NYPD Red 4

Chapter 41

“Any details?” I asked.

“Bare bones,” Cheryl said. “Anonymous tip to 911. First cop on the scene was able to ID Spence — his wallet was on the ground. No cash, but his emergency contact said ‘Wife: NYPD Detective Kylie MacDonald.’ That kicked the system into high gear. It’s like ‘officer down’ once removed. That’s all I know except that Kylie is on the way to identify the body.”

“God, I hope she’s not driving.”

“She’s not that crazy, and even if she tried, no one is crazy enough to let her.”

We were on the corner of Nine Two and Madison, and I stepped off the curb to get a better look down the avenue. Flashing lights about a mile away. No sirens, but moving fast.

“Here they come,” I said to Cheryl. “I don’t know when I’ll be home, but I’ll text you and keep you posted.”

“Text me?” she said, her voice suddenly sharp. “Zach, where’s your head? I’m going with you.”

That threw me. “Cheryl, it’s a crime scene. Since when does—”

“Since when? A police officer’s husband was murdered. It’s my job to evaluate Kylie to determine whether or not she’s fit for duty, and having done this far too many times in the past, I can tell you my best guess: she’s not.”

“Sorry,” I said. “We’re all in shock. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

She didn’t say a word, and I wondered if I’d just undone the last two hours of brilliant fence-mending with one dumb remark.

The convoy pulled up: two squad cars followed by a Ford van, then another two squad cars. The van stopped directly in front of us, and a uniform jumped out and slid the door open. I climbed into the back, and Cheryl sat in the center row next to Kylie. She’d been crying, and Cheryl put a comforting arm around her, although I wondered how much comfort was possible.

“It’s my fault,” Kylie said as soon as we started rolling. “I should never have kicked him out of the apartment.”

“You didn’t kick him out,” Cheryl said. “You checked him into rehab.”

Kylie shook her head. “It was a day program. I could have let him live at home.”

“Do you really think that would have made a difference?” Cheryl said, her voice consoling and without a trace of judgment. “Addicts put their lives at risk every day — it’s what they do. No one can stop them, and when it ends in tragedy, it’s never anybody’s fault but their own. I know you know that.”

Kylie nodded her head and whispered “Thank you.” Cheryl took a quick look over her shoulder and made eye contact with me just in case I still didn’t understand why she was along for the ride.

The traffic was thin, and the ribbon of strobe lights quickly scattered everyone in our path as we sped through Spanish Harlem and over the Madison Avenue Bridge into the southern tip of our city’s most ravaged borough.

Back in the seventies, the South Bronx was the epicenter of murder, rape, robbery, and arson in the U.S., and the cry “The Bronx is burning” was heard across America. Today, many of the burned-out buildings have been replaced, but with half the population living below the poverty line, the area is still a magnet for gangs, drug peddlers, and violent crime.

As we turned onto East 163rd Street, I thought about all the “safer places” in the city to cop drugs, and I wondered what drew a white-collar junkie to the dark, unwelcoming streets here in the shadow of Yankee Stadium.

And then Cheryl’s words echoed in my brain. “Addicts put their lives at risk every day — it’s what they do.” Spence Harrington had done it once too often.

The van pulled to a stop, the door opened, and a tall man in an NYPD windbreaker introduced himself to Kylie. “Detective Peter Varhol,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss, Detective MacDonald.”

He led the way to the crime scene. Kylie and I had seen it many times before: a fetid patch of ground in the bowels of the city, a drug buy gone bad, a body lying under a sheet. Some cops say they’re immune to it, but for me it’s always gut-wrenching. Only this time it was personal.

Cheryl and I stood back a respectful distance and let Kylie approach the body. A technician pulled back the sheet, and she fell to her knees. Within seconds she slumped over, and her body heaved with sobs.

Cheryl moved closer, knelt beside her, crossed herself, and then stood up abruptly. “Zach,” she said, her head motioning toward the corpse.

I stepped forward and dropped to my knees next to Kylie. The man on the ground had a blood-caked hole in the middle of his forehead. His eyes were wide-open, a look of utter disbelief frozen on his face.

He was dead. Murdered in cold blood. But he wasn’t Spence.

Chapter 42

“First body I ever called wrong,” Detective Varhol said to Kylie. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

“It’s not your fault,” Kylie said. “The first responder saw my name in Spence’s wallet. I got the call before you were even on the scene.”

“I know, but the cop who ID’d the body is a rookie,” Varhol said. “And the vic looks enough like the picture on your husband’s driver’s license that it’s an easy mistake to make, but damn, once I got here, I should have taken a closer look.”

It was a much bigger mea culpa than the situation called for. I was thinking what a stand-up guy Varhol was when he smoothly shifted gears. “You recognize him, don’t you?” he said.

Kylie hadn’t volunteered the victim’s name, but Varhol had good cop instincts, and he’d disarmed her just enough to catch her off guard.

Withholding information is one thing. Lying is another. Kylie owned up. “His first name is Marco. I don’t know his last name. My husband is a TV producer, and Marco worked for the catering company that services Spence’s productions.”

Varhol waited for more, but that was all she was going to give up.

“Detective MacDonald,” he said, “this was a drug deal gone south. If your husband is using, that’s your problem. My problem is that I have a homicide to solve, and I need all the help I can get.”

Kylie filled him in on what we found at Shelley’s apartment.

“And this kid Seth,” Varhol said. “Do you know his last name?”

“No.”

“Any idea how I can track him down?”

“He works at Silvercup Studios. Why don’t you swing by there first thing in the morning? They usually gear up by seven.”

“The morning,” Varhol repeated.

“Please,” Kylie said.

Varhol looked at his watch. “It’s ten thirty. I guess I could wait until morning.”

Anyone listening to their conversation would have taken them for two cops talking logistics, but I knew enough to read the subtext.

Seth might have information that could lead to the killer, and Varhol wanted to interview him immediately. Kylie also wanted to talk to Seth, because he might lead her to Spence. But she wasn’t connected to the case or the official investigation, so Varhol gave her until seven a.m. to do what she always does: bend the rules.

“Thanks,” she said.

“And when you find your husband,” he said, “give me a call. I have his wallet, and I’d like to know how it wound up in a dead man’s pocket.”

He walked off to talk with his crime scene tech, leaving me, Kylie, and Cheryl to talk in private.

“We have to find Seth and talk to him tonight,” Kylie said.

“We can start by calling Shelley Trager,” I said.

“No. He’s gone through enough hell with Spence. Let’s call Bob Reitzfeld. He can access the employee database, and he can keep a secret.”

“Who’s Bob Reitzfeld?” Cheryl asked.

“He was on the job thirty years,” I said. “Great cop, but he couldn’t handle retirement, so he got a job in security at Silvercup at fifteen bucks an hour. Now he’s running the department. Kylie is right. Reitzfeld can help us.”

Cheryl looked at Kylie. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I know why you’re here, Dr. Robinson,” Kylie said. “If that were Spence lying on the ground, you would take me out of the line of fire and chain me to a desk, and I wouldn’t argue with you. But it’s not Spence, so believe me when I tell you I’m okay — totally okay.”

Cheryl nodded. “In that case, I don’t want to slow you down.” She looked at me. “Either of you.”

“What are you going to do?” I said.

“Me?” she said, managing to look innocent and devilish at the same time. “This place is crawling with cops. I’m going to find the best-looking one and catch a ride into Manhattan.”

“So, then I’ll see you at home,” I said.

She gave me half a shrug. “If you’re lucky.”

Chapter 43

I called Bob Reitzfeld at home.

“Damn,” he said when I told him about Marco. “I liked him, but the son of a bitch was a toe tag waiting to happen. I’m glad it’s not Spence.”

“Do you know this kid Seth?”

“Seth Penzig,” he said. “Him I don’t like.”

“So far I haven’t met anyone who does. Why doesn’t the studio fire him?”

He laughed. “For a smart cop, Zach, you can ask some dumb questions. It’s show business. If they got rid of all the assholes and the snow snorters, there’d be no show and no business. Hey, Spence destroyed two sets, but you can bet he’ll be invited back as soon as he cleans up his act.”

“First we have to find him, and to do that, we have to find Seth. Can you help us track him down? We don’t have a lot of time.”

“I pulled up his home address while you were talking,” he said. “Six three one Thirty-Ninth Avenue in Woodside. Fast enough for you?”

I thanked him and had the van drive me and Kylie to Queens. It was a working-class neighborhood a few miles from Silvercup. Seth’s apartment was on the second floor, over a nail salon.

We rang the bell and were buzzed in, no questions asked.

“He didn’t even ask who it is,” Kylie said. “He must be expecting some sort of delivery.”

Whatever Seth was expecting, it wasn’t us. He opened the door, took one look, and tried to slam it shut. But Kylie pushed it in his face, and he teetered backward into his apartment.

“You got no cause,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“The place reeks of marijuana,” Kylie said, “which gives us plenty of cause, and which, according to part 3, title M, article 221 of the New York penal code, is not only wrong but highly illegal. And that bong on the table isn’t going to help your case.”

She took a step toward him, and Seth cupped his hands over his balls.

“But don’t worry, I’m going to overlook the drug abuse,” she said, “because your buddy Marco was shot tonight, and you’ve been upgraded from crackhead to murder suspect.”

Whatever cockiness Seth had in reserve went out the window. He sat down on the edge of a coffee table that was scarred with roach burns and shook his head. “Marco was my friend. I didn’t shoot him. I don’t even have a gun.”

“How about an alibi? Do you have one of those?” Kylie demanded. “Where did you and Marco go after he helped you hobble out of Shelley Trager’s apartment this morning?”

“Starbucks. We were having coffee, and Spence called me. Told us to meet him in a hotel.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know if it even has a name. It’s one of those flophouses down on the Bowery where you can rent by the hour.”

“That doesn’t sound like Spence’s style,” Kylie said.

“That was the point. He didn’t want to go where anyone might recognize him.”

“What happened when you got to the hotel?”

“Spence had some blow, but it turned out to be crap — cut with baby-formula powder. Marco said he knew about this good shit he could get up in the Bronx. Colombian — 95 percent pure. Spence wanted it bad. Said he’d buy if Marco would score it for him. Marco said, ‘It’s pricey. How much cash you got?’

“Spence was pretty wasted by then, so he just takes his wallet out of his pocket and says, ‘Take it all, and don’t come back empty-handed.’ Marco says, ‘This dude doesn’t take plastic,’ so he dumps out Spence’s credit cards, puts the wallet in his pocket, and takes off. That’s the last I ever saw him. I swear.”

“And what about Spence?”

“Your husband is crazy, lady. After half an hour, he was climbing the walls. Couldn’t wait for Marco to get back. Said he’s going down to the meatpacking district. He’s got VIP status in one of the clubs. Tells me to call him when Marco shows up.”

“And then what?”

“I waited two hours. No Marco. I figured he scored the dope, and it’s up his nose by now. And no Spence, because, hell, he’s got an Amex Platinum card, so he’s probably sucking down five-hundred-dollar bottles of Grey Goose. I bailed, took the subway to Queens, and stopped for a twelve-pack at the bodega around nine, so I got a witness who can tell you I wasn’t anywhere near Marco.”

“Don’t move,” Kylie said.

The two of us walked to a corner of Seth’s half kitchen, where we could talk in private and still keep an eye on him.

“Dead end,” she said. “I don’t think he’ll be much help to Varhol either, but why don’t you call him and get him over here? Maybe Seth can come up with a name for the dealer Marco was meeting.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to call Jan Hogle and have her monitor Spence’s credit cards. Do you have any other ideas?”

“Just one. But you’re not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

“Stop looking for Spence and start looking for the murderers and thieves that the City of New York is paying you to look for.”

“Good call on the ‘you’re not going to like it’ part,” she said, “but you’re right. It’s my job. Besides, I have a better chance of tracking down a killer, a gang of medical-equipment thieves, and an eight-million-dollar necklace than I do of finding my husband.”

Chapter 44

Annie Ryder could fall asleep on a rock. But not tonight. After lying in bed for over an hour, her brain was still doing laps like Dale Earnhardt Jr. at Talladega.

She wasn’t worried about Jeremy. He wanted the necklace; she wanted the money — that would be easy. Annie wrestled with the hard part. What next? Where do Teddy and I go? What do we do?

She got out of bed, made some tea, and laced it with cognac. But the answers didn’t come, and the questions refused to go away. She went to the living room and lifted Buddy from the sideboard.

“This is why I didn’t scatter you all over Vegas,” she said, carrying him into the bedroom. She set him down on the night table and pressed her hands against the sides of the bronze urn. “Sorry to disturb your eternal rest, but one of us has to worry about our son. You take the night shift so I can get some sleep.”

A warm tingle let her know that Buddy was on the job. She kissed him good night, turned off the light, and fell asleep in minutes.

In the morning she gave Teddy a short list of things to do and a long list of things not to do.

“Why can’t I go with you?” he asked as Annie changed the bandage on his wound.

“Let’s see. Because you’re cat-sitting, because you need your rest... and I’m trying to remember... there was a third reason. Oh yeah.” She gave him a motherly whack on the back of his head. “Because you’re wanted for armed robbery and the murder of Elena Travers.”

“I can wear a disguise. Otherwise, who’s going to protect you on the subway?”

“Don’t worry. I am not about to risk carrying an eight-million-dollar necklace on the N train — with or without someone to protect me. I asked Tow Truck Bob to drive me to Manhattan, wait for me, and then drive me back.”

“Tow Truck Bob?” Teddy said, frowning. “I don’t know, Ma. You think that’s such a good idea?”

“Relax, kiddo. Bob is one of those guys who never asks any questions. As far as he’s concerned, he’s giving me a ride into the city to pick something up. That’s all he knows, and believe me, that’s all he wants to know. I trust him.”

“I trust him too, but don’t you think it’s kind of crazy to go by tow truck? You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

Annie sighed. This was why Teddy needed her. Like Buddy always said, “The poor kid couldn’t think his way out of a room with four doors if three of them were wide-open.”

“No, sweetie,” she said. “That’s just his nickname. He retired from the towing business a few years ago.”

“Gotcha,” Teddy said. “What does he drive now?”

“A Jeep Cherokee.”

Teddy’s eyes lit up, and Annie knew what was coming next.

“From now on we should start calling him Jeep Cherokee Bob.”

“Smart thinking, kiddo,” she said, putting the finishing touch on his fresh bandage. “I’ll tell him.”

Annie sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She still hadn’t figured out where she and Teddy should run off to once they had the money, but there was one thing she was sure of: he wasn’t smart enough to survive in New York on his own.

She hustled him along to the other apartment and went over his things-not-to-do list one last time.

“What time will you be back?” Teddy asked.

“I’m meeting Jeremy at noon. If it all goes the way it’s supposed to, the whole thing should take ten minutes. Then we’ll hop on the BQE, and there’s not a lot of traffic at this hour, so I should be home by one o’clock.”

“Cool,” Teddy said. “Could you bring me back some lunch?”

“Sure. What would you like?”

“Let’s see. A pastrami sandwich, a cream soda... and I’m trying to remember... there was a third thing I wanted. Oh yeah.” He tapped his forehead. “A hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.”

Annie laughed out loud. Sometimes the kid wasn’t as dumb as she thought.

Chapter 45

When I got to work the next morning, Kylie was at her computer. “Your girlfriend ratted me out to the boss,” she said, not looking up at me.

“If what you’re trying to say is that Dr. Robinson sent a report to Captain Cates about our late-night excursion to the Bronx, I know all about it,” I said.

“Cheryl told you?” she said, finally deeming me worthy of eye contact.

“Only after the fact. She gave me a heads-up as we were on our way to work this morning.”

“Why would you need a heads-up?”

“I don’t know. Maybe just in case I got to the office and you were in a pissy mood. But I’m happy to see you’re nothing but sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.”

She lifted one hand from the keyboard and gave me the finger.

“What’s your problem?” I said. “Cheryl cleared you for duty. End of story.”

“Not for Cates. She wants both of us in her office. Now.”

“Both of us? This is between you and the captain. Why does she want me?”

