

He was waiting for us in the living room of the First Family’s private residence. “Zach, Kylie, thanks for coming,” he said, ignoring the fact that it was a command performance.

“How can we help?” I asked.

“I’m on the board of trustees of two hospitals here in the city,” he said. “A month ago some medical equipment disappeared from Saint Cecilia’s.”

“What kind of equipment?”

Ever the consummate adman, Howard had prepared visual aids. He opened up a folder and pulled out a photo of a contraption that looked like an iPad on steroids.

“That’s a portable ultrasound machine used for cardiac imaging. It weighs ten pounds, which means the tech can walk it to any bedside in the hospital.”

“But this one walked out of the hospital,” I said.

“This and two more just like it. They cost twenty thousand a pop. My first thought was that that’s the downside to making these machines so compact: they’re easy to steal. However” — he pulled out the next picture — “this one disappeared about the same time.”

It looked like R2-D2’s taller brother.

“It’s an anesthesia machine. Fifty thousand dollars, and at four hundred pounds, you can’t exactly slip it into a backpack. And yes, it has wheels, but it also has an electromagnetic security device embedded in it, and the hospital has guards at all access points. But it still went out the door.”

“Did Saint Cecilia report the thefts?” Kylie asked.

“No. We had no proof that anything was stolen, and we didn’t report them missing. The hospital decided to write it off and chalk it up to bad security.”

Kylie and I said nothing. Because so far nothing made sense. A low-level crime that the victim didn’t report, and yet the mayor, knowing we were caught up in the Elena Travers murder, asked us to drop everything and get involved.

Howard finally dropped the other shoe.

“I’m also on the board at Mercy Hospital, and two days ago it was hit. This time they got away with a hundred and seventy thousand dollars’ worth of equipment. I don’t believe in coincidences, so I did some digging, and I found out that nine hospitals had been robbed in two months. Total haul, close to two million dollars.” He handed me a printout. “The specifics are all here.”

“And you’d like us to find out who’s behind the thefts,” I said.

“Yes, but not in your usual style.”

“I didn’t know we had a style,” Kylie said, looking at me. “He’s going to have to tell us what it is so we don’t keep doing it.”

Howard smiled and pulled a newspaper clipping from the folder. It was a picture of Kylie and me leaving the Bassett brothers’ house.

“The media loves you,” he said. “It’s one thing to be on the front page when you solve a major crime, but last night you interviewed the people whose necklace was stolen, and you made page five of the Post. You guys get ink wherever you go, and my goal — and Muriel’s — is to keep a tight lid on this investigation. She called the PC this morning, and he’s on board.”

“This is a pervasive crime spree, but it’s the first time we’ve ever heard of it,” Kylie said. “Why is it so hush-hush? And why not tell the public what’s going on? Sometimes they can be our best source of leads.”

“If you ask the head of any one of these hospitals, he’ll tell you that the secrecy is for the well-being of the patients. People want to feel safe when they check in, but if they hear that criminals have stolen a piece of equipment the size of a refrigerator, they’re going to worry. What else can these villains take? My wallet? My laptop? My newborn baby? The prevailing wisdom at the hospitals is that it’s better to keep it quiet. Less stress for the patients.”

“What’s the real reason they don’t want to go public with the thefts?” I asked.

“Because if this shit gets out,” Howard said, a wide grin on his face, “it would put a serious crimp in their fund-raising.”

Chapter 8

“Change our style?” Kylie said as soon as she pulled the car out of the mayor’s driveway. “Is he serious? One of the reasons we get press is because we solve crimes. Riddle me this, Batman: how are we supposed to crack this case if we can’t put out any feelers to the public?”

“Because we can solve anything, Girl Wonder. That’s why the mayor of Gotham City picked us,” I said. “Why don’t we start by talking to the people we’re actually allowed to talk to? Get on the Drive, and let’s shoot down to Mercy Hospital and talk to their security people.”

She turned left on 79th, and we headed south on the FDR.

“There’s only one way to get two million dollars’ worth of hospital equipment from New York to whatever third world buyer is willing to pay for it,” Kylie said. “Big fat shipping containers.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Let’s give Howard’s list to Jan Hogle and see if she can run it against the manifests of cargo ships that sailed within a few days of each heist. She can cross-check by weight. If they stole x pounds of equipment, she can flag every shipment that weighs about the same.”

“That wasn’t my idea,” Kylie said. “I was thinking we could go down to the shipyards and talk to the dockworkers. Those guys have eyes and ears everywhere, and a few of them owe us.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “And then our pictures would be in the paper as the first two cops fired by the Sykes administration.”

Kylie’s cell phone rang. We were doing fifty on the Drive, so she tapped a button and the call went directly to speaker.

“This is Detective MacDonald,” she said.

“This is Mike Danehy at Better Choices,” the voice on the other end said. “Is Mrs. Harrington there?”

She grabbed the phone and took it off speaker. “This is Mrs. Harrington.”

She dropped her voice after that so that I could barely hear her end of the conversation, but I could tell by the look on her face that it was bad news. Something was going on with Spence.

A lifetime ago, when Kylie and I were new at the academy, we had a throw-all-caution-to-the-wind sexually liberating affair that lasted twenty-eight days. And then, like the lyrics to a bad country song, her boyfriend got out of rehab, all shiny clean and sober, and she dumped me and married him.

