NYPD Red

Chapter 65

Getting in to see Mickey hadn’t even been a challenge, The Chameleon thought to himself.

The cop at the front desk was busy, but it’s amazing how fast you can go to the head of the line if you’re wearing a black shirt, white collar, and gold cross.

“I’m Father McDougal,” Gabriel said once he read the name tag on McGrath’s uniform. “One of my parishioners called me. Mickey Peltz. He was recently released from prison, and he’s been very careful to stay on the straight and narrow, and now he’s concerned that he’s in trouble with the police. What did he do, if I may ask?”

“As far as I can tell, Father, nothing,” McGrath said. “He’s not under arrest. He’s just in here to answer a few questions for the detectives investigating an ongoing case.”

“Oh, he’ll be so relieved. He really is a good man. I truly believe his past is behind him. He found the Lord while he was in prison.”

“A lot of them do, Father.”

“My job is to make sure something like this doesn’t shake his faith. Do you mind if I sit with him for a few minutes and give him some spiritual guidance, and perhaps something to quench his thirst?”

Gabriel held up a clear plastic bottle of Poland Spring.

“Is that holy water, Father?” the cop said.

“No,” Gabriel said, “but at two bucks for a sixteen-ounce bottle, you would think that His Holiness Himself had blessed it.”

The cop laughed out loud. What Irishman doesn’t love a funny priest? “Donna, please take Father McDougal back to Room Two.”

The Chameleon gave the cop his most sincere Christian smile. Permission to kill Mr. Peltz granted. Hallelujah.

Mickey, of course, was thrilled to see him. He swore up and down he wouldn’t say a word about anything to anyone.

“You wouldn’t lie to a priest, would you my son?” Gabe said.

Mickey let loose one of his signature raspy laughs and sucked down half a bottle of the Poland Spring.

“I’m just here for moral support,” Gabriel said, “and to let you know that if you need a lawyer, don’t take one of their court-appointed hacks. I have the money to spring for a real one.”

“Thanks,” Mickey said. “You’re a good friend, Gabe.”

And those were probably the last words Mickey Peltz ever uttered.

Getting out of the station was cake. Gabriel fell in behind a trio of cops and breezed right past the desk sergeant and out the front door. Less than thirty seconds later, he had peeled off his neat little goatee, the clerical shirt and collar, balled them up along with the Bible and the cross he wore around his neck, and shoved them all into a trash basket.

There was a street vendor on the southeast corner of Third Avenue and 67th Street hawking sunglasses, batteries, and “genuine pashmina” for only five dollars. His beat-up Dodge van was parked behind the stand, and Gabriel positioned himself so he could look west toward the precinct yet remain completely out of sight.

Now he was wearing a red and white Rutgers T-shirt and trying on a pair of wraparound shades as half a dozen cops came storming out of the precinct. MacDonald was in the lead. She looked left, then right, then whacked a fist into her palm once she realized she’d lost him.

She was the bitch who killed Lexi. The press didn’t give her name-just “plainclothes female cop”-but that was all Gabriel needed.

He had walked right past her, no more than a few inches away. But even if he could have strangled her right there on the spot, he wouldn’t have. Hot-shit Detective Kylie MacDonald was about to live through the same pain and agony she’d put him through.

This one’s for you, Popcorn Girl.

Chapter 66

THE PRECINCT WAS now officially a crime scene. Technically, we couldn’t move Peltz until he’d been scraped, probed, and swabbed. And since nothing says sloppy police work like a dead guy on the precinct floor, we quickly tacked up a tarp to hide the body from the public.

“If it were up to me, I’d just drag him back to the holding room,” Kylie said. “Do we really need forensics to tell us that Benoit poisoned him? Probably with the same stuff he used to kill Roth.”

The two of us, along with Cates, McGrath, and his direct boss, Lieutenant Al Orton, were all crammed into Donna Thorson’s office. She’s the civilian employee who worked behind the front desk. It was hot and uncomfortable in more ways than one.

Kylie turned to McGrath. “How did Benoit get in?”

McGrath is a big man. Burly, with thick graying hair and a wide Irish grin. He can either be a welcoming presence at the front desk or an intimidating one. Like I said, an old pro. He looked straight at Kylie and spoke quietly, calmly.

“He told me he was a priest. He looked like a priest. He said, ‘Peltz is one of my parishioners. Can I sit with him and give him some spiritual guidance?’ Based on what I knew, Peltz wasn’t under arrest. He wasn’t even here on a parole violation. He was just cooling his heels, waiting to talk to you and his PO. So to answer your question, Detective, he got in because I let him in. I’m the wolf at the door, and I said yes, because as far as I could see, there was no reason to say no. But if you’re looking for someone to take the fall, put it on me.”

Orton stepped in. “Hold on, Bob. Detective, you’re new here. The One Nine has worked with NYPD Red since they moved in, and by and large it works well. We’ve got a protocol up front. It starts with ‘serve and protect.’ We don’t harass civilians. We don’t frisk them or tell them to dispose of all liquids beyond this point. We’re not the TSA. Sergeant McGrath is a decorated cop with eighteen years, and he did his job by the book. What happened was not his-”

“Al, it was my fault,” Cates said. “I screwed up. I didn’t want a lot of radio chatter going out, so I never told the uniforms who Peltz was or why they were bringing him in. But we ran into some bad luck. Benoit saw the pickup. Once I found that out, I should have called and had Peltz locked up. It never crossed my mind that Benoit would show up here and kill Peltz to keep him from talking.”

“Talking about what?” Orton said.

“Benoit scored enough C4 to do some serious damage.”

“Do we have any idea where?”

“No, but I’m sure Peltz did, which is why he is now dead.”

“If it’s connected to this Hollywood week, how many venues can there be?” Orton asked.

“At last count, sixty-three,” I said. “And right now, K-9 only has eighteen available dogs. Without Peltz to point to the target-or targets-there’s no way we can cover even half of them.”

“In that case, I’m going to have to prioritize,” Cates said. “Start with the functions being held at hotels or other public spaces.”

“The bigger targets are more likely to be at private parties,” Kylie said. “I know that the Friars Club is-”

“Detective MacDonald,” Cates said sharply. “I appreciate the fact that the bigwigs are bigger targets, and I realize you may be close to some of them, but our first responsibility is to the people of New York. I want those dogs zeroing in on any event where one of our taxpaying citizens could become collateral damage. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Cates didn’t respond. She marched out the door and up the stairs to her office. Her mea culpa was over. She was all business.