“I don’t know, Zach. Maybe Cheryl’s opinion wasn’t enough. Maybe you get a vote too. Do you think I’m fit for duty, Dr. Jordan?”

“Hell, if we’re going to play good cop/bad cop, you’re totally fit for baddest-ass cop ever. Otherwise, you’re going to have to be on restricted duty.”

She lifted the other hand so she could flip me the bird with both barrels.

“You’re overreacting,” I said. “And for the record, Mrs. Harrington, the boss didn’t find out about Spence from Cheryl. That little card in his wallet that said ‘I’m married to an NYPD detective’ was the equivalent of sending up a Bat Signal. It lit up the radios across all five boroughs. It was the system that ratted you out, not Cheryl.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.” She stood up, mental body armor in place, ready to do battle with whatever the system had in store for her next. I followed her to Cates’s office.

“I’m sorry to hear about Spence,” Cates said as we walked through the door. “I know what it’s like to be married to a man with a drug addiction.”

That stopped Kylie cold. “I... I didn’t know that,” she said, her body language softening.

“Not many people do. It’s ancient history. I’m only telling you because I wanted you to know that Delia Cates understands what you’re going through—”

“Thank you,” Kylie said.

“—but Captain Cates is about to come down on your ass like the hammer of Thor!” She pounded her desk to punctuate her point. “Last night you were called to a crime scene. As a witness — not as a cop, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“After you learned that the victim was not your husband, did the lead detective on the case ask you for any help?”

“Detective Varhol asked if I recognized the victim. I gave him—”

Cates cut her off. “Did he ask you to assist him in his investigation?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So if Varhol made it clear that this was not your rodeo, why do I have a civilian complaint from Seth Penzig saying that you and Jordan stormed your way into his apartment and told him he was a suspect in the murder of his friend?”

“Stormed the apartment? That’s totally bogus. Zach and I had cause. You could smell the pot wafting out of Seth’s place from a block away.”

“Could you smell it from the Bronx? Because that’s where you were when you told Detective Varhol that you had no idea where Penzig lived.”

“We did a little digging after we left the Bronx.”

“Digging? In what universe is it okay for you to shanghai an investigation and question a person of interest in another cop’s homicide?”

“I was trying to find my husband.”

“And Detective Varhol was trying to find Penzig, but you decided that your personal needs were more important than the mission of this department.”

Some people find themselves in a deep hole and look for a way out. Not Kylie. She just grabs a bigger shovel. I jumped in before she could dig deeper.

“Captain,” I said, “I’m just as much to blame.”

“You’re damn right you are,” Cates snapped back. “Why do you think you’re here?”

“It was a big mistake, and I apologize if you took any heat over it. There’s no excuse for what the two of us did.”

“And yet, I’ve heard nothing but excuses from your partner.”

“She wasn’t thinking straight. They told her that Spence was dead, and she snapped. It won’t happen again.”

Cates grunted. “Do you want to put in for family leave?” she asked Kylie.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then if you want to look for your husband, do it on your own time, which, judging by your caseload, is going to be in short supply,” Cates said. “But if you ever flash your department shield to solve your civilian problems again, you’ll find yourself with more personal time than you ever dreamed of. Dismissed.”

“You realize that you never even apologized to her,” I said as soon as Kylie and I were back at our desks.

“It sounded to me like you were repentant enough for both of us.”

“That’s not how the concept works. You’re supposed to own your—”

The text alert on Kylie’s phone chirped, and she immediately tuned me out to look at the message. “Oh God,” she said.

“What’s going on?”

She didn’t answer. She just handed me her phone.

It was a text from Q.

It was a picture of a stunning young black woman in a glittery low-cut top. Next to her was a bleary-eyed man with a drink in one hand and the other resting on the woman’s bare shoulder. There were splashes of blue, purple, and hot pink behind them — the official pyrotechnics of every after-dark club everywhere. Below the picture was a text.

Chapter 46

The silver S550 Mercedes was parked outside the precinct. Q’s driver, Rodrigo, opened the rear door, and Kylie and I got in.

Q, in a custom-tailored navy suit, white shirt, and blue and gold repp tie, looked more like a captain of industry than a purveyor of fine flesh and priceless information. “First things first,” he said to Kylie. “Let me have your phone.”

She handed it to him, and he deleted the picture he’d sent. “To quote the incomparable John Ridley,” he said, “‘Discretion — it never goes out of style.’”

“Where is Spence?” Kylie asked.

“Atlantic City. The Borgata. Room 1178.”

“Yesterday he was in a flophouse on the Bowery. He’s traded up. How did you find him?”

“My business is a lot like yours,” Q said. “We both cater to the rich and powerful. If Spence had been holed up in a warehouse down by the Holland Tunnel, I’d never know. But five minutes after he rolled into the hotel, I got two texts: one from a valet, another from a bellman. I asked Tanya, the young lady in the photo, to get visual confirmation. For the record, she’s not with him. She just worked him long enough to get the picture... in case you were wondering.”

“For the record,” Kylie said, “of course I was wondering. Thank you. It’s very reassuring. Maybe I can have a T-shirt made: ‘My Husband Isn’t Cheating. He’s Just on a Drug Bender.’”

“It appears that he’s upped his game. I have it from a trusted source that the paperboy hooked him up with Aunt Hazel.”

There’s a vast lexicon of street terms the illegal drug trade uses to shroud their activity in mystery. New code names pop up every day, but the maiden aunts have been around for decades. Aunt Mary is marijuana, Aunt Nora is cocaine, but Aunt Hazel is the most deadly of them all: heroin.

“I’m sorry to be the messenger of such dire tidings,” Q said, “but at least you know where he is — for now. If I were you, I’d get down there in a hurry.”

“A hurry?” Kylie said. “Atlantic City is a six-hour round-trip.”

“Not if you’ve got lights, sirens, and you push the needle to triple digits.”

“The department tends to frown on cops who use the company car to resolve their marital issues,” Kylie said. “I appreciate your help, but I can’t leave the city for that big a chunk of time.”

“How about if I have Rodrigo expedite things for you?”

“Expedite?” Kylie said. “Because nothing says ‘loving wife’ like having someone stuff your husband into the trunk of a Benz and hauling him a hundred miles up the Jersey Turnpike.”

Q laughed. “I forgot how your cop brain works. I was just offering to get you there by helicopter. NYC to ACY in thirty-seven minutes.”

“You own a—” Kylie twirled a finger in the air.

“Let’s just say I have access. My employees are on call 24/7, so I can hardly rely on public transportation. Besides, it’s an amenity my clientele are happy to pay for.”

“Your clients have the five grand it costs to be airlifted to hooker heaven,” Kylie said. “I can’t afford that kind of happiness.”

Q did his best to look offended. “Please — since when has our relationship ever been sullied with talk of money? The ride is a gift.”

“If you take your mom up for a spin, it’s a gift. If you take a cop, it’s a bribe. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Damn it, Kylie, I do you favors; you do me favors. That’s the basis of our relationship. I’m helping you track down a drug addict. Someday you’ll pay me back. Straight-up quid pro quo. Why change the rules now?” He turned to me. “Zach, talk some sense into this girl.”

“Only if you tell me what’s going on,” I said.

Q gave me a blank stare. “What are you talking about? Nothing’s going on. I’m trying to help your partner out.”

“You did help her. You found her husband. This is where you would normally walk away. But you’re still helping. So I have to ask myself: why is Q so invested in getting Kylie to Atlantic City that he’s willing to fly her there at his own expense? The only answer I can come up with is there’s something in it for you. Would you like to share that with us?”

“Okay, full disclosure. I’m hosting a party at the Borgata this weekend. My best customers: seven oil dudes from Texas, all white, all married, and they love the ladies of color. Money is no object. All they care about is privacy — I don’t even know their real names. Sunday morning they pay me in cash and fly home. It’s a huge payday, and I’m afraid Spence could fuck it up.”

“How?”

“Because he’s a big-time TV producer and a cop’s husband. If he’s found dead in a bed, that hotel will turn into a media circus, and my camera-shy cowboys will pull the plug on the party before it starts. Can you help me out?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Step out of the car so Kylie and I can talk.”

I didn’t have to ask twice.

“Do you want to take a personal day and drive down there now?” I said to Kylie as soon as we were alone.

“No. I’m done putting Spence’s addiction ahead of my career. I’ll punch out at six, rent a car, and be back by morning. You stay and cover for me.”

“It would be a lot faster if you went by chopper.”

“I’ve done a lot of stupid things, Zach, but I’ve never taken a bribe.”

“It’s not a bribe,” I said. “Q is our best CI. He just gave us Raymond Davis and Teddy Ryder. Like he said, quid pro quo. We can’t give him a get-out-of-jail-free card, but we can help him eliminate a minor business annoyance. We both fly down tonight. I help you drag Spence’s sorry ass to a rehab, and if our phone rings, we’re only thirty-seven minutes away. Win-win.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “I’ve created a monster. You’re starting to think like me.”

“It sounds like you and I are in violent agreement.”

“Hell, yeah,” she said, a broad grin spreading across her face.

It was the first time I’d seen her smile since she kicked Seth Penzig in the balls. Things were starting to look up.

Chapter 47

Annie Ryder knew better than to burden her son with too many facts. What she failed to tell Teddy was that Tow Truck Bob was also known as Lieutenant Robert Beatty, U.S. Marines — a lone-wolf sniper who had taken out high-profile targets in Lebanon, Somalia, and Nicaragua, plus in a few top secret locations known only to a handful of generals and their commander in chief, Jimmy Carter.

Jeremy might look like a candy-ass, but he’d already murdered Raymond Davis and barely missed killing Teddy. Annie wasn’t taking any chances. Bob didn’t know any of the details, but if Jeremy had thoughts about going after her, he’d have to get past 260 pounds of muscle, grit, and combat training.

Bob pulled the Jeep into the Edison ParkFast on Essex Street, and the unlikely couple walked around the corner and one block west to 205 East Houston.

They’d already gone over the logistics. Annie went in first. As soon as she walked through the door, she inhaled the intoxicating aromas of corned beef, matzo ball soup, chopped liver, and artery-clogging pastrami that Buddy had said was worth risking his life for.

Katz’s Deli was one of New York’s most popular tourist attractions — a mecca for foodies of every stripe. For Annie it was the perfect drop spot. There was safety in numbers, and with the lunchtime crowd streaming in, she would be just another anonymous old lady to be ignored.

She went to the counter and ordered Teddy’s lunch to go, along with knoblewurst on rye and a bottle of Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda for herself. She found a table in the rear and watched as Bob entered, bought a sandwich, and took a seat twenty feet away from her.

Jeremy showed up at noon on the dot. He bypassed the counter, scanned the room, spied Annie, and sat down at her table.

“Let’s do this fast,” he said, unslinging a canvas messenger bag from his shoulder and setting it on the floor. “The money is all here. You can check to see if it’s real, but don’t ask if you can take it into the ladies’ room to count it.”

Annie picked up the bag and unbuckled the front flap. The packets of hundred-dollar bills inside looked, felt, and smelled real. She closed the bag and hefted it up and down several times.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jeremy asked.

“I don’t have to count it,” she said. “A ten-thousand-dollar stack of hundreds weighs about the same as a Big Mac. This feels like you got my order right.” She put the bag down on the floor.

Jeremy grinned. “At first I made you for one batshit old broad, but it turns out you’re as smart as you are nasty.”

“Well, aren’t you the sweet talker,” Annie said. “Maybe when this is all over, the two of us can be Facebook friends.”

Jeremy took a jeweler’s loupe out of his pocket. “I showed you mine. Your turn to show me yours.”

Annie removed a small black LeSportsac makeup bag from her purse and slid it across the table. Jeremy opened a menu, slipped the bag between the pages, removed the necklace, and studied it with the loupe.

Had anyone bothered to look, he was just another farsighted customer squinting at the menu, trying to decide.

Annie took a deep breath. For the first time since Teddy called her on Tuesday night, she felt a sense of relief. She still didn’t know what to do about Teddy, but the bag at her feet would buy her a lot of options. A hint of a satisfied smile crossed her face, and she took a sip of her soda to cover it up.

And then — bang!

Annie jumped. Jeremy had slammed the table with the base of his fist.

Heads turned. Jeremy didn’t care. His teeth were gritted, his jaw was locked tight, and his eyes were aflame. “You conniving bitch,” he said, spitting out every word. He stuffed the necklace back in the makeup bag and shoved it at her.

Annie tried to process what was going on. “I don’t understand. What’s the prob—”

Jeremy didn’t stick around to explain. He scooped up the bag of hundred-dollar bills, pushed back his chair, and bolted for the door. Tow Truck Bob stood up and was about to go after him, but Annie held up her hand.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, shoving the makeup bag into her purse.

Ten minutes later, they were crossing the Williamsburg Bridge.

“You okay?” Bob finally said.

Annie lowered her eyelids. It was the first question the strong, silent marine had asked since she’d recruited him, and based on what had just happened, it was a pretty stupid question at that. But Bob wasn’t stupid. He was a kindhearted man doing his best to tiptoe around her feelings, and the last thing he deserved was one of her trademark wiseass answers.

“No, I’m not okay,” she said, opening her eyes as the Jeep merged onto the ramp to the BQE. “Thanks for asking.”

“It’s none of my business,” Bob said, “but what the hell happened?”

“I don’t know. I’m still shell-shocked.”

“Sorry,” Bob said, “but that’s the thing with these business deals. Sometimes they can just go south.”

Con jobs could go south, Annie knew. Hell, if the mark caught on, a scam could explode in your face. It didn’t happen to her and Buddy often, but when it did, they didn’t ask why. They just packed up and ran like hell.

But this was a legitimate business deal. Okay, maybe not legitimate, but it was a straight-up agreement between her and Jeremy. It was about to go down when something spooked him. But what?

She clutched the Katz’s Deli takeout bag that was sitting on her lap and closed her eyes again. On top of everything, she’d have to explain to Teddy why all she’d come home with was a pastrami sandwich and a cream soda. He’d ask why she didn’t bring back the money.

She didn’t have an answer. Maybe Buddy would know.

Chapter 48

Jeremy could barely swallow. His breathing was labored, and he hugged his chest, trying to ease the rib-crushing pain. He’d had anxiety attacks before, but this one was the mother of them all.

He sat up straight in the back of the cab, rested his palms on his knees, and took long, slow, deep breaths. Five minutes into the ride, the wave of panic passed.

You’re okay, he told himself. It’s only a temporary setback. Relax and think about what to do next.

The first option that popped into his head was to do exactly what he had told Leo he wouldn’t do: take the hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars and run away with it.

He shook off the thought. After all he’d been through, he wasn’t going to settle for chump change. He’d have to come up with a new plan, but he couldn’t do it alone. “Shit,” he said out loud. “I guess the relationship isn’t quite over.”

The taxi dropped him in front of the Flatiron Building, on Fifth Avenue at 23rd Street. It was a short walk to the Bassett brothers’ minimansion on 21st, but he knew better than to show up unannounced.

There was a pocket seating area on the wide traffic island that separated Fifth from Broadway. Jeremy bought a bottle of water from a pushcart vendor, found an empty table, and sipped slowly. The water went down easy. He could swallow. He could breathe. He could do this.

He took out his cell and sent a text.

The response came back immediately.

Jeremy fumed. Later? He drank the rest of the water and texted back.

It took two minutes for the answer to come back.

“Stupid rich asshole,” Jeremy said to the text.

It took ten minutes to walk west to the Trailer Park Lounge. He’d never heard of it, but as soon as he walked through the door, he knew why it was the perfect spot to meet. It was the kind of intentionally tacky dive that Leo Bassett wouldn’t be caught dead in.

Max Bassett, on the other hand, looked right at home. He was at a table in the rear, wearing jeans, a faded plaid shirt, and a ratty old baseball cap with a logo that simply said HAT. There were two bottles of beer in front of him.

“What do you mean ‘It did not go well’?” Max said, picking up one beer and pushing the other in Jeremy’s direction. “I thought Leo gave you the cash. What did the old lady do? Hold you up for more?”