For eleven years, Spence Harrington didn’t pick up a drink or a drug. But then he did. Since then he’d been in and out of rehabs trying to get the monkey off his back. Connecticut, Oregon, and now Better Choices, a day program right here in New York.

“Mike, I know the rules, but they suck,” she said, getting louder as she got more frustrated. “Surely I can do something. Anything.”

She obviously didn’t like Mike’s answer because her response was to hit the gas and blow her horn at the yellow cab in front of her.

“I’m sorry, Mike, but that’s not enabling,” she said. “It’s called being his wife.”

The taxi in front of us refused to move over, so she swerved around him on the right, almost running him into the divider.

“Okay, thank you,” she said. “Keep in touch.”

She hung up the phone.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“Wrong number,” she said, pulling the car off the Drive at the East 53rd Street exit.

It took less than a minute for us to get to Mercy Hospital on First Avenue. She parked in a no standing zone, killed the engine, turned to me, and said, “Spence is missing.”

It didn’t quite process. “What do you mean, missing?”

“That was his counselor, Mike Danehy. Spence hasn’t shown up at rehab for three days.”

“Did they try calling him?”

“Oh yeah. They called to kick him out of the program, but they couldn’t find him to tell him, so they finally called me.”

“What do they want you to do?”

“Oh, Mike was very explicit. He told me to do nothing. He said Spence has to hit rock bottom before he can find his way back up.”

“That’s good advice,” I said. “But of course you’re not very good at taking good advice.”

She gave me half a smile.

“Do you want help?” I said.

She didn’t answer.

“Kylie, your drug addict husband is missing. Do you want help?”

“Yes, goddamn it, Zach, but I’m too stubborn to ask.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to.”

Chapter 9

Walking into his office, you’d never know that Gregg Hutchings was a hero. I’d worked with him and knew he’d racked up a chestful of medals, but here at Mercy Hospital, there was no trace of his service with NYPD.

“Hutch,” I said, “where are all the pictures of PCs hanging ribbons around your neck?”

“This is corporate America, Zach. Nobody cares about my past glories. They’re more interested in my golf scores and how many hundred thousand dollars’ worth of equipment I let slip through my fingertips over the weekend.”

“We heard you had a little incident,” I said. “How can we help?”

“For starters, let me give you a little insight into theft prevention,” he said. “If this was a supermarket, and people were stealing frozen peas, I’d set up a video cam in the frozen pea section. But at Mercy, if I want to keep a watch on the expensive hardware in my dialysis unit, I can’t put my cameras in there. HIPAA says no surveillance in any room where there are identifiable patients. It’s like running a museum and telling the guards not to watch the people who are looking at the paintings. How long do you think it will be before the Picassos start walking out the door?”

“But you’ve got cameras in the public areas,” Kylie said. “If someone tries to walk off with a piece of equipment, you’ll see it in the hallway.”

“You think?” He turned to a bank of CCTV monitors on the wall. “It looks like a lot of coverage, but I’ve only got eyes on 20 percent of the complex. Even then, the hospital doesn’t want to come off like Big Brother, so instead of putting cameras out in the open to act as deterrents, we have to hide them in air vents, or behind exit signs and smoke detectors.”

He pointed at a monitor. “You see that technician? He’s rolling an X-ray unit from Radiology to Recovery. And here’s a guy with an EKG machine waiting for the elevator. And see this food cart? Who’s to say if someone slipped an ultrasound unit in with the salmon croquettes? Everything is on wheels. I can watch it move through the public space, but I can’t tell if it winds up back in the treatment rooms or it gets smuggled out the door.”

“Tell us about the most recent theft,” I said.

“We bought six state-of-the-art dialysis machines and locked them up till the manufacturer could run our techs through some training. All six disappeared. Whoever took them knew the keypad code to the room and how to get them out of the hospital without being tagged by a single camera.”

“So they had someone on the inside,” Kylie said.

“We have thousands of doctors, nurses, patients, visitors, and delivery people going through here every day,” he said. “But I might have gotten lucky.”

He opened a drawer, took out a file, and spread it out on his desk. “Her name is Lynn Lyon,” he said, pointing at a picture of a woman in her thirties. “She’s a volunteer in our gift shop, but a guard caught her taking pictures in the room with the dialysis machines.”

“How’d she get in?”

“She told him the door was open, but I don’t buy it.”

“Did you change the code on the keypad?” Kylie asked.

“I would have, but the guard didn’t think it was important, so he didn’t mention it until after the horse was out the barn door.”

Kylie’s cell rang.

Our boss liked to micromanage, so I figured she was checking up on us. “Cates?” I asked.

Kylie shook her head and stepped out to take the call in private.

I skimmed Lynn Lyon’s personnel folder. “Have you talked to her since the robbery?” I asked.

“She’s not on the schedule this week,” Hutchings said, “and I can’t just bring her in for questioning. I have no jurisdiction.”

“But we do,” I said.

“Look, I know this is below your pay grade, and you’re only here because Howard Sykes drafted you. But I’m glad he did. I need all the help I can get.”

Kylie stepped back into the office. “I’m sorry, Gregg, but Zach and I have to go,” she said.

“We’ll take a run over and talk to Ms. Lyon,” I said, grabbing the folder.

“Thanks,” Hutchings said. “These dialysis machines will go for top dollar on the black market outside the U.S. See if you can get something out of her before they make their way to Turkmenistan.”

I followed Kylie out the door. “Who was on the phone?” I said.