“No,” Jeremy said. “She was drooling over the money. But the necklace she was peddling was a fake. So I pulled the plug and walked out on her.”

Max’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You... you had the necklace in your hand, and you gave it back?”

“You’re damn right I did. Max, it wasn’t worth a hundred and seventy-five grand, let alone eight million. I thought—”

“Since when do I pay you to think? You were given specific instructions: ‘Buy the necklace from the old lady.’”

“Max, I know enough about gems to be able to tell what real emeralds and diamonds look like. I took a good look at the necklace with a loupe. Annie Ryder was trying to sell me a fake — a total piece of shit.”

“You know nothing about gems. What you were looking at was a perfectly crafted replica using cultured crystals instead of real stones. And it’s far from a piece of shit. It may not be expensive, but it’s still an original Max Bassett.”

Jeremy tried to make sense of what Max had said, but the vise was starting to tighten around his chest again, and most of his brain was preoccupied with warding off the pain.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would you dress Elena Travers up in a fake necklace?”

“Did you think I would trust you to steal the real one? If you ever got your hands on it, you’d be on a one-way flight to God knows where — first class.”

“So you have the real necklace?”

“I never let it out of my sight. And as soon as the insurance company pays me for my loss, I will refashion it and make several wealthy women extremely happy. What I don’t have is the imitation. Are you beginning to understand why I need it, Jeremy?”

Jeremy nodded. “Yeah, I get it. You’re afraid the old lady will turn it in to the insurance company, and once they have it, they’ll figure out that the original was never stolen.”

“You really don’t have a head for this, do you, Jeremy? The old lady can’t turn it in to the insurance company. It would be like saying, ‘Here’s what my son stole.’ And she can’t find a buyer, because who would want to buy a fake piece of shit?”

“I can fix this,” Jeremy said. “I know where she lives. I’ll give her the hundred and seventy-five. She’ll be happy to make the deal.”

“Is that the money in the bag?” Max asked.

“Every penny.”

“Let me see.”

Jeremy slipped the bag from his shoulder and handed it to Max.

“You won’t be needing this anymore,” Max said. “I’ll take care of the old lady.”

“Don’t be crazy. Give me the money. I’ll be back with the necklace in two hours.”

Max laughed. “Even Leo is not dumb enough to believe that. Good-bye, Jeremy.”

“You want to get rid of me, fine. But you owe me. I put months into this job, and so far I haven’t been paid anything.”

“That’s because so far you haven’t earned anything,” Max said. “You bungled the job from the get-go.”

“Give me a break, Max. It’s not my fault Elena wound up dead.”

“Perhaps,” Max said. “But it’s definitely your fault that Leo is still alive.”

Chapter 49

“The only reason Leo is still alive is because he never made it to the limo,” Jeremy said, his voice an angry whisper. “How can you blame that on me?”

“I’m not blaming that on you,” Max said, resting a hand on his chin and gently stroking his beard. “But you’ve had plenty of other opportunities since then.”

“Opportunities? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You spent all of last night shacked up with him at a hotel.”

“And what was I supposed to do? Shoot him in bed and leave his body on the room-service cart?”

Max shrugged. “I’m not in charge of logistics, Jeremy. You are. All I know is that we had an agreement. I promised you a shitload of money — far more than you’re worth — and you would see to it that Leo was the unfortunate victim of a jewelry heist gone horribly wrong.”

“And that’s exactly what would have happened. Raymond Davis was a contemptible, cold-blooded scumbag. All it took to get him to agree to kill Leo was to promise him ten thousand more than I was giving Teddy. It was a solid plan.”

“And yet,” Max said, lifting his beer from the table and dabbing with a napkin at the wet ring it left behind, “Raymond not only failed to shoot Leo, he murdered Elena Travers and turned your solid plan into an international cause célèbre.”

“Shit happens, Max.”

“Apparently it happens to you more often than to most criminal masterminds. But I was willing to overlook it. Do you know why? Because I had faith that you could bounce back from your monumental blunder and get it right the second time around. I mean, after all, you still had Raymond Davis, and from what I understood, it wouldn’t take much for you to convince him to try his luck with Leo a second time. But did you do that? Did you seek out Raymond and try to motivate your handpicked employee to finish the job?”

He slammed the beer bottle back down on the table. “No! Instead, you went to Raymond’s apartment and you killed him. And now you want me to pay you for all your hard work?”

“Fine,” Jeremy said. “So I didn’t finish that part of the job. But I still want to be paid for stealing the necklace.”

“Stealing it and losing it,” Max said. “Twice. First you were outwitted by a half-wit, and then you had it in your hand, and you gave it back, leaving me in a position where I will have to negotiate with a woman who is as well versed in the art of the deal as a Wall Street banker. Bottom line: you failed at every turn, and Max Bassett doesn’t reward failure. At the risk of repeating myself, good-bye, Jeremy.”

Jeremy’s shoulder slumped. “No. Please, Max, I know I messed it up, but don’t dump me now. Give me one more chance to make it right.”

Max folded his arms across his chest and sat back in his chair. His body language said it all. I am impenetrable.

Jeremy countered with body language of his own. He spread his arms wide and placed his palms on the table. I am defenseless, vulnerable, and I trust you. “I know what you need,” he said in a near whisper. “Leo has been a thorn in your side your entire life. And now, with this Precio Mundo opportunity at your fingertips, the thorn has become a roadblock, a barricade.”

Max’s head moved. An involuntary nod. Jeremy had struck the right chord.

“I know him, Max,” Jeremy said, leaning in. “I know him intimately, and he has sworn to me that he will never give in. Your brother will stand in the way of your dreams until the day he dies. Give me one more chance to make that day come fast. Today, if you want.”

“How much do you want?” Max said.

“It’s a one-time-only payment. Once I have the money, you’ll never see or hear from me again.”

“How much do you want, Jeremy?”

“A million dollars.” Jeremy smiled. “I realize that you could shop around and get it done for less, but you’ve been grooming me for this job for months. Leo trusts me. Just say the word, and when you wake up tomorrow morning, the destiny of Bassett Brothers Jewelry will be in your hands, and yours alone.”

“Do it,” Max said. “I’ll go to my club for dinner and play poker till eleven p.m. Leo will be home alone. If he’s dead when I get there, I’ll wire you the million. Otherwise, you’re broke, unemployed, and wanted for murder.”

“Don’t worry,” Jeremy said. “I won’t let you down. Thank you.”

“Of course you won’t,” Max said, a self-satisfied smirk crossing his lips.

Jeremy took a long, slow deep breath. The oxygen filled his lungs, and he realized how effortless it had been. He exhaled slowly. Another breath. His chest pains were gone, his focus was back. Somewhere during Max’s harangue the anxiety and the fear had turned to resolve. Max was not Leo. Max was a formidable opponent, and Jeremy was determined to crush him.

No, he thought, staring at the sardonic smile that mocked him from across the table. More than crush him. Kill him.

Chapter 50

I underestimated Kylie. I figured she’d spend the entire day second-guessing her decision to put off rescuing Spence, but I was wrong. She was pleasant, productive, and we breezed through our shift.

First we met with Howard Sykes. “I had a long talk with Phil Landsberg, the CEO at Hudson,” he said. “Needless to say, he’s not jumping up and down at the thought of his hospital being the target of the next robbery, but he finally caved. I’d like to tell you that it was my four decades as an advertising genius that won him over, but it wasn’t.”

“So now you owe him,” I said.

Sykes frowned. “Actually, Muriel owes him. I just have to break the news to her that she’ll be the guest of honor at their next fund-raiser,” he said. “I’ve done my part. What’s next?”

“We do ours,” Kylie said. “A mammogram machine that is 40 percent more effective at detecting breast cancer is newsworthy. We’ll have our PIO reach out to the media to spread the word. Then we’ll meet with ESU and the head of security at Hudson to work out the logistics. Do you want us to keep you in the loop as we go along?”

“Nobody likes a micromanager,” Sykes said. “You don’t have to report back to me till you’ve got those people locked up. But before I bow out, I have one message to pass on to the two of you from Phil Landsberg. He said, ‘You can let those bastards into my hospital, but whatever you do, don’t let them out.’”

By four p.m. the plan was in full swing. All we needed was for the gang to take the bait and move Hudson to the top of their hit list. At six we left the office.

“Did you tell Cheryl where we’re going tonight?” Kylie asked as we slogged through rush hour traffic on the FDR.

“Not exactly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I told her you and I would be working late, but she didn’t ask me for the details, so I didn’t volunteer. Plus she’s going out to dinner and the theater with her mom, so she won’t be home until eleven. If we’re lucky, I’ll be back by then.”

Traffic opened up after 34th, and we got to the Downtown Manhattan Heliport by 6:35. Rodrigo was waiting for us in the VIP lounge.

“When we get to the hotel, go to the front desk and ask for your key,” he said. “Just say ‘Mrs. Harrington, room 1178.’ Your name is in the computer.”

“I don’t have an ID with my married name,” Kylie said.

“Don’t worry. They won’t ask,” Rodrigo said. “It gets pretty noisy once we’re in the air. Any more questions?”

“Just one,” Kylie said. “I’ve had my IT people monitor Spence’s credit cards, but so far we haven’t gotten a hit. How did he check into the Borgata?”

“Corporate card. Silvercup Studios.” Rodrigo was not the chatty type. “We good?” he asked, signaling an end to the conversation.

Kylie nodded, and he led us across the tarmac to a waiting Sikorsky S-76C. According to the brochure tucked in our seat pockets, the Borgata was the biggest hotel in Jersey, with a 161,000-square-foot casino, a 54,000-square-foot spa, and a 2,400-seat event center.

“Spence should be easy to find,” Kylie said. “He’ll be holed up in his room.”

Thirty-seven minutes after liftoff we set down on the Steel Pier in Atlantic City. A car was waiting to drive us the two miles to the Borgata. Q had covered all the bases.

Walking into the main entrance of the hotel, my senses were bombarded by the over-the-top grandeur of the decor and the nerve-jangling flashing lights and clanging bells of the slot machines.

There were three clerks at the reception desk. “The one on the left,” Rodrigo directed.

Kylie walked up to him, said a few words, and the clerk responded with a broad smile and a flat plastic room key.

“Smooth as silk,” Rodrigo said as the three of us walked toward the elevator.

There was a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on Spence’s door. Kylie looked at me and silently mouthed two words: Thank you. Then she took the key card, slid it into the lock, and pulled it out. A green light flashed, and she pushed the door open hard.

Spence, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a single sock, was lying on the carpet, faceup, a trail of wet vomit trickling from the side of his mouth.

His drug kit had spilled onto the floor, and an empty syringe was only inches from his motionless body.

Chapter 51

The number of heroin overdose deaths among young white males has skyrocketed in recent years, and from the looks of him, Spence Harrington was well on his way to becoming the latest statistic.

His lips had a blue tinge, his pupils were black pinholes, and the ominous death rattle that came from the back of his throat was a sure sign that his respiratory system was shutting down permanently.

Kylie dropped to her knees and tried to breathe for him, but he was unresponsive. “Narcan!” she yelled. “My bag.”

I grabbed her black leather handbag, turned it upside down, and everything poured out: money, makeup, tampons, keys, and then a small blue pouch with large white letters printed on it.

In the war against drugs, Narcan — naloxone hydrochloride — is saving lives one junkie at a time. Normally it’s issued to 911 responders, but Kylie had had the presence of mind to grab a kit at the station before we left.

I tilted Spence’s head back while she loaded the syringe, inserted one end into Spence’s nostril, and sprayed half the liquid up his nose. Then she switched to the other nostril, gave another short, vigorous push on the plunger, and shot the rest of the naloxone toward his brain receptors.

It worked instantly, and Spence bolted up, coughing, cursing, and fighting us off. There was no gratitude, just anger — the addict’s natural reaction when you screw up his high.

“Rodrigo,” Kylie said, “this stuff wears off in less than an hour. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

“I’m already on it, boss,” he said, cell phone to his ear. He swept his hand across the room. “This is nasty shit to leave for the chambermaid.”

Kylie grabbed Spence’s overnight bag from the closet and began picking up the drug paraphernalia.

I bent down to give her a hand.

“Don’t!” she said.

I backed off. She was destroying evidence at a crime scene, and she didn’t want me to help. “But you can put my stuff back in my bag,” she said.

There was a loud knock at the door.

“Housekeeping,” a deep male voice said.

Rodrigo opened the door, and three stone-faced men in dark suits entered, one pushing a wheelchair. Without a word, two of them lifted Spence up off the floor, plopped him down in the chair, and seat-belted him in tight.

I retrieved Kylie’s belongings while the extraction team helped her scoop up Spence’s shoes, pants, and whatever might connect him to the makeshift drug den. Less than thirty seconds after they arrived, they ushered us out the door. Dark Suits One and Two led the way down the long corridor, followed by the man pushing the wheelchair, then Kylie, then me. Rodrigo brought up the rear.

Spence was ranting about his rights, but none of the suits cared enough to shut him up. A young couple passed us in the hallway and barely looked at us. I got the feeling that seeing a phalanx of people remove a crazy man from an Atlantic City hotel was not all that unusual.

The entire operation was perfectly choreographed: service elevator to an underground garage to an unmarked van for the two-mile drive to AtlantiCare Regional Medical Center. As soon as they handed Spence over to the ER docs, the rescue team from housekeeping disappeared, and Rodrigo escorted us to a VIP waiting room.

Forty-five minutes later, a bleary-eyed young resident walked in and said, “Harrington.”

Kylie stood up. “How is he?”

“Lucky to be alive,” the doc said, his tone clearly unsympathetic to those who clutter up his ER with self-inflicted wounds. “He has bilateral pneumonia. His lungs were compromised by the vomit he aspirated, so we’re keeping him on an IV antibiotic drip for the next seventy-two hours.”

“But he’ll be okay,” Kylie said, looking for reassurance.

The doctor shrugged. “This time around.”

“Can I see him?”

“He said he’d rather not have any visitors.”

Kylie flashed her shield. “I’m a cop. He’s a junkie. Take me to his room.”

Chapter 52

Spence was in bed, staring at the ceiling, when Kylie and I entered. “Congratulations. You found me,” he said, not turning his head to look at us. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Kylie said, almost playfully. “For starters, I thought I’d save your life.”

“Who asked you? I left New York to get away from you trying to save my life. Leave me alone, Kylie.”

“Honey,” she said, doing her best to stay composed, “I’m just trying to help you get through this.”

He twisted his body so he could look at her. “Help? Is that what you call it when you kick my friend in the balls? Get it through your stubborn I’m-a-rock-star-detective brain, Kylie. You can’t help me. I’m an addict. I tried rehab, and it didn’t take.”

“Bullshit!” she yelled, giving up the tolerant, empathetic wife charade that has never been her style. “You were clean and sober for eleven years. You can do it again.”

“Don’t you get it?” he yelled back, thumping his fist on the mattress. “I don’t want to do it again. I’m a junkie, and I’m back in full-blown junkie mode. I need the high. I want the high. I don’t want to do anything except get high, and all you want to do is preach the same program bullshit. It doesn’t help, so unless you’re here to arrest me, get out and stop trying to save me. If I want to kill myself, that’s my business.”

“You want to kill yourself, asshole?” Kylie said, spitting out the words in a low growl. She reached into her holster, pulled out her gun, and shoved it at him, butt first. “Go ahead. Blow your brains out right here and spare me the agony of another long ride in the back of a police van to identify your body.”

Spence turned his head and looked away.

“Not ready yet?” Kylie said. “Call me when you are. I’ll keep it loaded.” She holstered her gun and stormed out the door.

“Don’t go,” Spence said.

“Too late,” I said.

“I mean you, Zach,” he said, rolling over and sitting up. “What the hell did she mean about identifying my body?”

“Your buddy Marco went up to the Bronx last night with a wallet full of money,” I said. “Your wallet.”

“So I lent a friend some money. Since when is that a crime?”

“You didn’t lend him anything, Spence. You sent him on a drug run to a war zone and gave him enough cash to make him a target. It worked. Somebody put a bullet through his head. And since he had your ID in his pocket, your wife spent a couple of hours thinking it was you. She doesn’t want to go through it again. And neither do I.”

Spence didn’t say a word.

“You’re right about one thing,” I said. “Kylie can’t help you. I don’t think you even want help. But just in case you ever feel like you do, hang on to this number.”

I took a piece of paper out of my pocket.

He looked at me in disgust. “I already have your number, Zach. Don’t hold your breath waiting for the phone to ring.”

Kylie opened the door. “Cates called. We have to roll. Now!”

I handed him the number. “Good luck,” I said, and left the room wondering if I’d ever see him alive again.

“I didn’t tell Cates where we were,” Kylie said as we double-timed our way down the hallway. “I just told her we’re on our way to the scene.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Another hospital robbery.”

“If only,” she said. “It’s a double homicide, and it’s got Cates climbing the walls.”

“And she called us in on it?” I said. “She knows we’re already stretched six ways to Sunday. Why would she dump two more bodies on us?”

“Probably because these two have our names written all over them.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“No positive ID, but they’re lying on the kitchen floor of the Bassett brothers’ loft building.”

Chapter 53

“If it makes you feel any better,” I said to Kylie once we were in the car on the way back to the chopper, “you saved his life.”

“That’s what cops do,” she said. “But this is the first time I ever felt like I owed an apology to the guy whose life I saved.”

“You don’t owe Spence anything,” I said. “There’s nothing you can do that you haven’t already done.”

“How about you? I saw you give him your phone number.”

“It wasn’t my number. It was the twenty-four-hour hotline to NA right here in Atlantic City. There was a tear-off sheet on the bulletin board in the waiting room. I figured he’s never going to call his counselor in New York, but on the outside chance that Marco’s death is a wake-up call for him, maybe he’ll reach out to a total stranger.”

“Thanks.” She turned and stared out the window to let me know the conversation was over.

We were almost at the helipad when my phone rang. “Oh crap,” I said as soon as I checked caller ID.

“Sounds to me like it’s either the boss or your girlfriend,” Kylie said, “and since Cates just called, I’m guessing it’s Cheryl.”

It was. I had hoped to be back in New York before she knew I was gone, but like a lot of people in Atlantic City, I had gambled and lost.

“Hey,” I said, answering the phone. “It’s not even nine thirty. I thought you and your mother were at the theater.”

“It was abysmal,” she said. “We left at intermission. I thought you’d be home by now. Where are you?”

“Atlantic City.”

“Atlantic — what’s Red doing down there?”

“It’s not police business. Kylie tracked down Spence, and she needed some help, so—”

“So you drove down there with her?”

“Actually, we took a chopper.”

“Are you kidding me? The department paid for a helicopter just so Kylie could pick up her husband?”

“It’s a private charter. A guy we know was trying to help Kylie out, and — look, it’s a long story.”

“And when, if ever, were you going to tell me about it?”

“Cheryl, I really can’t get into this now.”

“I’m sure you can’t,” she said. “Maybe you can find some time to get into it when you get home. When will that be?”

“I don’t know. The Elena Travers case just heated up. We’re on our way to the crime scene now.”

“By helicopter,” she said.

“Yes.”

“So now you’re on police business, but you’re still using Kylie’s private helicopter.”

“We’ll talk when I get home,” I said.

“I can’t wait,” she said. “Have a nice flight.” She hung up.

I smiled and kept talking. “Yeah, it looks like Spence is going to spend a few more nights in the hospital,” I said into the dead air. “Okay, I’ll tell her you send your best. Love you too.”

The car came to a stop, and I put the phone in my pocket. “Cheryl sends her regards,” I said.

I had no idea if Kylie bought my act, but she nodded a thank-you.

Chapter 54

It was almost ten thirty by the time Kylie and I got to West 21st Street, and once again the Bassett brothers’ urban palace was awash in flashing police lights. A perimeter had been set up, and the usual contingent of uniforms had been posted to keep out the curious.

“That’s weird,” Kylie said, pointing at the lone figure standing outside the front door.

It was Chuck Dryden. It has long been a given that Chuck is a weird guy, but this was particularly out of character. Instead of being in the house, fussing over a body or ruminating over a piece of evidence, he was standing outside, vaping an e-cig. Even more unusual was his reaction when he saw us.

“Detectives,” he called out. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Sorry we’re late,” Kylie said. “Zach and I were out of the city, and—”

“No, no, no. I wasn’t chastising you about the time,” he said, pocketing the e-cig. “It’s just that I’ve made some interesting findings, and I’ve been rather anxious to get the two of you in the loop.”

“Chuck,” I said, “we are so far out of the loop that we don’t even know who the victims are.”

“Even better,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go upstairs and take a look.”

We took the elevator to the third floor, where Kylie and I had met with the Bassett brothers just a few nights ago. Leo’s showpiece apartment now looked like a triage center where technicians wearing latex gloves and disposable shoe covers probed, dusted, and photographed every inch. The air smelled of wine and death.

We followed Chuck into the kitchen. There were two bodies stretched out on the slate-gray tile. The first was short, fat, and viciously mutilated. It was Leo Bassett.

“Twenty-two stab wounds,” Dryden said. “Most of them defensive.”

I surveyed the room. There was broken glass everywhere: wine bottles, ceramic bowls, a crystal decanter — all of which must have been knocked off the counter as Leo tried to fight off his assailant.

“He put up a good fight,” I said.

“Not good enough. Here’s the winner,” Dryden said, pointing at the second body.

The man was about half Leo’s age. The left side of his face was resting in a puddle of wine, and the front of his shirt had a similar red stain, only this one was emanating from the hole in the center of his chest.

“Do you recognize him?” Dryden asked.

I shook my head. “Should we?”

He produced an iPad and brought up a photo. It was the fuzzy surveillance screenshot we had captured from Elliott Moritz’s security video the night Raymond Davis was murdered.

“It could be the same guy,” I said.

“I ran it through facial recognition software. It is. His name is Jeremy Nevins. The weapon came from here.”

There was a large wooden knife block sitting on the counter. Seven of the eight slots still had knives in them. One slot was empty.

Chuck held up an evidence bag. A bloody knife that matched the seven in the block was inside. “It wound up on the other side of the room when Nevins was shot, but his prints are all over it.”

“Nevins killed Leo,” Kylie said. “You could make our jobs a lot easier if you also happen to know who killed Nevins.”

Dryden beamed. He was smitten with Kylie, but he had limited social skills, so he relied on his forensic expertise to win her approval. He held up a second evidence bag. This one contained a .357 Magnum.

“It belongs to Max Bassett. He turned it over to the first officer on the scene. Said he was upstairs, heard the scuffle between Leo and Nevins, and raced down to see what was going on.”

“He raced down with a loaded .357?” Kylie said.

Dryden shrugged. “I didn’t ask. I’m not a detective.”

“For a guy who’s not a detective, you just helped us close out the Raymond Davis murder,” she said. “No wonder you were so anxious to connect with us. Thank you, Chuck.”

“My pleasure.”

“Where can we find Max Bassett?” she asked.

“He’s waiting for you in the den. Two officers are with him. But there’s one more thing I need to share with you before you go.”

“Share away,” she said. “You’re on a roll.”

He held up a third evidence bag. Inside was a diamond and emerald necklace. He handed it to Kylie.

“Oh, Chuck,” she said, playing to his male ego. “Thank you. It’s just what I always wanted.”

Chapter 55

“Where the hell did you find that?” I said.

“It was wrapped up in a chamois cloth in Mr. Nevins’s backpack,” Chuck said. “I’ve already verified the laser inscriptions. It’s the necklace you’ve been looking for, but you don’t seem particularly happy that I’ve recovered it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that three people have already died for that bag of green rocks and pressurized carbon. Elena Travers, Raymond Davis, and Leo Bassett. Every cop instinct in my body tells me that Teddy Ryder had the necklace — he was just too dumb to know how to unload it. But if you found it on Nevins, then Teddy’s body is probably rotting in a dumpster somewhere.”

“Along with his con artist mother,” Kylie said.

One of the uniformed cops approached us. “Hate to interrupt you, Detectives, but Mr. Bassett says he needs a drink.”

“Tell him to take a number,” Kylie snapped. “Right about now, we all do.”

The cop took a step back. “Sorry, ma’am, but he told me to tell you that his brother was murdered, he just killed a guy, and he’d like to get shit-faced, but he doesn’t want to start until he’s been interviewed by the detectives.”

“How considerate,” Kylie said. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

The cop escorted us to what Dryden had referred to as Leo Bassett’s den. There was nothing den-like about it. To me it looked more like the parlor of an eighteenth-century brothel, but then Leo and I didn’t share the same design sensibilities. Brother Max, wearing camo cargo shorts and an Everlast T-shirt, looked equally out of sync with the decor.

He was standing next to a spindle-legged desk, a bottle of water in one hand. “Detectives,” he said, frowning like a customer who had to wait too long for a salesclerk.

“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Bassett,” I said. “Please tell us what happened.”

“It was about nine o’clock. I was in my studio on the fourth floor, working on a new piece, when I heard Leo’s doorbell ring. Then I heard the elevator go up and stop on three. I didn’t think much about it. Leo gets quite a few late-night visitors. After that I got lost in my work, so I’m not sure how much time went by before I heard the yelling.”

“Who was yelling?”

“Leo. I told you when you were here the other night that my brother is a total diva. He’s been throwing hissy fits and teary-eyed tantrums for sixty years. I’m immune to it.”

“Could you make out what he was saying?” I said.

“Not at first, but then it got louder, and I heard the other guy scream ‘a million dollars,’ and my ears perked up. Leo has had more than his share of noisy breakups with boyfriends, which is none of my business, but this was about money — a lot of money — and if Leo is spending it, that is my business.

“I was deciding if I should go downstairs and find out what was happening when I heard glass break. Then Leo yelled, ‘Max, help! He’s got a knife!’ After that, it was chaos. More glass shattering, and Leo screaming these horrible, ghastly shrieks and calling my name.

“I grabbed a gun and ran down one flight of stairs, but by the time I got to the kitchen, Leo was on the floor, the blood pouring out of him. Then this maniac came at me with the knife. I didn’t hesitate. I’m an expert marksman, Detective. One shot, and it was over. I ran to my brother, but the knife must have severed one of his arteries. He was dead before I could even dial 911.”

“Do you know the man who stabbed him?”

“I’ve met him a few times. His name is Jeremy Nevins.”

“We showed you his picture yesterday,” I said. “How come you didn’t recognize him then?”

He stiffened. “Maybe because all you showed me was an out-of-focus black-and-white that looked like it was shot by a convenience-store camera sometime before the turn of the century. Of course I didn’t recognize him from that picture. Hell, Leo had a schoolboy crush on the man, and he didn’t even recognize him.”

“Do you know what he and Leo were arguing about?”

“I told you that except for the phrase ‘a million dollars,’ I couldn’t make out the dialogue.”

“You know them both. What do you think they may have been arguing about?”

Bassett’s eyes widened. “I didn’t send for my lawyer because I want to help, and because I have nothing to hide. But if he were here, and you asked me to theorize what someone’s motive was for killing my brother, he’d pull the plug on this interview in a heartbeat. Now, are there any more questions?” He spun the word so that it was clear he meant “stupid questions.”

“Just one,” Kylie said. “How did Nevins get involved in your company?”

“He wasn’t involved. He showed up one night about six months ago with Sonia Chen. She’s the company’s publicist. Nevins was her boyfriend.”

“We’d like to talk to her. Do you have an address?” I asked. “Sonia is upstairs in my apartment. She’s drafting a statement.”

“What kind of a statement?” I said.

“Leo loved the limelight, and over the years, he managed to become a bit of a celebrity,” he said, making it sound more like an affliction than an achievement. “Frankly, I doubt if he’d even qualify for the D-list, but since I shy away from publicity, he became the face of the company, and he reveled in it. It’s now fallen on me to make a statement to the press and to Leo’s many fans that he’s gone. I know that a lot of people will be heartbroken to hear of his death.”

From the faint smile on Max Bassett’s face I was sure that he wouldn’t be one of them.

Chapter 56

Leo’s triplex ended on the third floor, and Max’s began on the fourth, but the trip up the single flight of stairs was like a journey across the great cultural divide. If Leo’s apartment looked like it was decorated by Marie Antoinette, Max’s looked like Ernest Hemingway’s man cave.

A young Asian woman was sitting on the floor, her back against a weathered leather armchair, a laptop propped on her knees. She stopped typing as soon as we walked in.

“Hi, I’m Sonia Chen,” she said, standing up.

We introduced ourselves, and she forced a polite smile, but it didn’t hide the fact that her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

“Max texted me and said you wanted to ask me some questions.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” I said. “We know you had a close relationship with both of the victims.”

She nodded. “Leo’s been my boss for three years. I adored him.”

“And Jeremy Nevins?” Kylie said.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a relationship.”

“Max said he was your boyfriend.”

“‘Boyfriend,’” Chen said, putting the word in air quotes. “You’re a woman. You know what that means.”

“I’m a homicide detective,” Kylie said, “and we’re not supposed to fill in the blanks from our own life experience. So why don’t you tell us what your relationship was with Jeremy Nevins?”

“Consenting adults,” Chen said as comfortably as if it had been a box to check on a government form alongside “single,” “married,” and “divorced.”

“Could you elaborate?” Kylie said.

Chen smiled — a real smile this time, and I could only imagine that the question triggered memories of her time with the handsome young man lying dead one floor below. The smile turned to sobs, and she folded her arms across her chest to hold it all back.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sitting down in the leather armchair. Kylie and I sat across from her on a matching sofa.

“Jeremy and I didn’t have a relationship — certainly not in the classic sense. It was more of an arrangement. As a publicist I plan a lot of high-end events. Jeremy loved getting up close and personal with the rich and famous, so I’d bring him along as my plus one. In return, the two of us would get up close and personal together.”

“So it was essentially physical.”

“Yes, and I make no apologies for it, Detective. It’s the age-old story of the overworked career woman. He got access. I got laid.”

“Do you have any idea why he stabbed Leo Bassett?”

“Are you sure that’s what happened? I find it impossible to believe that Jeremy would kill Leo. They were so wonderful together, and Leo was over the moon about Jeremy. He’d do anything for him.”

“Wait a minute,” Kylie said. “Leo was gay. So you’re saying—”

“I’m saying what you think I’m saying. Jeremy Nevins was beyond incredible in bed. You spend one night with him, and you’d remember it for the rest of your life. It didn’t matter if you were a thirty-two-year-old woman or a sixty-year-old man. Jeremy had a gift, and if you were lucky enough to be on the receiving end, it didn’t matter what he wanted in return.”

“You gave him entrée to people he wouldn’t have met otherwise,” I said. “What did Leo give him?”

“I don’t know the details, but Leo loved the finer things in life, and Jeremy was happy to go along for the cash and prizes.”

“One of those prizes was an eight-million-dollar necklace,” I said.

“I heard. I don’t even know how that’s possible. Jeremy was with me when it was stolen.”

Her cell phone rang.

“Excuse me. This is urgent,” she said, taking the call. “Hi, Lavinia. I’m almost finished with the piece. I can email it to you in ten minutes. Talk soon.”

She hung up. “Sorry. Business. Max wants me to get out the news of Leo’s death.”

“It sounded like you were talking to Lavinia Begbie,” Kylie said.

“Yes. She’s agreed to write the story if we give her a twelve-hour exclusive before we send out a release to everyone else.”

“Shouldn’t the news of Leo Bassett’s death be on the front page instead of in the Style section?”

“Sweetie, in my world, the Style section is the front page, and Lavinia Begbie is the voice of the fashion industry. The fact that she agreed to devote an entire column to Max is living proof that every cloud has a silver lining.”

“You said Max. Don’t you mean she’s going to devote her entire column to Leo?”

Chen shook her head. “Detective, you really don’t understand our business, do you? Our company got a black eye when Elena was killed wearing our necklace. Of course Lavinia will talk about Leo, but having her write about Max Bassett’s heroic actions to attempt to save his brother’s life is exactly the kind of ink we need.”