“Shelley Trager. He’s waiting for us at Silvercup Studios.”

Trager was Kylie’s husband’s boss. “Is this about Spence?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.”

“Did they find him?”

“No,” she said, “but when they do, I’m going to kill him.”

I knew enough not to ask any more questions.

Chapter 10

It’s hard to make it to the top in the entertainment business. It’s even harder to do it in Queens, three thousand miles from the heartbeat of the industry in Hollywood. But Shelley Trager, a street-smart kid who grew up on a tenement-lined block in Hell’s Kitchen, had pulled it off. Now, at the age of sixty, he was the head of Noo Yawk Films and part owner of Silvercup Studios, a sprawling bread factory in Long Island City that had been converted into the largest film and television production facility in the Northeast.

Added to the Trager mystique was the fact that the success and the power never went to his head. According to BuzzFeed, he was one of the best-liked people in show business. He was also the driving force behind Spence Harrington’s stellar career.

Spence was only six months out of rehab when Shelley took him on as a production assistant. A year later he gave him a shot as a staff writer on a failing show, and Spence turned it around. The young golden boy then pitched his own idea, Shelley bankrolled it, and the team had their first hit. A string of winners followed until Spence went out on drugs, and it all blew up.

Shelley responded with tough love and banned Spence from the set till he finished rehab.

Kylie pulled the car into the Silvercup parking lot on Harry Suna Place. Carl, the perennially chatty guard at the front gate, recognized her immediately.

“Good morning, Mrs. Harrington,” he said, stone-faced. “Mr. Trager is waiting for you at Studio Four.”

He waved her into the lot. No banter. No jokes. No eye contact.

“This is worse than I thought,” Kylie said. “Carl won’t even look at me. Maybe I shouldn’t drag you into this.”

“Into what?” I asked.

“Somebody broke into the studio last night and trashed some sets.”

“You’re not dragging me into anything,” I said. “It’s a crime scene. It’s what we do.”

“Only this time I’m married to the person who did the crime.”

“Do they have proof?”

“No, but whoever broke into the lot went straight to Studio Four and destroyed two standing sets at K-Mac.”

I winced. K-Mac had been Kylie MacDonald’s nickname back in the academy. I still used it. Spence had shanghaied it. He had created a show about a female detective named Katie MacDougal who had serious boundary issues. The fictional K-Mac was a lot like the one he was married to.

Audiences liked the show. Kylie hated it.

“I’m going with you,” I said.

We entered the lot and made our way past a man with a bloodied knife in his chest, a burned-out city bus, and two nuns on a smoke break. As unreal as it all was, nothing prepared us for the devastation inside Studio Four. It looked like someone had taken a wrecking ball to it.

Shelley was waiting for us inside the soundstage. “For the record, I’m not going to report what happened,” he said to Kylie. “You’re not here as cops. I called you because you’re his wife.”

“Thank you,” she said. Then she walked slowly through the shattered glass and splintered wood that had been the squad room. Desks were overturned, computers smashed, and the ultimate insult: the NYPD shield on the wall had been spray-painted red. I’m sure the choice of color was not lost on her.

She crossed the room to the other set — Katie MacDougal’s bedroom — stepping over the shards of broken mirror and glass bottles that had been on the vanity, steeling herself as she approached K-Mac’s bed, where the sheets, the pillows, and the mattress had all been slashed.

She finally turned away. “Shelley, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know he’s mad at me because I wouldn’t take him back into the apartment, but...”

“I kicked him out too. He’s mad at both of us, and he’s sending us a message.”

Kylie shook her head. “What kind of message is this?”

Shelley didn’t answer.

Whatever the message was, there was no nuance to it.

Chapter 11

“I’m invoking the DWI rule,” I said as Kylie and I walked back to the parking lot.

A faint smile crept across her face. When she gets riled up, Kylie drives like a NASCAR champion, so we have an agreement: no Driving While Infuriated.

“Come on, Zach,” she said. “I haven’t wrecked a car since way back in...”

“January,” I said. “You’re almost ready to get your three-month chip.”

The smile turned into a grin, and she tossed me the keys.

It was only a fifteen-minute drive from the studio to Lynn Lyon’s apartment on West End Avenue, and Kylie talked non-stop. The topics ranged from the Elena Travers case to the hospital robberies, and finally to how my new living arrangement with Cheryl was working out. The only thing Kylie didn’t talk about was the elephant in the car: her drug addict husband.

But I’m sure that was what she was thinking about. By now she had dismissed the advice she had gotten from the counselor at the rehab. Kylie was an action junkie, and, while Spence may not have hit rock bottom yet, after seeing the destruction he’d left at Silvercup, she was no longer capable of doing nothing.

We pulled into a parking lot at Lincoln Towers — eight high-end buildings spread across twenty landscaped acres in the middle of Manhattan’s trendy Upper West Side. Not exactly where I’d expect to find someone selling stolen medical equipment on the black market.

The head shot Hutchings showed us of Lynn Lyon hadn’t done her justice. She opened the door wearing jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a sauce-spattered apron. Even with no makeup and her hair caught up in a blue bandanna, I got that rush men get when they’re suddenly face-to-face with a naturally beautiful woman.

We ID’d ourselves and told her we had some questions to ask her.

“I’m right in the middle of something,” she said. “Can you come back later?”

“No, ma’am,” Kylie said. “It can’t wait.”