“Is that your job, Ms. Chen?” Kylie said. “To use Leo’s murder as an opportunity to turn Max into a hero to help restore the company’s image?”

“That’s exactly my job,” Chen said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline to meet.”

Chapter 57

“I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m not sure Cheryl and I are still in a relationship,” I said as soon as Kylie and I were back in the car. “Can we call it a night?”

“I’m just as tired and hungry, and if you want to talk about relationships on life support, my junkie husband trumps your pissed-off girlfriend,” she said as we headed uptown on Sixth Avenue. “But no, we can’t call it a night. Sonia Chen is talking to the press, and unless we can get the First Amendment repealed in the next few hours, everything that went down at Casa Bassett tonight is going to be public.”

“Not everything,” I said. “She’ll probably leave out the parts where Max lied to us through his teeth and substitute some flowery bullshit about the noble great white hunter avenging his brother’s death by conveniently killing the man who knew the answer to every question we had.”

“Exactly. Which means that in a few hours it’ll be on the front page of every paper and trending on the Internet. And since we can’t stop Annie Ryder from getting the news, the second-best thing we can do is break it to her ourselves, so we can watch the expression on her face when she finds out.”

I couldn’t argue with her logic, and I grunted in agreement.

We hung a right on 34th Street and headed east toward the Queens Midtown Tunnel.

“You think Annie is still alive?” I asked.

“God, I hope so, because if we find her in a pool of blood, we’ll be stuck at another crime scene till dawn.”

Annie Ryder was very much alive and as charming as ever.

“Don’t you two have anything better to do than harass law-abiding taxpayers in the middle of the night?” she said at her door. “I told you I haven’t seen Teddy, and I have no idea where he is.”

“Jeremy Nevins is dead,” Kylie said, hitting her with our biggest gun first.

The old con woman was a pro. “Never heard of him,” she said, doing her best not to react. But Kylie had been right. The news came as enough of a shock to Annie’s system that a tiny corner of her right eye spasmed involuntarily. She rubbed it and yawned in an attempt to cover it up, but if this had been a poker game, she’d have lost her edge. She’d given up the tell.

“Sure you heard of him,” Kylie said. “Nevins killed Raymond Davis, and he tried to kill Teddy.”

“Then good riddance,” Annie said. “Thank you for coming all this way to let me know. Good night.”

“We’ve also recovered the necklace that Raymond and Teddy stole from Elena Travers,” Kylie said.

The tic kicked in again, and her eye fluttered. “Teddy didn’t steal anything. He’s innocent.”

“Then tell him to turn himself in. We’ll cut him a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“We’ll charge Raymond with the murder and Jeremy as the one who orchestrated the robbery. If Teddy turns himself in now, we think we can get the DA to let him plead it down to involuntary manslaughter. He’ll probably only get eight years. If we catch him first, the deal is off the table, and he’s looking at life.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, girlie,” Annie said. “I told you Teddy was right here with me that night. You might not believe me, but a jury will.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Kylie said. “Juries want to buy a mother’s testimony, but a smart prosecutor will make sure they know that in this case, Mom is a grifter, a professional liar. And if that’s not enough, he’ll make sure they see the traffic-cam footage from the night of the robbery. The two men who jacked Elena’s limo were wearing masks on 54th Street, but one of them was stupid enough to pull his mask off when he got to 53rd. Now who do you think could be that dumb?”

“We’re done here,” Annie said, and shut the door.

“That was quite a picture you painted, Detective,” I said to Kylie as we rode down in the elevator. “I particularly liked the part about the traffic cam. Very believable.”

“I only wish it were true,” Kylie said. “But people are obsessed about Big Brother watching them, and I’ll bet Annie Ryder is more paranoid than most.”

We spent the rest of the trip to Manhattan in blessed silence. Once again it was almost two a.m. by the time I got to my apartment, but this time I didn’t have to wait to get upstairs to find out if Cheryl was there.

Angel, my doorman, handed me a note. “Dr. Robinson left this for you.”

It was a single scrap of paper that had been torn from the bottom of a yellow pad. The rest of the page and the pad it came from was on Angel’s desk. Cheryl had scribbled it out in a hurry as she was leaving the building.

Spending the night at my place. Be at Gerri’s at 6:30 a.m.

I thanked Angel and took the elevator up to my empty apartment.

Chapter 58

I shucked my clothes, showered, fell into bed, and reread Cheryl’s note.

It didn’t take a detective to figure out what she meant by “Spending the night at my place.” But “Be at Gerri’s at 6:30 a.m.” threw me. Did she mean “I’ll be at Gerri’s, and I’d love to have you join me”? Or was it “You better be at Gerri’s at 6:30 so I can read you the riot act”?

I set my alarm for five so I could be at the diner early enough to get Gerri’s worldview on my current situation.

She sat down at a booth with me, and I gave her the short version of what happened yesterday. “Any thoughts, Dr. Gomperts?” I said.

“Just one,” she said. “Why do I even bother giving you advice? I warned you the other day about spending your nights with Kylie, but I don’t think you remember a word I said.”

“Of course I do. How could I forget one of your puppet shows where I’m starring as a packet of artificial sweetener?”

“I’ll try one more time.” She slid my water glass to the edge of the table. “This is Kylie,” she said. “Her marriage is on a precipice.”

She stared at me, a devilish look in her eyes as she slowly pushed the glass with one finger. “It’s teetering, Zach. It’s on the brink.”

Just as the glass started to topple, I grabbed it. “You’re crazy,” I said.

“And you’re hopeless. You can’t let go of Kylie, and you always want to be there to catch her if she falls.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

She stood up. “Good question. Why don’t you ask the lady who just walked in the door?” she said, hurrying off to the kitchen.

It was Cheryl. She sat down across from me and got straight to the point. “What happened yesterday? And don’t skimp on the details.”

I told her everything, from Q’s early-morning visit to our post-midnight house call on Annie Ryder. Skilled psychologist that she is, she listened without interruption.

“If you knew you and Kylie were flying to Atlantic City, why did you lie and say you were working?” she said when I was finished.

“It was beyond stupid,” I said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“What really hurts is that you felt you had to lie. Did you think if you had told me the truth, I’d have tried to stop you?”

“Cheryl, I told you the truth Tuesday night when I ran out on dinner, but you were still pissed. And the next night at Paola’s, you said you love being with me, but you’re not sure you can handle living with me.”

“Zach,” she said, resting her hand on mine, “that’s because a big part of living with you is about not living with you. When we were dating, and you got busy, I was at home in my own apartment. I missed you, but I could deal with it, because I understand the demands the job can put on a high-profile detective. But it’s different when I’m at your apartment.”

I shrugged. “Why?”

“Because when you don’t come home, I’m not just lonely, I’m lonely in a place I’d rather not be. Everything I see reminds me of you, but you’re not there. It’s like living with a ghost.”

“So you’re moving out?”

“Not out of your life, but I’m seriously thinking about moving out of your apartment.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I said I’d give it a month, and I’m a woman of my word. It’s only been twenty-eight days, so let’s try again tonight.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed them with the heels of my hands. “I’m not going to be home tonight,” I said.

She laughed. “Why?”

“Kylie and I are running a sting at Hudson Hospital, and we’re going to spend the entire night on a stakeout. It’s not the kind of thing I usually do, but I promised Cates and the mayor’s husband. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Cheryl said. “It’s what makes you such a great cop.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s me. A great cop, but a lousy boyfriend.”

Chapter 59

Annie could come up with only one reason why a weasel like Jeremy would drop an eight-million-dollar necklace and run: it wasn’t worth eight million.

There was one way to find out for sure. Ask Ginsberg.

“It’s flawless,” Ginsberg said after looking at the necklace through a loupe for less than twenty seconds. “Every stone is perfect.”

Annie smiled for the first time since she left Katz’s Deli. Ginsberg had spent sixty years in the wholesale jewelry business. “So it’s real,” she said.

“No, it’s synthetic. Nature doesn’t make perfect. Science does. These stones were grown in a lab. It takes a few months, so they look better than most of the dreck they use for costume jewelry. But real? No.”

Annie’s smile turned to despair, and Ginsberg wrapped his arms around her. For eight months out of the year they’d go to dinner, a movie, a Mets game, or just spend the night in his apartment on the third floor of her building. Just before Thanksgiving, he’d fly to Florida, and in the spring, they’d pick up where they left off.

“Sorry to give you the bad news, but you know what will make you feel better?” he said, giving her a wink. “A little afternoon delight.”

At eighty-two, Ginsberg bragged that he had the libido of a sixty-year-old, and while the sex wasn’t all that important to Annie, there were times when she needed the comfort of curling up against a warm man instead of a bronze urn.

This was one of those times.

An hour later, she broke the bad news to Teddy.

“So the necklace is junk,” Teddy said.

“Not junk, but it’s not worth enough money to stick our necks out trying to sell it.”

“So, what are we going to do for money, Ma?”

Annie didn’t know. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I have an idea,” she lied. “I just need some time to think it through.”

She was still trying to come up with a plan when the two detectives showed up, told her Jeremy was dead, and offered Teddy a chance to plead the murder rap down. Eight years was a long time, but she’d never forgive herself if he got caught and had to spend the rest of his life behind bars. She decided to sleep on it.

The answer came to her in the middle of the night. It was so obvious she smacked her forehead in mock disgust for not seeing it sooner. She showered and made a pot of coffee, and at five fifteen she left the apartment, walked to the deli on 27th, and brought home a box of doughnuts and the morning papers.

Teddy was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee.

“What are you doing up?” she said.

“Damn cat woke me, and I’m more hungry than tired. What’ve you got?”

She tossed him the doughnuts and then opened the Daily News to a two-page spread on the Bassetts. “Your buddy Jeremy is dead,” she said. “He stabbed one of those two jewelry brothers, and the other one shot him.”

Teddy grinned. “Cool beans.”

“Yeah, cool,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

She went to the bedroom and returned with the necklace. She set it on top of the news story about the Bassetts and took out her cell phone.

“What are you doing, Ma?”

“Taking a picture,” she said, trying to get the right angle.

“Why? I thought you said the necklace was worthless.”

“It’s a fake, but it’s far from worthless,” she said, taking a photo and then deleting it. “Did you ever hear of Jack Ruby?”

Teddy took a few seconds and then smiled. “Yeah. He’s the one who shot President Kennedy.”

“Close. Ruby shot the guy who shot the president. He used a .38 that he bought for sixty-two dollars and fifty cents,” she said. “I looked it up this morning on the Internet.”

“So?”

“So what do you think the gun that killed Lee Harvey Oswald is worth today?”

Teddy shrugged. “I got no idea,” he said through a mouthful of doughnut.

“Me either. But I can tell you that in 2008 the gun was sold to a collector for two million.”

“That’s crazy, Ma. Who would pay two million bucks for an old .38?”

“It’s called murderabilia, kiddo, and there are a lot of nut jobs out there who will pay big money for anything connected to a major crime.”

Teddy brightened. “So are you going to sell the necklace on eBay?”

“No,” Annie said, clicking off a half dozen more pictures. “I already found a buyer.”

Chapter 60

With only three hours’ sleep in the last twenty-four, my body was running on fumes, and whatever energy I might have had left was sapped by the time I finished my hapless breakfast with Cheryl. I went home, unplugged everything that beeped, buzzed, rang, or chirped, and slept nine hours straight.

By the time Kylie picked me up at six p.m., I was shaved, showered, caffeinated, and braced for the most boring part of every detective’s job: waiting, watching, and wishing some bad guys would show up and make my existence meaningful.

“Spence called me this afternoon,” Kylie said as she weaved in and out of Friday night traffic on the FDR.

“And?”

“There is no and, Zach. The very fact that he called me is a moral victory. You were there last night. He couldn’t stand having me in the same room with him, let alone talk to me.”

“And that was before you offered him your gun and encouraged him to blow his brains out on the spot.”

“I did do that, didn’t I?” she said, laughing. “That might have been a little reckless.”

“Why did he call?”

“To thank me for saving his life.”

“I hope you can see the irony in that,” I said.

“Stop analyzing everything. The important thing is he opened the door to a possible dialogue. Speaking of which, how’d it go with Cheryl when you got home last night?”

“Fantastic. She welcomed me home like I was Richard the Lionheart returning from the Crusades.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Keep your mind on your driving, or you’re going to miss your exit,” I said.

She got off at Grand Street, and we headed west until we got to Hudson Hospital, an imposing steel and glass complex straddling the border between Chinatown and Little Italy.

We got in an elevator in the lobby and took it two floors down to the security operations room, where we met up with Jenny Betancourt, Wanda Torres, and Frank Cavallaro, the head of Hudson’s security team.

They were sitting in front of a bank of monitors much more elaborate than the setup Gregg Hutchings had at Mercy Hospital.

“They made their first move this morning,” Torres said.

“We have it queued up for you,” Cavallaro said. “Watch this screen over here.”

The camera covered a section of the third floor, which was in the final stages of being renovated. Per Howard Sykes’s plan, the 3-D mammography machines were being “temporarily” stored there, where they were off-limits to staff and patients.

“Keep your eye on this guy in the green shirt,” Torres said, pointing at a wide shot of a man who was spreading compound on drywall, getting it prepped for the painters. “He seems to have more than a passing interest in mammogram technology.”

The man put down his tools, casually sauntered over toward the high-tech equipment, and took out his cell phone.

“He’s not dialing out for pizza, is he?” Kylie said. “Can you get a close-up of his phone?”

“Are you kidding?” Torres said. “This thing can zoom tight enough to read the tattoo on a fly’s ass and correct the spelling.”

“Jesus, Wanda,” her partner said. She looked at us and shook her head. “Did I mention that she flunked out of finishing school?”

The tech at the console grinned, tightened the shot, and froze on the Sheetrock finisher’s right hand. There was a tiny red square at the bottom of his cell phone screen.

“He’s not dialing out for anything,” Torres said. “He’s videotaping and giving a running commentary.”

Less than a minute later, he was finished. He tapped on the screen, waited, and then put the phone back in his pocket.

“He just sent them a video of the target,” Betancourt said, “and you can figure that he also shot surveillance footage of every inch they have to cover to get in and out of the hospital.”

“These guys are fast,” Kylie said. “Twenty-four hours after we get the word out, and they’ve already managed to plant someone on-site.”

“You’d think, but no,” Cavallaro said. “The drywall crew started two weeks ago. That man’s been here every day since then.”

“They couldn’t have known that far back that there’d be anything there worth stealing,” I said. “Maybe they recruited him after we set up the sting. Do you know anything about him?”

Cavallaro nodded. “None of these hard hats get access to this building until we get a profile on them from the construction company, and we’ve fact-checked it. This guy’s name is Dave Magby. Thirty years old, joined the army after high school, pulled two tours in Iraq, married, one kid, no criminal record.”

“Another law-abiding citizen,” Kylie said. “Just like Lynn Lyon.”

“ESU just changed shifts,” Betancourt said. “You’ve got a fresh team to keep you company all night. We’ll see you guys in the morning.”

They left, and Kylie and I sat down in front of the monitors.

“The good news is they took the bait,” she said. “They’ll be here. All we have to do is wait for them to show up.”

Chapter 61

We waited. At eleven o’clock Cheryl called to see how I was doing.

“I miss you,” I said.

“I miss you too. How’s the stakeout going?”

“Lousy. You ever throw a party and nobody comes?”

“Relax. The night is young. You still have another eight hours for them to show up.”

They didn’t. At six a.m. I got a text from Chuck Dryden letting us know that he had an updated report on the Leo Bassett murder. An hour later, Betancourt and Torres relieved us, and Kylie and I headed uptown to the crime lab.

Chuck’s face lit up as soon as Kylie and I walked through the door. I knew from experience that it had nothing to do with me.

“My apologies for intruding on your Saturday,” he said, “but I know how important this case is to you.”

“Is it Saturday already?” Kylie said. “Time flies when you’re staring at a wall of monitors for twelve hours. What have you got for us, Chuck?”

He walked us over to a table that was covered with crime-scene photos.

“First, I can confirm that Jeremy Nevins stabbed Leo Bassett,” he said, pointing to the knife-riddled corpse of the jewelry mogul. “The evidence is all there. Nevins’s fingerprints on the murder weapon, the angle of the wounds, and the blood spatters from the victim leave no room for doubt.”

“That’s pretty much what you told us Thursday night,” I said.

He held up a finger to correct me. “It’s what I surmised Thursday night, Detective. At this point, I’m prepared to testify to it.”

“Well, that definitely makes my Saturday. What else?”

“Mr. Nevins’s death was caused by a single bullet fired from the .357 Magnum that Max Bassett turned over at the scene. Again, no question.”

No question. Classic Cut And Dryden. “So you’re batting two for two,” I said.

“And finally, the necklace I found in Mr. Nevins’s backpack matched the one reported stolen from Elena Travers.”

“Does it have Nevins’s prints on it?” I said.

“Excellent question. I was about to get to that. Interestingly enough, it has no prints.”

“None?”

He didn’t respond. Chuck doesn’t answer stupid questions by repeating something he’s previously stated.

“Sorry,” I said. “I know you said none, but shouldn’t the necklace at least have Elena’s prints on it?”

“Not if Nevins wiped the necklace clean, which seems like the kind of thing any criminal of average intelligence would do.”

I disagreed. Why would Nevins wipe off his prints if he was trying to sell the necklace to Bassett? It didn’t make sense, but it wasn’t worth debating with Chuck.

A glimmer of an idea popped into my head, and I closed my eyes, trying to track my thoughts. Kylie and Dryden both knew me well enough not to say a word.

“Doc,” I said slowly, my eyes still shut, “when you say the necklace was wiped clean, are you talking about the kind of clean you get when you take a diamond ring to a jeweler to be steamed and polished?”

“Oh no,” Dryden said. “In that regard, the necklace is filthy. Precious stones are a magnet for grease, which is why women are told not to put on their jewelry until after they’ve applied makeup and perfume. Several of the emeralds in this piece have lost their brilliance. They’ve been dulled by skin oils. But that fact notwithstanding, there are no prints.”

My eyes snapped open. “Get me the crime scene photos of Elena Travers.”

He shuffled through the pile on the table till he found several of the actress lying dead on a New York sidewalk, her white gown soaked in blood, deep gouges on her skin where the necklace had been ripped from her chest.

“Look at this,” I said, tapping on one of the photos. I tapped two more. “And this, and this. Now how about you put that eight-million-dollar necklace back under your microscope.”

“Oh my,” Dryden said, catching on.

“Son of a bitch,” Kylie said, right behind him. “Chuck, if Zach is right, we can nail Max Bassett.”

“Oh my,” Chuck repeated. “I know what you’re looking for, and I can tell you the answer right now. You’re not going to find it.”

“No evidence at all?” I said.

“Not a shred,” he said. “And I will testify to that as well.”

“Thanks, but I don’t know how well lack of evidence will hold up in court.”

“Even so, Detective Jordan, my hat is off to you. Brilliant reasoning. I only wish I had figured it out myself. Bravo, sir.”

His face lit up again. Only this time he was smiling at me.

Chapter 62

“Sinatra was right,” Kylie said. “Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week.”

“Then you’re in luck,” I said. “Another hour and twenty-seven minutes, and it will be Sunday morning.”

We were back in the bowels of Hudson Hospital, scanning the monitors, looking for — no, make that hoping for — trouble. It was the second night of the stakeout. More important, it was the twenty-ninth night of my let’s-try-living-together-for-thirty-days experiment with Cheryl, and once again we were spending the evening living apart.

“Guys, heads up.” It was Frank Cavallaro. There was so much going on in the giant medical complex that we needed an insider to flag anything out of the ordinary. Frank teamed up with us while his second-in-command covered the day shift.

“Station fourteen, camera thirty-three,” he said, pointing at the screen.

A sixteen-foot box truck had backed into the loading dock. It was pure white except for the words Med Waste Evac painted in red on the side.

“What’s the issue?” I asked. “Don’t you recognize them?”

“They’re our regular biohazard removal service,” Cavallaro said, “but it’s only ten thirty. They’re not supposed to show up till three a.m., when there’s a minimal amount of patients roaming around. It skeeves people out to see a big container with the words Infectious Waste rolling down the halls.”

I keyed my radio. “All units, this is Triage One. Code orange at station fourteen. Fourteen, he’s not due till three a.m. Find out his story.”

We turned the sound up on the monitor and watched as the guard at the loading dock, a decorated ESU sergeant, approached the driver’s side of the truck, clipboard in hand.

“You fellas in a hurry to get home?” he said. “You’re about four hours early.”

“One of our trucks is out of commission,” the driver said, “so they’ve got us covering two routes. And don’t worry about us getting home early. Four hours from now we’ll be working in Brooklyn.”

“Wave them through, fourteen,” I said.

The guard shrugged. “No skin off my nose,” he said. “Go do what you’ve got to do.” He walked back to his booth at the loading dock and picked up a newspaper.

The driver and three other men got out of the truck. They were all wearing hooded white Tyvek jumpsuits, chemical gloves, and gas masks. They dropped the hydraulic tailgate, opened the rear doors, climbed up inside, and wheeled out a large metal bin that also had Med Waste Evac signage on it.

“They’re bogus,” Cavallaro said. “First of all, they’re overdressed. This is a hospital, not Chernobyl. Second, all they need is a couple of hundred-and-fifty-gallon plastic hampers. I wonder who they stole that shipping container from. It’s big enough to hold four refrigerators... or a 3-D mammogram machine.”

The four men moved quickly through the corridors, navigating their way past several elevator banks until they got to the one they knew would take them exactly where they wanted to go.

Because of privacy regulations, none of the surveillance cameras past the loading dock had audio capabilities, but we could visually track their progress every step of the way. Once they got to the third floor, the only thing between them and the mammogram machines was an oversize set of metal double doors with a single hasp and padlock holding them together.

“I could open that lock with a bobby pin,” Cavallaro said. “It’s only there to keep out the nosy staffers who want to see how the renovations are coming along.”

The medical waste quartet didn’t need a bobby pin. They had a bolt cutter. Within seconds they were inside the construction area, had wheeled up to one of the mammogram machines, and had opened the doors of their transport bin. The driver produced a walkie-talkie, removed his gas mask, and started talking.

“Who is he calling?” Kylie said. “Is it possible they have someone else in the—”

Every picture on the wall of monitors flickered, turned to gray-and-white electronic snow, and then blipped out.

“Shit,” Cavallaro yelled. “How the hell did they do that?”

I grabbed my radio. “All units, code red. We’ve lost visual contact. We have four suspects in white jumpsuits. Lock it down. Repeat: lock down all exits.”

I raced out of the security room, Kylie right behind me. Saturday night was no longer lonely.

Chapter 63

In an ideal world, we’d have tracked the theft on video just long enough to have conclusive proof of intention that would hold up in court. We hadn’t quite gotten as much as we wanted, but as soon as they cut the power, all bets were off. The cat-and-mouse game was now a manhunt.

I had officers on the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors, and as Kylie and I raced up the stairs, I gave the order for them to converge on the third.

The first shots rang out just as we got to the lobby. Seconds later, I got the radio report.

“Shots fired, third floor. Suspects split up and are on the run. I’m in pursuit of one headed upstairs. The others went south.”

The lobby was well covered. Kylie and I ran up to the second floor just in time to see a man in a white jumpsuit racing down the hall. We drew our guns, and Kylie yelled, “Police! Freeze! Drop your weapon!”

He didn’t stop, or freeze, but he did drop something. It wasn’t his gun. Kylie and I both dove for cover as the black canister rolled toward us. It exploded in a blinding flash of light, and the earsplitting blast was magnified by the acoustics of the hospital hallway.

Flash grenades aren’t designed to cause permanent injury, but what they lack in destructive power they make up for in their ability to stun anyone who’s on the receiving end. I couldn’t see for at least five seconds, my legs were shaky when I tried to stand, and my ears were ringing. I helped Kylie to her feet, and by the time we both regained our bearings, our target was at the far end of the corridor.

We got there just in time to see him vault a nurses’ station, grab a fire extinguisher off the wall, and race into a room.

We stopped and took positions on either side of the door. “You’ve got nowhere to go,” Kylie yelled, breathing hard. “Come out with your hands up.”

He responded by firing a shot. The bullet didn’t hit anything, but he’d made his point. He wasn’t giving up without a fight. The gunshot was followed by the sound of glass shattering. And then nothing.

Ten seconds into the silence, Kylie dropped low, darted her head inside the room, and pulled back. “He went out the window.”

“It’s a two-story jump,” I said as we entered.

“No, it’s not,” she said, looking down. “The roof to the emergency entrance is directly below us, which is why he made for this room.”

He had smashed the window with the fire extinguisher, but he’d left jagged shards sticking up from the bottom, and the glass was bloodied.

“Looks like he cut himself up pretty good,” Kylie said, picking up the extinguisher. “Maybe it will slow him down.” She knocked out the glass stalagmites protruding from the sill, climbed out, and jumped.

I followed. It was only about eight feet to the ER canopy. It was a perfect vantage point to scan the area, and I spotted his standout white jumpsuit a block away, just as he ran down the stairs of the Grand Street subway station.

We dropped from our perch onto the top of an EMS truck parked below, scrambled down the hood of the ambulance, and ran toward the station.

Just as we got to the entrance, we heard the train pull in. We raced down the stairs and hurdled the turnstile. About a dozen people had gotten off the train, and we scanned them just in case he tried to double back and blend in with the people who were exiting.

We didn’t see him, and by now everyone who had been waiting for the train was on board. The platform was empty except for a crumpled heap of white Tyvek.

The conductor’s voice bounced off the cavernous walls. “Watch the closing doors.”

I body-blocked one just as it was about to shut, and the two of us squeezed onto the last car of the train.

A woman saw our guns and screamed. “Police,” I yelled as we dug out our shields. “Everybody stay where you are.”

It was a Saturday night crowd, so there were a lot of young people along with the usual melting pot of New Yorkers you find on any given subway ride. Nobody said a word.

“We have to find him before we get to the next station, or we’ll lose him,” Kylie said.

“He tossed the jumpsuit,” I said, “but we don’t even know if he got on the train.”

“Yes, we do,” Kylie said, pointing at the floor.

I bent down to get a closer look. It was small. No bigger than a dime. But it was fresh, and it was red.

Blood.

Chapter 64

We slid open the door to the next car and made our way down the aisle until we found another small spatter. We kept walking toward the front of the train.

“Next stop, Broadway-Lafayette,” the automated voice announced.

“We don’t have time to search the whole train before it gets to the next station,” I said.

“Then we’ll make time,” Kylie said, pushing the red button on the emergency intercom.

A female voice snapped on. “This is the conductor. What is your emergency?”

“This is Detective Kylie MacDonald, NYPD. I need you to stop the train now.”

“Ma’am, we’ll be at the next station in less than thirty seconds. Can this just wait till—”

Kylie exploded. “No! There’s an armed fugitive on board. Stop the damn train now.”

Within seconds, the train screeched to a stop.

Guns drawn and badges in plain sight, Kylie and I began to follow the trail of blood. We had just entered the next car when the conductor’s voice boomed over the PA system.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re sorry for the delay, but this train has been stopped due to a police investigation. Please remain calm, and we will update you shortly.”

“Son of a bitch,” Kylie said. “If he didn’t know we were coming, he does now.”

We opened the door to the fourth car. Nobody said a word, but a handful of awestruck New Yorkers pointed at an emergency window that had been pushed out.

I jumped up on the seat, climbed through the window, and lowered myself onto the catwalk that ran alongside the track. Kylie dropped down behind me.

This would have been the time to call for backup, but our precinct radios don’t work underground. We were on our own.

The lighting was minimal, and we moved along the catwalk low and slow, knowing there was a man with a gun who could open fire on us from any dark corner in the tunnel.

I heard a noise behind me. I wheeled around and pointed my gun at a figure coming at me from the shadows. “NYPD!” I yelled. “On the ground. Now!”

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, it’s just me. It’s just me.”

“Me” was a young Hispanic woman wearing a conductor’s uniform.

“Get the hell back on that train,” I ordered.

“The engineer just radioed me,” she said, breathing hard. “Don’t shoot. The guy... he’s in front of the train. He’s almost at the station. He’s getting away.”

Kylie and I ran along the catwalk. When we were past the first car, we jumped onto the track bed. A lone figure, about fifty yards in front of us, was hobbling toward the station. He grabbed the edge of the station platform, heaved his body up, teetered on the edge of the platform, and fell backward onto the tracks.

He tried to stand, but at this point we were on top of him.

“You win,” he said, tossing his gun to the ground.

He was about thirty, with close-cropped blond hair and a pleasant white-bread face that was probably pretty good-looking when it wasn’t contorted in pain. “What’s your name?” I said.

“Rick Hawk,” he said. “Can you do me a favor before you start asking too many questions? I’m bleeding out pretty bad here.”

The left leg of his jeans was saturated in blood. “You probably cut a vein,” I said. “If it were an artery, you’d be dead by now.”

“Can you get me to a hospital?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Hawk,” I said. “We just have to see if there’s one left in this city that will treat you.”

Chapter 65

While Kylie and I were escorting Rick Hawk back to Hudson Hospital, his partners in crime were being escorted out: the three men who had been on the biohazard truck with him and the woman who had disabled the security cameras.

“It was a fine night for New York’s Finest,” Frank Cavallaro said when we regrouped in his office. “No casualties, and best of all, when I wake up in the morning, I’ll still be head of security at Hudson Hospital.”

With one perp in need of a blood transfusion and the others being transported to Central Booking, Kylie and I decided to call it a night and interrogate them one at a time in the morning.

I got home shortly before midnight.

“Half a day?” Angel said as I walked through the door.

I grinned and resisted the temptation to ask him if my girlfriend was upstairs in the apartment.

She wasn’t. And there was no note.

My clothes looked and felt like they’d been worn by a tunnel rat. I peeled them off, took a shower, put on a clean pair of boxers and a T-shirt, opened a cup of peach yogurt, plopped down on the sofa, and flipped on the TV.

It was twelve fifteen on Sunday morning — day thirty of my ill-fated experiment to cohabitate with the woman I loved. Tryouts were over, and I’d pretty much blown it. I was about to be cut from the team.

This is your life now, Zachary, I thought. Sitting around the apartment in your underwear, clicking the remote, and spooning down fermented milk laced with bacteria and the fruit of your choice. Pathetic.

I was just settling comfortably onto my pity pot when the front door opened.

“Hi.”

It was Cheryl.

I sat upright. “Where the hell have you been?” I demanded. “I’ve been sitting around waiting for you all night.”

I tried to keep a straight face, but it was impossible. The two of us cracked up. It wasn’t going to change the facts, but at least it broke the ice.

“My mom had an extra ticket to see Pagliacci, and, having nothing better to do, I went,” she said.

“Pagliacci is the new guy who plays for the Knicks, right?”

She laughed and sat down on the sofa next to me. “You’re home early from an all-night stakeout. Did you catch the bad guys?”

“Five of them.”

“Congratulations. So I guess you’ve been too busy to think about where the two of us go from here.”

“Just the opposite. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

“And?”

“You want to give me your decision first?” I said.

“No. It’s on you, Zach. Man up.”

“I love you,” I said. “And I don’t want to lose you.”

“I love you too,” she said, resting her hand on my knee. “And I definitely don’t want to get lost.”

“I heard what you said Friday morning at the diner. I thought living together would bring us closer, but it turns out all it does is underscore how much time we spend not living together. You always seem so damn happy to see me when I walk through the door; I never thought about how you must feel when you walk through the door, and I’m not there.”

“It feels lonely,” she said. “I know I’m home, but it still feels like the apartment is empty.”

“Okay. Here goes. Manning up,” I said. “I realize that not living together works a lot better than living together. I’m willing to go back to the way it was.”