“Neither can my risotto,” she said. “We’ll have to talk in the kitchen.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m a food blogger, and I’m working on my next post,” she said, leading us into a cluttered kitchen, where I picked up the earthy smell of mushrooms.

“My take on porcini-asparagus risotto,” she said, picking up a wooden spoon and stirring a shallow pot. “What’s this about?”

“There’s been a robbery at Mercy Hospital,” I said.

“Well, that’s hardly a big surprise,” she said. “I warned them.” With all the poise of a TV chef, she turned to the oven and took out a loaf of fresh-baked bread, set it on the counter, and picked up a camera.

“What do you mean you warned them?” I said.

“Some of these volunteers will leave the gift shop and run off to grab a cup of coffee,” she said, clicking off a few photos of the bread. “Instead of locking the place up, they hang a sign that says ‘Back in five minutes.’ They’re too trusting. It was bound to happen.”

“It wasn’t the gift shop, Ms. Lyon,” Kylie said. “They stole six new dialysis machines.”

“Six... I don’t understand,” she said, ladling broth from a stockpot onto the risotto. “I work in the gift shop, but... Oh my God — I was in with the new dialysis machines last week.”

“Taking pictures,” Kylie said, gesturing at the camera.

Most people — guilty or innocent — would respond with indignation: “Are you calling me a thief?” Not Lyon. She put the hand that wasn’t stirring the risotto to her mouth. Her eyes watered up, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “This is so embarrassing,” she said.

“What were you doing in a restricted area?” Kylie asked, all bad-cop body language and tone of voice.

“It didn’t say Restricted, and the door wasn’t locked. I have a friend who is a dialysis nurse upstate. I was telling her about this new equipment Mercy bought, and she asked me to send her a picture, so I did. That’s all. It was harmless. I can’t believe you’re accusing me of stealing.”

“Nobody is accusing you of anything,” Kylie said. “I’m just asking a few routine questions.”

“If you knew me, you wouldn’t ask things like that. I don’t steal. Cooking and volunteer work are my passions. My soul needs redemption, and I get that from both.”

The tears were gone now. “I have a few questions of my own,” she said. “How am I supposed to get six dialysis machines out of the hospital? And what would I do with them if I had them? It’s not just embarrassing; it’s insane. Unless you’re planning to arrest me, please leave.”

We left.

“You bought her act?” Kylie said once we were back in the car.

“How do you know it was an act? You hit her with some circumstantial evidence, and she had a plausible explanation.”

“Oh please: pretty lady, at home in the kitchen, turns on the waterworks. Guys fall for it all the time.”

“So all of a sudden I’m a guy? I thought I was a cop.”

“I’m a cop too, and the first thing I thought of was, if I were going to send someone to case a hospital, I’d send someone who could fly under the radar. She fits the bill.”

“Well, right now we have nothing to go on,” I said.

“So why don’t you humor me? Let’s look at the other hospitals that were hit and see if Lynn Lyon volunteered at any of them.”

Kylie and I have similar instincts, and we’re usually in sync when we question someone. I was pretty sure I was right on this one, but this time her anger at Spence spilled over, and she took it out on Lyon.

“Fine with me,” I said. “You want to call the other hospitals?”

“Absolutely. Police work is my passion, Zach, and my soul could use a little redeeming,” she said. “Also, I try to never miss out on an opportunity to prove I’m smarter than you.”

Chapter 12

Until last night, the most expensive thing in Teddy Ryder’s tiny two-room apartment on the Lower East Side was a JVC TV he bought for two hundred bucks on Overstock.com. It was now outshined by the emerald and diamond necklace sitting on his coffee table.

Teddy hadn’t slept since the robbery. The guns had just been there to make a point. Nobody was supposed to get killed. His partner, Raymond Davis, had pulled the trigger, but he swore up and down that it wasn’t his fault. He blamed it all on the guy in the back of the limo who had grabbed for the gun. Then Raymond had stretched out on the bed and slept like a brick till seven that morning.

Now Raymond was out trying to renegotiate the deal with Jeremy.

“Fifty thousand is bullshit,” Raymond had said once they’d watched the news and found out the necklace was worth eight million. “We’re upping the price to half a mil.”

It was late afternoon by the time Raymond finally got back from his meeting with Jeremy. One look at his face, and Teddy could tell that the negotiations had gone down the toilet.

“Jeremy is an asshole,” Raymond said.

“How much did you get?” Teddy asked.

“More than the original deal, but less than I was hoping for.”

“How much?”

“Ninety thou.”

“Apiece?”

“No. Ninety for the whole enchilada.”

“Is he crazy?” Teddy said. “We’re not asking for cigarette and beer money. We need enough so we can disappear.”

“Don’t you think I said that already?”

“Well, then go back and tell him we know how much the necklace is worth, and if he doesn’t give us fair market value, we’ll find a buyer who will.”

“Yeah, I said that too. He laughed in my face. Told me the dead actress makes it too hot to handle.” Raymond took the necklace from the coffee table and held it up to the light. “He’s right. I asked around. Nobody will touch it.”

Teddy could taste the panic welling up in his throat. His heart was racing, and he wanted to scream “The dead actress was your fault,” but he was having too much trouble breathing to waste his breath on Raymond.

He lowered his body to the armchair he’d salvaged from a curb after he’d done his last stretch at Rikers. “So now what do we do?” he asked.

“I’ve got it all worked out,” Raymond said. “Jeremy is coming over tonight. We pack up, give him the necklace, and leave for Mexico as soon as we get the money.”