Her eyes closed for a second, then she opened them and smiled. “Good call. I think we’ll both be happier.”

I did my best to smile back. “Plus, now I get my dresser drawers back,” I said.

She wrapped her arms around me. “Not all of them. Just because I like waking up in my own bed doesn’t mean I want to do it every morning.”

Chapter 66

Some cops can crack a major case and ride high on their success for the rest of their careers. Having cracked a politically sensitive crime spree, I’d have been happy to have the euphoria last for a few days, but five hours after I hit the pillow, my trip on the glory train went completely off the rails.

My cell rang. It was Kylie.

“What?” I grumped into the phone.

“Cates just called. She wants us in her office in twenty minutes.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t elaborate. All she said was, ‘Don’t be late. Howard Sykes doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’”

I jumped out of bed and started throwing on clothes.

“What’s going on?” Cheryl asked, still half asleep.

“I’m not sure. All I know is that Howard Sykes is meeting me and Kylie in Cates’s office.”

“He probably wants to give you the key to the city after what you did last night.”

I looked at my watch. I was pretty sure the city didn’t start handing out keys at 6:26 in the morning.

I grabbed a cab to the One Nine. Kylie was waiting for me outside. We bolted up the stairs and were in Cates’s office by 6:44. Sykes was already there.

Cates skipped the usual foreplay. “Did you interview Rick Hawk last night?” she asked.

“The man was in no condition to talk,” I said. “He was a couple of pints low on blood.”

“Did you run his name through the system?”

“Our priority was getting him on life support,” Kylie said. “The task force collared four other perps, so we turned the whole lot of them over to Central Booking to sort out. Why? Did Hawk have any priors?”

Cates nodded toward Howard Sykes. It was his show now.

“He had one big prior,” Sykes said. “Three years ago, Staff Sergeant Richard Hawk saved the lives of hundreds of soldiers, coalition partners, and civilians by holding off a half dozen Afghan suicide bombers who breached a NATO base. He was awarded the Silver Star.”

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

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

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

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

“I thought that was my job, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sykes nodded.

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

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

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

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

“Nothing is 100 percent nonlethal.”

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

“What about the ten hospitals they robbed?”

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

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

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

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

“I have a possible solution,” I said.

Sykes exhaled. “Tell me. Please.”

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

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

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

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

Chapter 67

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is he lying about?”

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

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

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

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

“We think so.”

“Based on what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 68

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 69

In an alternate universe, Annie Ryder decided, she and Max Bassett would have made a great team. He was a master at forging high-end jewelry, and she... hell, she was a legend.

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

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

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

“Just drive slow,” Annie said as she caught sight of a security camera on a tree. “And smile: we’re on TV.”

Teddy, simple boy that he was, slowed down and smiled.

“Remember: no talking,” Annie reminded Teddy after he’d parked the van and they were walking toward the house.

Teddy drew an imaginary zipper across his lips, and Annie rang the bell. Max Bassett opened the door and patted Teddy down.

“He’s clean,” Max said, turning to Annie. “How about you?”

“I don’t believe in guns,” she said, “and unless you have a female security officer, you’re not laying a finger on me.”

Max didn’t care if she had an arsenal under her red and black Rutgers sweatshirt. She’d be dead before she could get off a shot.

“We can talk in my den,” Max said, leading them down a hallway to a thick slab of Makassar ebony that he’d cut himself in an Indonesian jungle. He tapped a code into a keypad and the ebony door swung open.

They entered, and Annie heard the electronic click as the door shut. Architecturally, she thought, the room was magnificent. A stone fireplace soared to the roof, intersecting a hand-hewn wooden balcony that was bathed in soft light. But the entire space was awash in death. A snarling white tiger frozen midleap took center stage, surrounded by dozens of other stuffed carcasses, horns, skins, and mounted heads — a lifetime of trophies collected by a man whose passion was to kill other living creatures.

She and Teddy settled onto a zebra-skin sofa while Max took a seat behind an ivory-trimmed leather desk. “How much do you want?” he said.

“The necklace was insured for eight million,” Annie said.

“That one was recovered. By now you must have realized that the one you have is a relatively worthless fake.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Annie said, smiling. “It’s an original Max Bassett, so it’s far from worthless.”

“You flatter me, madam, which I’m sure is your intent. However, even with my name attached, it would only be worth a hundred thousand, tops.”

“And why would I take a hundred grand when the insurance company is offering a reward of a quarter of a million?”

Max’s jaw tightened. “I hate to break it to you, but the reward has been off the table ever since the necklace was recovered.”

“And I hate to break it to you, but the necklace they recovered was the one you planted on Jeremy after you killed him. The reward is for the one that was ripped off Elena’s neck. The stones may be fake, but put it under a microscope, and you’ll find some very real traces of Elena Travers’s blood, skin, and DNA. Surely that’s worth more than a hundred thousand dollars to you — especially now that you’re about to enter into holy matrimony with the big boys at Precio Mundo.”

Max forced a smile. “You do your homework.”

“That’s what career criminals do, Mr. Bassett. You know what your problem is? You have an evil soul and a black heart. What you lack is a criminal mind. You paid Raymond to kill Elena, and because of your stupid thinking, my son is wanted as an accessory to murder. So don’t expect to get off cheap.”

Max bolted from his chair. “I have three million dollars in my safe. You produce the necklace, and I’ll give you the cash, but let’s get one thing clear. I did not pay Davis to kill Elena. What happened was an accident. Leo and I were working an insurance scam, and it went bad.”

“And that, sir, is why I never play with guns,” Annie said. “When my scams go sour, nobody dies.”

“Ma.” It was Teddy. “Let’s go. We got enough.”

Annie smacked the back of his head. “What did I tell you about talking?”

“Don’t do it. But I didn’t say anything bad. I just said let’s go.”

No, Max thought. You said, “Let’s go. We got enough,” and Mama Bear got upset.

“Three million — cash,” Annie said. “Pack it up. Teddy and I will get the necklace.”

You do that, Max thought. You bring me the necklace, and we’ll see who looks stupid when I put a bullet through your—

And in that instant, Max Bassett realized he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. He’d been a hunter since he was old enough to hold a bow and arrow. But long before he learned to shoot, his father had taught him how a hunter thinks.

It’s not about who’s faster or stronger. It’s about who’s smarter. Hunting is a test of wits, Max. They’re not dumb animals. They’re cunning. So never, ever underestimate the intelligence of your prey.

Annie Ryder was extremely cunning. She was far too smart to give him the necklace and expect to walk away with the money. She hadn’t come for the money. She had come for the confession that she had just goaded out of him.

And her son, as dumb as he was, knew they had gotten what they had come for. Only instead of putting on a high-stakes poker face the way his mother could, Teddy had blurted out, “Let’s go. We got enough.”

The old woman and her son weren’t the prey. They were the bait. And Max wasn’t the hunter. He was the hunted.

Chapter 70

“We got him,” Kylie said as soon as Max Bassett admitted that Elena’s murder was an insurance scam gone bad.

“We’ve only got him on tape,” I said. “I’ll feel better when we have him in cuffs.”

Kylie and I were in the back of Teddy Ryder’s van, listening to the dialogue inside Bassett’s lake house. A few hours earlier, we had made a deal with the devil. In this case, Satan looked like a sweet old lady who had just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting, but she had the negotiating skills of a Mafia underboss.

Annie knew we didn’t have enough hard evidence to prosecute Bassett, so she had offered to help us take him down. All she wanted was immunity for her son. She may as well have asked that the city throw him a ticker-tape parade. Senior ADA Mick Wilson was not in the habit of dropping accessory-to-murder charges, but in this case, he didn’t blink.

Locking up a patsy like Teddy Ryder would barely register as a blip on the media Richter scale, but indicting a high-profile New Yorker like Max Bassett would reverb around the world. Mick was happy to trade the little fish for the big one, and I’m sure that as soon as he gave us the green light, he started daydreaming about who would play him in the movie.

All Kylie and I had to do was arrest Bassett on a charge that would stick. And we only had three hours to pull the entire operation together. Annie had already agreed to a two p.m. meeting with Bassett, and asking him for more time would push the needle on his trust meter into the red.

Our first challenge was finding a command vehicle. The department has a lot of tricked-out vans for stakeouts and surveillance, but since this one had to look like it belonged to Teddy, we pulled a 1996 four-wheel-drive Chevy Astro out of the impound lot and had the techs slap together a sound system. We had no video, but on the plus side, we did have heat and brakes.

Body wires have gotten smaller over time, but they’re still easy to detect if the informant gets frisked. So wiring Teddy was out. But Annie assured us that Bassett wouldn’t touch her. “He’ll never suspect that I cut a deal with the cops,” she told us. “Hell, I can’t believe it myself.”

The ground rules were simple. Go in, get a confession, and get out.

“You’ll need a safe word,” Kylie said. “If anything goes wrong, just say it once, and we’ll come running.”

“How about help?” Teddy said.

“Smart thinking, kiddo,” Annie told her son. As soon as he was out of earshot, she changed the safe word to hot chocolate.

The four of us piled into the junker, and by one thirty we were in a parking lot behind an Audi dealership on Main Street in Mohegan Lake, waiting to rendezvous with our backup, an ESU entry team from the Bronx.

At 1:50, the team leader radioed us with the bad news. “We hit a deer on the Taconic. Two of our guys are on the way to the ER, and the truck is out of service until the motor pool picks Bambi out of the fan housing. I radioed dispatch, and they can have another unit in place by sixteen hundred hours.”

Annie shook her head. “No. We’ve got to go now.”

“We can’t,” I said. “The man’s got enough firepower to defend the Alamo. We’re waiting for backup.”

“Then you can wait for them without me. If I call a mark ten minutes before showtime and try to put him on hold for two hours, he’s going to know something’s going down. Just get me there on time, let me do what I have to do, and once I’m out, you can wait as long as you want before you storm the castle.”

“Annie...”

“I’m serious, Detective. I talked to the man on the phone last night. He’s squirrelly enough as it is. Either we go now or the deal is off.”

She was bluffing. She’d do anything to keep her kid out of jail. But I couldn’t take the chance. I looked at Kylie. It was easy to figure where her head was at.

“Let’s roll,” she said, and Teddy pulled the van out of the parking lot for the final three-mile drive to Bassett’s house.

Less than twenty minutes later, Annie had delivered. She’d wormed a confession out of Bassett. Now all we had to do was wait for our two informants to get out of the house.

And then Teddy, who had been told not to talk, talked. “We got enough,” he said.

“Did Teddy just tell Bassett that they got the confession they came for?” Kylie said.

“It sounded that way to me,” I said. “But we know what he means. The question is, will Bassett pick up on it?”

We waited for Annie to ask Bassett if he could make her a cup of hot chocolate, but she didn’t. And then she said, “Teddy and I will get the necklace.”

“They’re coming out,” Kylie said. “You ready?”

“We’re not waiting for backup, are we?” I said.

“Too risky. If she doesn’t come back right away, he’ll know we’re out here, and we’ll lose the element of surprise. As soon as she and Teddy are safe, you cover the back, I’ll go in the front, and we’ll take him down.”

We heard footsteps over the wire as Annie and Teddy walked through the house. As soon as the front door opened, the signal started to break up.

“Fabric rubbing against the mic,” Kylie said. “It’s freezing out there. She’s probably hugging her arms to her chest.”

The static continued, and then the signal dropped. “Lost her,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Kylie said. “She and Teddy are on their way back to the van, and Bassett is probably sitting in his living room with a loaded elephant gun, waiting to get his hands on the—”

The impact was bone-jarring. It felt like the van had been hit by a train. We found out later it was a Land Rover, which is almost as lethal.

The side panel caved in, and the van slid across the frozen ground. Neither Kylie nor I had been braced for the collision, and we both wound up on the hard metal floor.

Before I could get my bearings, I heard an engine roaring, bearing down on us hard. The second crash was a bigger jolt than the first. The van flipped over, teetered, and then rolled downhill, flipping over one more time, and another, and another, until something big — a tree, probably — broke our descent.

If it hadn’t been for a wall-mounted safety bar, I’d have been thrown around like a rag doll in a washing machine. Even so, my left shoulder and my right knee took a pummeling.

Kylie wasn’t as lucky. She was holding on to the back of the driver’s seat, a glazed look in her eyes, blood streaming down her face.

“We should have waited for backup,” she said.

Chapter 71

As soon as Max realized that the Ryders were there for his confession and not for the money, he reached behind his back for his gun, held it inches from Annie’s head, and put his index finger to his lips.

Slow-witted as he was, Teddy got the message. He froze.

Max carefully lifted the bottom of Annie’s sweatshirt. No wonder the old crone didn’t want to be patted down. She was wired.

He turned the gun on Teddy and whispered in Annie’s ear, “How many cops in the van?”

She held up two fingers.

Maxwell Bassett was a doomsday prepper — a lifelong survivalist. For decades he’d been prepared for that apocalyptic day when he would have to run from life as he knew it. In all his Armageddon scenarios, he pictured a foreign invasion, a catastrophic natural disaster, or a total societal collapse. Never in his wildest fantasies could he have imagined that he’d be taken down by a conniving old hag and her idiot son.

It didn’t matter. He was ready. With the gun trained on them, he went to a closet and pulled out a timeworn, well-traveled Rufiji Safari bag. It was filled with everything he’d need to escape to the fortress he’d built thirty years ago in the middle of the British Columbian wilderness.

He’d have liked to put a bullet through Teddy’s empty skull, but the need for silence trumped the desire for payback.

“Now you just sit here and be a good boy,” he whispered in Teddy’s ear. “If you’re not, you know what’s going to happen to your mother, don’t you?”

Teddy nodded, and then sat stone-faced as Bassett led Annie out of the room and closed the door behind them.

As soon as they were outside, Bassett manipulated the old lady’s microphone just enough to convince the two cops that she was on her way to the van. Then he yanked it out of the transmitter and tossed it in the snow.

“Get in,” he said, opening the driver’s-side door of the LR4 and shoving her over to the passenger seat.

“Buckle up,” he said, starting the car. It was a noisy beast, but the odds were that the cops would have their headsets pressed to their ears, trying to pick up a signal from their informant. They’d never know what hit them. The 340-horse supercharged V-6 engine roared to life.

The aging van was sitting a hundred feet away, its side panel a perfect target for the Rover.

Annie held her hands up to shield herself.

“What are you afraid of, Grandma?” Bassett said. “You’re the hammer, not the nail.”

“What do you think I’m afraid of, asshole? You T-bone that van, and we’re both going to get a face full of air bag.”

“How dumb do you think I am?” Bassett said, turning the Rover so that it was facing away from the Chevy.

Then he threw it into reverse and hit the gas, and the two-and-a-half-ton all-terrain vehicle lurched backward, barreled down the driveway, and plowed into the sweet spot of the soccer-mom sedan.

The side caved in, the van skittered across the ice, and even at thirty miles an hour, the Rover’s air bags didn’t deploy.

“One more should do it,” Bassett said as he jammed the car into low and pulled forward so he could get up another head of steam. Once again he shifted into reverse, stepped on the accelerator, and plowed backward into the wounded cop car.

This time the Rover’s powerful six-foot rear end did the job. The van rolled onto its roof, flipped onto its side, and wavered at the top of an embankment. Then gravity took over, and Bassett listened to the music of tearing metal and breaking glass as the van careened down the hill.

He didn’t take the time to examine his handiwork. Even if the cops inside weren’t dead, they were in no condition to follow him.

He was 3,152 miles from the sanctuary where he’d spend the next few years hunting, fishing, and reengineering his life.

He looked over at the old lady in the passenger seat next to him. She wasn’t going for the entire ride. He was sure he’d find a permanent home for her in less than fifty miles.

Chapter 72

Kylie’s blond hair was streaked with red, and there was a four-inch gash across her scalp. “Son of a bitch blindsided us,” she said, wiping the blood from her face with her shirtsleeve. “Don’t let him get away. Call it in. Fast.”

I was about to reach for my radio when I heard someone at the back door. The van was on its side, so whoever was trying to get in had to pull the right rear door straight up. Daylight flooded in, and Kylie and I drew our guns and yelled “Freeze” in unison.

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, it’s me.” It was Teddy. “Are you guys okay? Because Bassett’s getting away. You gotta catch him.” His hands were flying in all directions as he jabbered wildly.

“Hold your hands in the air where I can see them,” I said. “Where’s your mother?”

He flung his arms high, annoyed that we suddenly didn’t trust him. “Bassett pulled a gun on us and took her hostage. Then he got in his car and smashed into your van. Twice. Knocked you right down a hill,” he said, stating the obvious.

“Do you know where they’re going?”

“How the hell would I know where they’re going? He found the wire, and now he’s mad at Ma. The guy is crazy. You said you had backup. Where are all the other cops?”

He was frantic, bordering on hysterical, tears streaming down his cheeks. I put my gun away. “All right, calm down. We’re doing all we can,” I said. “You can help us. What kind of car was he driving?”

“A Land Rover. Silver. But don’t shoot at him. He’s got Ma in the car.”

I got on the radio and called in a ten thirteen — officer needs assistance. And in our case, we needed lots of it.

I gave the dispatcher a quick rundown of the situation, along with a description of the fugitive, the car, and the hostage. It all went smoothly till I gave him my location.

“And you want NYPD to respond to an incident up in the sticks?” he said.

“An incident?” I screamed. “A maniac just tried to kill two NYPD detectives. Jurisdiction be damned. I don’t care who you send. There’s a killer on the loose, and he’s got a hostage. I want local backup, state troopers, air support — anyone and everyone who can help us cut off his escape route and close in on him.”

Teddy stared at me from the back door, his hands still over his head. “They coming?” he said.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Now put your hands down and help us out of this van.”

Teddy held the door up high, and we crawled out. After we’d spent so many hours in the van, the cold air felt good. I stood up and put as much weight as I could on my right knee. It was sore, but it held me up.

Kylie sat on a log, picked up a handful of snow, and pressed it to the gash on her skull.

My radio crackled, and I took a call from dispatch. It was a different voice this time — older, calmer. “We’re on it, Detective,” this one said. “The staties are sending up a bird, and the county sheriff is setting up roadblocks at the entrances to the Taconic for fifteen miles on either side.”

“That’s not going to help,” I said. “This guy is on the one road out of here, and it’s slow going. The best way to stop him is to cut him off now. How soon can you get a unit to where Lakeshore Drive intersects with Mohegan Avenue?”

A long pause, and then, “I can divert some of the county cops and probably have them in place in twelve minutes.”

“He’ll be in the wind by then, and he’s not going to be getting on the Taconic,” I said. “He knows every back road, off road, and rabbit trail for miles. Tell state we need that bird in the air now, or we’ll lose him.”

I put my radio down and shattered the serenity of the woodlands with a loud string of four-letter words.

“What’s going on?” Teddy asked.

I was in no mood for Teddy’s constant questions. “We’re trying to get some goddamn backup over to the other side of the lake before Bassett gets there,” I said, “but in the entire state of New York, not one cop is close enough. That’s what’s going on.”

“So why don’t you two guys go? I promise, I won’t try to escape. I’ll wait for you right here.”

“We can’t go, Teddy,” I said. “As you may have noticed, we don’t have a car.”

“Right.” He thought about it for a few seconds. “I have an idea,” he said.

“What?” I snapped, my patience out the window.

“If you want to get to the far side of the lake,” Teddy said, “why don’t you just take Mr. Bassett’s boat?”

Chapter 73

“How were we supposed to know he had a boat?” Kylie grunted as we clambered up the steep embankment. “We were working blind inside that van.”

“Right,” I said. “Millionaire outdoorsman. House on a lake. It’s not like we’re trained detectives.”

Teddy helped pull us up over the ridge and onto the driveway. “It’s over there,” he said, pointing to a covered boathouse attached to the garage.

We were both operating on high-octane adrenaline, and we sprinted to the dock, where a sleek red Skeeter bass boat was waiting, keys still in the ignition. We jumped in. Kylie cranked up the engine and leaned on the throttle.

“Bassett’s got a good head start,” she yelled, “but he’s got to navigate three miles of bad road.”

Skimming across the lake at seventy miles an hour, we closed in on the northern tip fast, and Kylie, who pilots watercraft as recklessly as she drives, waited until the last possible second to kill the engine. The Skeeter coasted into a patch of frozen wild ricegrass and came to rest against a guardrail that separated the lake from Mohegan Avenue.

“We’re in luck,” she yelled as she hopped the rail and ran toward a dark green Ford pickup that was parked on the shoulder. The gold lettering across the side said New York State Environmental Conservation Police.

EnCon cops, who started out over a century ago as game and fish protectors, still focus on environmental crime, but the modern day ECO is armed and empowered to enforce all the laws of the state.

The cop who got out of the truck was beanpole high and thin, with a longer than average neck, a smaller than average chin, and the standard wraparound Oakley shades.

Kylie and I flashed our shields and identified ourselves.

“John Woodruff,” he said. “What’s NYPD looking for up here in the sticks?”

“Did you see a silver Land Rover come out of Lakeshore Drive?” I asked.

“That’d be Mr. Bassett,” the cop said. “He rolled by maybe five minutes ago. He had a passenger in the front seat. What’s going on?”

“The passenger is a hostage, and Bassett is wanted for murder,” I said.

“There’s a couple of countries in Africa that would like to prosecute him for killing endangered species,” Woodruff said, “but I’m guessing you’re talking about murdering another person.”

“Several,” I said. “We’re going to need to take your truck.”

“It’s all yours, Detective, but unless you know what you’re doing, you’re not going to catch him.”

“Why’s that?” Kylie said, climbing into the front seat of the pickup. “Because we’re city cops?”

“No, ma’am,” Woodruff said. “I know some damn smart city cops. But it’s hard to catch someone if he ain’t running.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Kylie said.

“Bassett’s crazy, but he ain’t stupid. He’s got hidey-holes from here to Saskatchewan. He’ll hunker down in one, bide his time till he can jack a car from some drunk fisherman, then move from one bunker to the next until he finally gets to the big prepper palace he’s built in the middle of God knows where.”

“He can’t hide,” Kylie said. “We’ve got air support, we’ll call in K-9—”

“Choppers? Dogs? Lady, now you sound like a city cop — and not one of the smart ones.”

“What do you suggest?” I said.

“Me?” he said, taking off his shades. His eyes were a deep blue, calming and commanding at the same time. Hands down, they were his best feature. “Stop wasting time and hunt him down before he can settle in. And since you don’t know where to hunt, I’d suggest you take along some good ole boy who’s lived here the past thirty-four years, is a trained law enforcement officer, and can shoot the winky off a chipmunk at a hundred yards.”

“Get in,” Kylie said, nodding her head toward the passenger seat.

Woodruff opened the driver’s side door. “All due respect, ma’am, how about you slide over?”

She did, and the two city cops and the good ole boy headed toward the woods to track down the millionaire version of Rambo.

Chapter 74

Woodruff drove with one hand and dialed his cell phone with the other.

“Andy,” he said, “I got two NYPD detectives in the truck, and they’re looking for the butcher.” Pause. “No — murder and kidnapping. He’s got a female hostage in his Rover. He rolled by me on Mohegan six minutes ago. If he can make it to the caves on California Hill, we’ll never dig him out. Get on the radio and shut down Peekskill Hollow at Tompkins Corners.”

Another pause. “No. Put it on the air. Loud and proud. He’s got a scanner, and we want him to know he’s cut off — force him to go to ground sooner rather than later. If there’s anything you don’t want him to hear, use your cell.”

He hung up.

“The butcher?” Kylie said.

“What else would you call a man who paid thirty thousand dollars to slaughter a giraffe who had been nursing her calf, then posed for a trophy photo standing over her with a .458 Winchester Magnum?”

“Do you hunt?” she asked.

“Since I was a kid. I shoot what the law allows, and I eat what I kill. But people like Bassett are thrill seekers. The rarer the breed, the more protected the species, the greater his bloodlust.” He shook his head in disgust. “Do you fish?” he said.

Kylie looked at him like he’d asked if she crocheted. “No.”

“Trout season just opened. You ever want to unwind from the stress of the big city, come up here, and I’ll take you out on the lake,” he said. “Both of you,” he added quickly, lest anyone think he was hitting on a fellow police officer in the middle of a manhunt.

The radio was tuned to the universal police frequency, and we picked up bits and pieces of the dragnet as it came together. The chopper was airborne, the Taconic was covered, and the roadblock at Tompkins Corners was in place. Woodruff drove with purpose, making turns without hesitation.

“You know where he’s going, don’t you?” I said.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea. I’m a fourth-generation ECO, Detective. My great-grandfather was murdered by a poacher in 1919. I’ve had my sights on the butcher for years. I know his habits and his habitats. Bringing him down would be an honor and a privilege.”

We drove along a two-lane that cut through a thick forest caught up in the confusion of seasonal change. Broad patches of snow-covered ground proclaimed that winter was not ready to move on, while tiny green buds and dots of purple and white crocuses declared otherwise.

Woodruff slowed the truck down to thirty. Three times he brought it to a full stop, got out, surveyed the area, and moved on. At the fourth stop, he walked to the shoulder, picked something up off the ground, and came back.

“There’s an old logging trail through here,” he said. “We keep it dozed as a firebreak, and campers or hunters who know about it will use it to go a couple of miles off-road. There are fresh tire tracks, and I found this.”

There was a small ball of red cotton in his hand.

“It looks like fabric pilling, and it’s the same color as the sweatshirt the hostage is wearing,” Kylie said. “She could have picked it off and flicked it out the window.”

“I’m going to go in and find out,” Woodruff said.

“We’re going with you,” Kylie said.

“I’m wearing body armor,” he said.

“What do you think this is?” she said, slapping the vest on her chest.

“Kevlar. It holds up pretty good against a low- or medium-velocity pistol round, but Bassett is going to be carrying a high-velocity rifle. I’m wearing ceramic. I can take the hit. You can’t.”

“And if he aims for the head, none of us can take the hit,” Kylie said. “This is our show, and we’re not going to sit by the side of the road and watch it play out without us. Now let’s move out and take this bastard down.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Woodruff said, an expression of newfound appreciation in his eyes. The look only lasted a split second, but I recognized it. I’d seen it from other men in the past when they realized that Detective Kylie MacDonald is as ballsy as she is beautiful.

I had the feeling that the subject of a fishing trip was going to come up again. And this time, my name wouldn’t be on the guest list.

Chapter 75

“We’re going to need some firepower,” Woodruff said, grabbing a Smith & Wesson .308 semiautomatic rifle and a Mossberg 500 tactical shotgun from the gun rack. “Which one of you is the better shot?”

I pointed at Kylie, and she took the Mossberg.

“A lot of hunters set up trail cams,” Woodruff said. “The one in that tree is probably his. If the motion detector picks you up, it’ll send an instant picture to his cell phone. It’s got a range of about seventy-five feet, so keep your distance.”

Even with him pointing straight at it, I could barely make out the camouflaged box that blended in with the bark. “How about you point them out along the way?” I said.

He grinned, took the lead, and headed into the woods. Kylie and I flanked out to either side and kept ten feet behind. It had been thirty minutes since Bassett had plowed into our van, and by now my right knee had swollen to the point where it strained against my pant leg, and I was favoring it by limping.

Woodruff spotted two more trail cams, and we gave each one a wide berth. We were about a half mile in when we heard the shot.

The three of us hit the dirt and waited. Nothing. Just the single gun report.

“It was a pistol,” Woodruff said. “Maybe a quarter mile away.”

An engine roared to life. “Shit. He’s got a trail bike.”

We listened as the bike drove off and faded into the distance.

“He shot the hostage,” Woodruff said. “She made sense when he had the car, but once he swapped it for two wheels, she was excess baggage.”

We stood up and ran toward where the shot came from, Woodruff and Kylie in the lead, me hobbling behind.

We came to a clearing, and there was the Rover parked at the far end. Right next to it, facedown in the dirt, was Annie Ryder. As I got closer, I could see the pool of blood around her head.

Just as Kylie knelt beside the body, an automatic weapon coughed a hail of bullets into the tree over our heads.

“That was a warning shot,” the voice behind us bellowed. “The next one won’t be.” I didn’t have to turn around. It was Bassett.

“Now drop your weapons,” he commanded. “One at a time. Ladies first.”

Kylie set down the shotgun, took the Glock from her holster, and lowered it to the ground.

“All your guns, Detective,” Bassett yelled.

She added her ankle piece to the pile. Woodruff and I went through the same drill.

“On your feet, Grandma,” Bassett ordered, and Annie Ryder came back from the dead.

She stood up, brushed herself off, and wiped the blood from her hair and face. A gutted rabbit carcass was still on the ground where her head had been.

“Give the old lady your cuffs, officers,” Bassett said.

We each produced a pair of handcuffs and gave them to Annie.

“Now the three of you hold hands and make a circle around that tree.”

We joined hands and hugged the trunk.

“Cuff ’em,” he yelled.

Annie came up behind me, put the bracelet around my left wrist, and ratcheted it shut. “Sorry,” she said.

“Shut the fuck up,” Bassett shouted.

Annie turned. “I was apologizing for your bad behavior, asshole.”

The AR15 in Bassett’s hands opened up, and a barrage of bullets splintered the tree not more than six inches above my head.

“I’m not anxious to kill three cops and have half the uniforms in the state of New York looking for me,” he bellowed, “but I will if I have to.”

“He means it, Annie,” I said. “Just cuff us.”

She snapped the other half of my cuffs onto Kylie’s right wrist, then hooked Kylie’s left wrist to Woodruff.

Annie moved behind Woodruff and me, then fumbled with the last set of cuffs.

“Faster,” Bassett yelled.

“My hands are freezing,” Annie yelled back. “If you don’t like my work, find someone else.”

She finally managed to link my wrist to Woodruff’s.

“Move away,” Bassett told her, and she slowly backed off. He lowered his weapon, sidestepped over to the tree, and yanked hard on each set of handcuffs. They held tight.

“Good job, Granny,” he said, turning to her. “I meant what I said about not wanting to kill them. You, on the other hand, are totally expendable. No cop is going to give a shit if you’re alive or dead, and they’re certainly not going to rise up in force to avenge your death.”

“Please don’t,” she said, raising her hands in the air and holding them behind her head.

“Don’t? Oh, but I must. But not with this,” he said, setting the AR15 down. “I’m going to use Detective MacDonald’s gun.”

He picked up Kylie’s Glock from the pile. “Nice piece,” he said, examining it with the eye of a professional.

Max Bassett knew a lot about guns, but he didn’t know enough about people. He certainly didn’t know anything about the seventy-year-old woman standing thirty feet away with her hands held high in the air.

Annie Fender was only fifteen when a carnival came to Enid, Oklahoma. When it left, she left with it, having fallen madly in love with a German trapeze artist.

For the next five years, young Annie’s life was filled with fire-eaters and fortune-tellers, knife throwers and blade box queens, pitchmen and pickpockets.

And then she met Buddy Ryder. Within days, she dumped her high-flying boyfriend to spend the next forty-seven glorious years with the smooth-talking confidence man.

Max Bassett knew nothing of Annie’s backstory. Had he known, he might not have been quite so cavalier when he leveled the Glock at her chest and said, “Any last words?”

“Just three,” she said defiantly.

“Then spit them out, bitch, because nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be the one who snuffs out your wretched exist—”

What happened next went down so fast that it was over before I could process it. Annie’s right arm came hurtling down with all the force and precision of a former big-league pitcher at an old-timers’ day game. The three-and-a-half-inch gut hook skinning knife, which had only seconds earlier been tucked in a sheath at John Woodruff’s right hip, came whirring through the air, and the blade sank deep into Max Bassett’s chest. A red splotch blossomed over his blue denim shirt, and he dropped to the ground like a stone.

Annie walked slowly to the body, looked down, and said the words that Maxwell Bassett would never hear.

“I hate guns.”