“I’m not going anywhere till I say good-bye to my mom,” Teddy said. “As soon as I get my share, I’m going to go over to her place, spend the night, and ask her to make me a stack of cottage cheese pancakes for breakfast.”

“And how much will that cost you, Teddy boy? Five grand? Ten? How big a chunk will you be giving Mommy?”

“What I give her is none of your business.”

“It’s my business if we go to Mexico, and I’ve got forty-five thousand dollars, and all you’ve got is a belly full of cottage cheese pancakes. I’m not supporting you, Teddy. Or your mother.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Teddy said. “What time did Jeremy say he’d be here?”

Raymond shrugged. “He didn’t give me a time. He just said tonight. Wake me when he gets here. I’m going to take a nap.”

Chapter 13

I was at my computer when a message from Kylie popped up on the screen.

I have an update on the Happy Homemaker. Stop by my office if you want to hear more.

Kylie loves to be right. She loves it even more when I’m wrong.

Her office is the desk directly behind mine. I swiveled my chair. “It sounds like you have something to gloat about,” I said.

“Me?” she asked, gloating. “I just thought you’d want to hear the latest on the hospital robberies. I did a little research, and it seems your favorite risotto lady volunteered at four of the nine hospitals that were robbed.”

“Does she have a rap sheet?”

“She’s clean as a whistle. In fact, three of the volunteer co-ordinators I spoke to said she was one of the best they’ve ever worked with, and they wished they had a dozen more like her.”

I waited for the but.

“But,” she said, “I did find something interesting. Her father was a petroleum engineer. As a kid she moved around the Middle East. After college, she went to India for three years and worked for a charity that provided medical treatment for street children.”

“And that’s interesting because...?”

“You heard what Gregg Hutchings said. Where do you think all this high-tech equipment is going to wind up? Lyon is a do-gooder, and she spent years surrounded by third world deprivation. My guess is she’s not even getting paid. She’s not only doing volunteer work for the hospitals; she’s doing volunteer work for the people who are ripping them off.”

“That’s brilliant police work, Detective MacDonald. The woman has no criminal record, but she’s seen poverty, so she’s decided to do her part for the underprivileged by helping a bunch of black marketeers traffic stolen goods,” I said. “Why don’t you run that by Mick Wilson at the DA’s office and see how long it takes him to kick you out on your ass?”

“That’s not the apology I was hoping for,” she said.

“So she worked in four of the hospitals. If I were a lawyer, I’d call it more circumstantial evidence. But as a cop, I’m willing to admit there’s more to like about Ms. Lyon than her porcini-asparagus risotto.”

“Are you willing to go back and bring her in for some serious questions?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d rather let her think we’ve lost interest, then put a tail on her and see if she can lead us to someone higher up the food chain.”

“That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said since you were suckered in by that teary-eyed Martha Stewart act. There’s hope for you yet, Jordan.”

My cell rang, and I picked it up. It was Cheryl.

“Hey, what are you doing tonight?” she asked.

“You tell me,” I said.

“How do you feel about Italian food?”

“Fantastico.”

“Can you be home by seven?”

“You bet,” I said.

“Great. Love you.”

“Love you back.”

I hung up the phone and let what I’d just heard wash over me. My brain was thinking about the night ahead when Kylie violated my reverie.

“Zach, did you hear what I said?”

“Sorry. Run it by me again.”

“I said we can’t tail Lyon. I know the mayor wants us on these hospital robberies, but they’re sucking up time we need for the Travers homicide. Let’s talk to Cates and see if she can drum us up another team to do the legwork.”

“Sure.”

She got up from her desk and headed toward Cates’s office. My body followed, but my head was still wrapped up in the phone call from Cheryl.

It was the first time I’d ever heard her refer to my apartment as home. It felt incredible.

Chapter 14

Captain Delia Cates is third-generation NYPD. She grew up in Harlem, and if you ask her where she went to college, she’ll smile and say, “Oh, there was a good school a mile from my house.” The school, as those of us in the know can tell you, is Columbia University.

She graduated at eighteen, got a master’s in criminal justice from John Jay College, and did four years in the marine corps before joining the department. She rose through the ranks like a comet, and when our previous mayor created NYPD Red, his consigliere, Irwin Diamond, tapped Cates to run it.

“It’s not that I was the best cop for the job,” Cates told me one night when we were having a drink. “But when most of your constituency is overprivileged white men, it’s smart politics to put a black woman in charge.”

The truth is, she was the best cop for the job, and most days I love having her as my boss. This day was not one of them.

“That’s all you’ve got?” she said when Kylie and I told her where we were on the Travers murder. “You two haven’t done squat since you met with the Bassett brothers last night.”

“We’ve got cops canvassing the area, looking for eyewitnesses,” Kylie said. “And there are at least twenty-five traffic and private security cameras at 54th and Broadway, where the shooting happened. We have Jan Hogle going through those.”

“And how about that extensive network of CIs you told me about this morning?” Cates said. “How’s that working out?”

“You’re right, Captain,” I said before Kylie could mount a defense. “We haven’t done squat on the Travers case. No excuse.”

Cates laughed. “Of course you have an excuse. It’s called politics over police work. The mayor and her husband want you on these hospital robberies. You’re stuck with it. But I can’t take you off this homicide. Which means you have to do both.”

“We can,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster, “but we could use some help. We have a person of interest — a hospital volunteer who may have been the inside person on four of the nine jobs. She may lead us to bigger fish, but we need to tail her. Do you think you can snag us another team to throw against it?”

“I’d be happy to,” Cates said. “Do you think you can snag me the perps who killed Elena Travers?”

“We’d be happy to,” Kylie said.

Cates ignored the wisecrack and looked at me. “You’ve got Betancourt and Torres,” she said, waving us out of her office without another word.

Five minutes later, we were sitting down to brief our backup.

Before they came to Red, Detectives Jenny Betancourt and Wanda Torres had more collars than any team in Brooklyn South. Betancourt is a pit bull when it comes to details, and Torres — well, she’s just a pit bull. Kylie and I had worked with them before, and we liked them — partly because they were new and eager to make their bones, and partly because they reminded us of us. They bickered constantly, like an old married couple.

“I agree with Kylie,” Betancourt said after we briefed them. “Lyon spent her formative years watching a lot of people die because of substandard medical care. That’s enough to give her a motive.”

“Bullshit,” Torres said. “I spent my formative years in the South Bronx. Five kids in my grade school died of asthma. Asthma, for God’s sake. How’s that for shoddy medical care? People who grow up in poverty steal steaks from the supermarket, TV sets, maybe — not medical equipment.”

I told them to hash it out on their own, reminded them how critical the case was to the mayor’s husband, and turned them loose.

“What are your plans for the night?” Kylie asked me as soon as Betancourt and Torres left.

“Cheryl and I are going out for Italian food,” I said. “How about you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s been a long day. I think I’ll go home, take a bubble bath, order up some dinner, open up a bottle of wine, and watch anything with Mark Wahlberg in it.”

“Sounds like a restful night,” I said.

“That’s my plan,” she said. “Rest up.”

She was lying through her teeth. I had no idea what her plan was, but I knew one thing for sure: a bubble bath, a bottle of wine, and a Mark Wahlberg movie had nothing to do with it.

Chapter 15

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.

Chapter 16

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.

Chapter 17

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.”

“Bullshit. That’s a goddamn lie.”

“You’re right.” I leaned forward and whispered, “I borrowed it from the evidence clerk at my precinct, but I’m going to swear you sold it to me. So either step outside and talk to my partner, or an hour from now your pretty little baby face is going to bring joy to the hearts of a lot of lonely men in a holding cell at Central Booking.”

Drug dealers don’t give up their customers’ whereabouts to the cops. It can be bad for their business. Or their health. Damian stared at me. Was I lying? Or did I really have cocaine in my pocket that I’d say was his?

I gave him my best Clint Eastwood stare back, but I didn’t have the balls to say, “Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”

He blinked. He stood up and closed his laptop, and I walked him out to Lexington Avenue.

“Mr. Hillsborough has had a change of heart,” I said to Kylie. “Ask him anything.”

“When did you last see my husband?” she said.

“He didn’t tell me he was married to a cop.”

“Answer the question,” she said.

“Yesterday. He was on a shopping spree, but he was a little low on cash, so we negotiated, and I got this handsome timepiece, and he got... well, you know what he got.” Damian held out Spence’s watch. “Take it. It’s yours.”

Kylie shook her head. “No. Technically, it’s yours. Where is Spence now?”

“Look, lady, I’m a dope dealer, not a travel agent,” he said, putting the watch back on his wrist. “I don’t know where to find your husband, but he knows where to find me. And the way that boy was fiending, trust me: he will.”

Kylie pulled her card out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Here’s your get-out-of-jail-free card, Damian,” she said. “Don’t lose it.”

Chapter 18

“What the hell was that all about?” Kylie said as soon as we were back in the car.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. He pissed me off. I guess I lost my shit.”

“You could have lost your job, Rambo. You’re lucky Damian is a dope dealer. If he was Joe Citizen, he’d lawyer up and call you out on police brutality.”

“I’m not worried. The definition of police brutality is the use of excessive force by a cop when he’s dealing with a civilian.”

“It looked pretty damn excessive to me.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t a cop. I was off duty.”

“So that must have been your off-duty shield you flashed,” she said, laughing.

“Are you finished yet, Judge Judy?”

“Almost. I’ve got one more thing to say.” She stopped the car at a light on 116th Street. She turned to me, and a generous smile spread across her face. “Thanks, partner.”

“I was wondering when you’d get around to that.”

“My timing sucks, but I mean it, Zach: thanks. When I tracked Baby D down, I thought I’d ask him a few questions, and that would be it. I didn’t know he’d be such a hard-ass. It threw me off. That’s why I called you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Anytime, partner,” I said. “The problem is I don’t know how much it’s going to help. All he told you was that Spence scored some coke yesterday. I’m sure you must have figured that out this afternoon when you were standing ankle-deep in the wreckage at Silvercup.”

“It helps a lot more than you think,” she said. “Spence pulled five thousand dollars out of our bank account yesterday morning, which means he had enough cash to buy a quarter of a key.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “If he had that much money, why did he pay Baby D for the drugs with his watch?”

“For the same reason he busted up those sets. He was sending me another message.”

“Which is...?”

“If it has anything to do with me, he’s going to destroy it or get rid of it.”

“Ouch,” I said. “That hurts.”

“It sure does,” she said. “That’s why he’s doing it.”

The light turned green, and we rolled south on Lexington. I pulled my phone out of my pocket. It was after nine. At this point calling Cheryl wouldn’t cut it. I put the phone in my lap and stared out the window.

Kylie must have read my body language. “Do you want me to call Cheryl and apologize for screwing up your dinner?”

“Absolutely not.”

“From the look on your face, I’m guessing she was pissed that you had to leave.”

“Let’s just say she wasn’t happy.”

“She better get used to it, Zach. She’s living with a cop now. It’s the nature of the beast. We get called out day and night.”

“She works for the department, Kylie. I’m pretty sure she knows what being a cop is all about.”

“So what’s her problem?”

“This wasn’t a cop call,” I said.

I could see Kylie connecting the dots in her head. Knowing her, this had been all about NYPD putting the squeeze on a bad guy. She’d completely forgotten that the entire operation was personal.

“Oh,” she said. “Right. It won’t happen again.”

I doubted it.

We were at 86th and Lexington, nine blocks from my apartment, when the phone in my lap went off.

“You see?” Kylie said. “She can’t be that mad if she’s calling you.”

I looked at the caller ID. Private caller.

“It’s not her,” I said. I answered the phone. “This is Detective Jordan.”

“My man, Zach,” a familiar voice on the other end said. “This is Q. You looking for a couple of scrubs who are holding a necklace so hot they’re almost ready to pay someone to take it?”

“Everybody is looking for them,” I said, “and I’m at the top of the pile.”

“That’s why I called you first. I’m upstairs at the Kim.”

My adrenaline was pumping. “We’re less than five minutes away,” I said.

“We’re less than five minutes away?” he said. “Does that mean you’re with that knockout partner of yours?”

“Yes, I’m with Kylie.”

“At this hour? Sounds like you two are pulling the night shift. I hope I’m not interrupting any undercover work,” he said, following up with a lecherous laugh just in case I didn’t get the joke.

“You’re a pig.”

“That’s funny, Zach,” he said, still chuckling. “First time a cop ever called me a pig. I’ll see you in five.”

He hung up, and I turned to Kylie. “Change of plans. We’re meeting Q Lavish at the Kimberly Hotel.”

She hit the gas, and we sped past a familiar brick building on 77th and Lex. My apartment is on the tenth floor.

I craned my neck, looking up, trying to see if the lights were still on, but we were going too fast.

“What are you doing?” Kylie said.

“Nothing. I’m just checking to see if Cheryl’s home.”

“Of course she’s home. Do you think she moved out because you bailed on one dinner?”

“No. I’m just antsy. We’re still working out this living together thing.”

“Zach, it’s going to work out just fine. And Cheryl’s not going anywhere. She’s a smart woman. She knows the score.”

“Yeah, she does,” I said.

Old girlfriend, one. New girlfriend, zero.

Chapter 19

Quentin Latrelle, a.k.a. Q Lavish, is our best confidential informant. And our least expensive. I’ve worked with him for two years and have never paid him a dime. That’s because Q isn’t in it for the money.

Q is a pimp. But it’s a word he never uses. “It would be like calling Yo-Yo Ma a fiddle player,” he says. “I’m a purveyor of quality female companionship for gentlemen of breeding and taste.”

Many of those gentlemen traveled in the same social circles that Red was created to protect and serve. That’s where Kylie and I came in. Q knew that if any of his elite clientele got arrested in flagrante delicto, he had someone on his speed dial who could make the unfortunate incident go away.

If that sounds like the wealthy horndogs have an unfair advantage over the average johns, they do. But if Q could help us find the perps who murdered Elena Travers, I’d be happy to help out some Wall Street power broker who got caught with his pants down.

The Kimberly, on 50th between Lexington and Third, is an upmarket hotel that manages to combine traditional European elegance with trendy New York nightlife. Q was waiting for us at Upstairs, the Kim’s opulent-to-the-max rooftop bar with a spectacular 360-degree view of Midtown.

Fluent in the language of fashion, Q knew how to dress whether he was having dinner at a four-star restaurant or hanging at a dive bar. Tonight he was wearing a pearl-gray suit and an open-collar navy shirt. Not very clubby, but perfect for the business-casual code at the Kim. Bottom line: he fit right in.

We sat down at his table, declined a drink, skipped the foreplay, and told him to get straight to business.

“Teddy Ryder and Raymond Davis,” he said. “They were cellies at Otisville, and they’ve been bunking together ever since. Not gay, just a couple of underdogs who threw their lot in together, hoping that the whole would be greater than the sum of its parts.”

“And is it?” I asked.

“If they were remotely competent, would I be here?” he said. “I’ll start with Teddy. He’s white, midthirties, comes from a family of grifters. His mom and dad sold swampland in Florida back in the eighties, and over the years they’ve probably run every scam in the con man’s bible. They were good, Annie and Buddy Ryder. He died a few years ago, and Annie’s about seventy, so she’s basically out of the game, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she still kept her hand in by bilking the blue-haired granny crowd out of their bingo winnings.

“Sadly for Annie and Buddy, whatever criminal acumen was in their DNA skipped a generation. Their only progeny, Teddy, has zero street charisma. The poor boy couldn’t sell a five-dollar cure for the clap if it came with a four-dollar coupon. Also, he’s never been arrested for carrying a piece. Jacking a limo at gunpoint is so far out of his league I’m surprised he didn’t shoot himself.”

“How about the other one?” I said.

“Raymond Davis is fortysomething, biracial — mom was white, father was African American, both long gone. He’s about as smart as a turkey sandwich, and to prove it he was scouting the bars uptown looking for a buyer for some hot jewelry. He tried to keep it vague, but that lasted until he was pressed for a description, and he all but held up a picture of that diamond necklace that was on the front page of the morning paper. Raymond’s done two stretches for armed robbery, so if I were a betting man, I’d say he was your shooter.”

“Do you know where we can find these two?” Kylie said.

“No, but I bet you’ve got someone down at One P P who can help you out.”

That got a laugh. “Wiseass,” she said. “We can take it from here. Thanks. You got anything else?”

“Not for NYPD. But I might have something for you. Something more... personal.”

Q Lavish might joke with me about working the night shift with Kylie, but he’d never get smarmy with her. He was too much of a gentleman. Plus, the look in his eyes said he was dead serious.

“Go ahead,” Kylie said.

“I heard you’re looking for your husband.”

“Jesus, Q,” she said. “I know you’re wired, but how did you—”

“I have clients in the TV business. They talk. I listen. I don’t know where he is right now, but I know he’s been over the edge. It’s not my place, but if you need an extra pair of eyes and ears...”

“Oh God, yes. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Just tell me whatever you think might help.”

She recapped the last few days since Spence went missing. Q didn’t say anything until she told him about our run-in with Baby D.

“Drug dealers are the worst,” he said. “And that pretty boy is as bad as the rest of them. He wouldn’t call you if Spence came over to his house and shot his mother. Giving him your card was just a waste of paper. But now that I know he’s one of your husband’s contacts, I’ll keep him on my radar.”

Kylie stood up, shook his hand, and thanked him again. Even if Q didn’t come up with a single lead toward helping us find Spence, she knew that his offer was genuine. And if he ever reached out to her for help getting one of his overprivileged clients out of a jam, she’d reciprocate in a nanosecond.

In the New York criminal justice system, it’s all part of the circle of life.

Chapter 20

As reliable an asset as Q Lavish might have been, the State of New York didn’t think he was reliable enough. We couldn’t arrest Davis and Ryder solely on the word of an informant. We needed an arrest warrant, and finding a judge to sign one at this hour of the night would take time. Time we didn’t want to waste.

Parole officers, on the other hand, had a lot more latitude than cops. They could show up at a parolee’s house anytime. No warrant. No warning.

“Call RTC and find Davis’s PO,” Kylie said as she barreled up Third toward the One Nine.

The Real Time Crime unit worked out of One Police Plaza, and they could tell you in a heartbeat just about anything you needed to know about anyone in their databases. I called them, and in under a minute, I had Davis’s address and the cell number of Brian Sandusky, his parole officer.

My next call was to Sandusky. “Brian,” I said, “this is Detective Zach Jordan. One of your boys, Raymond Davis, was fingered as the shooter in the robbery-homicide at the Ziegfeld Theater last night, and I need you on scene to get me inside so I can bypass a warrant.”

“Davis? Elena Travers?” Sandusky said. “Holy shit, count me in.”

Some POs hate being dragged out at night to make a house call, but Sandusky was young and eager to help out on a high-profile case. I told him to meet us at the precinct.

Then I called Cates, gave her a top line, and asked her to call in an ESU team to help us bring in Davis and Ryder.

Seventy minutes after we left the Kimberly Hotel, Kylie and I were in our car, followed by two Lenco armored trucks from Emergency Service Squad 1, in lower Manhattan. PO Sandusky was in the backseat.

“Fourteen heavily armed cops in full body armor ready to take down two bungling low-level criminals,” he said as Kylie led the convoy across town, toward the FDR Drive. “Your average taxpayer might think that’s excessive.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “That’s because your average taxpayer’s never been shot at,” she said.

Davis and Ryder lived downtown, on Rivington Street. We parked our vehicles around the corner on Suffolk and met up with one of the cops from the three units we’d dispatched as soon as we had the address.

“That’s the building, over there,” he said, pointing to a five-story gray-brick building. The facade from the second floor to the roof was covered with a cluster of metal fire escapes that probably dated back to the first half of the twentieth century. There was a storefront at street level, but it was boarded up, and the window had become a canvas for a graffiti artist who had done a remarkably good likeness of the Notorious B.I.G.

“Nobody in or out since we got here,” the cop said.

I gave a hand signal, and a dozen cops poured out into the street, weapons at the ready. The team leader opened the front door and stopped.

“Blood,” he whispered. He threw a light on the floor, and I could see it. A trail of blood leading to the inside door. He turned the knob. It didn’t give.

One of his men took a Hooligan Tool and cracked the lock like it was an egg.

There were more bloodstains on the stairs. We followed the trail to Davis’s apartment door, on the third floor.

“We’ve got probable cause to enter,” I whispered to Sandusky, pointing at the bloody floor. “Leave the building. Now.”

He looked both relieved and disappointed, but he didn’t argue. He left.

“Open it,” I said to the team leader.

One of his men had a universal skeleton key: a thirty-five-pound steel battering ram. One swing and the wooden door splintered.

There was a man sprawled facedown on the floor, and I held a gun on him as the team stormed the apartment. They checked the bedroom and the closets, and within seconds I heard a volley of “Clear, clear, clear.”

I holstered my gun. The man on the floor was unmistakably dead.

“Roll him,” I said.

Two of the cops flipped the body over.

It was Raymond Davis, his face ashy gray, his eyes bugged open in wide surprise, a single bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.