NYPD Red 3

Chapter 1

I had just had the best New Year’s Day of my life, and when I opened my eyes on the morning of January second, the euphoria continued.

In front of me was a captivating panoramic view of Central Park, still dotted with patches of last week’s white Christmas. Above me, the ceiling was adorned with hand-painted cherubs and half-naked women frolicking in a wooded glade. And curled up next to me on our zillion-thread-count sheets was a totally naked woman who could put every one of those Roman goddesses in that bacchanalian fresco to shame.

“I could get used to this, Zach,” Cheryl said. “You definitely should start taking more bribes.”

Two nights ago, Cheryl and I had checked into the Steele Towers on Central Park South for a mini New Year’s vacation. The room I booked was something I could afford on a cop’s salary, but when we got there, the desk clerk apologized. There was a maintenance problem in our room.

He waited just long enough to register the look on our faces, and then he said, “But don’t worry, Detective Jordan. We’ll upgrade you to a slightly better accommodation.”

His version of “slightly better” was an eighteen-hundred-square-foot penthouse suite, the top of the line in this world-class, five-star hotel.

“Oh my God,” Cheryl said when the floor concierge escorted us to our new digs. She looked at the pricing chart on the back of the door. “And only sixty-five hundred dollars a night.”

“Happy accidents happen to the nicest people,” the concierge said.

Not for a second did I think this was an accident. I knew exactly what it was: a silent gesture of gratitude from Jason Steele, the man who owned the hotel. His wife had been murdered a few months ago, and my partner, Kylie MacDonald, and I had cracked the case.

I stood in the doorway of the suite, called my boss, Captain Cates, and explained the problem.

“It’s not a problem,” she said. “You’re there as a private citizen, not a cop.”

“But the desk clerk called me Detective Jordan. He knew I was a cop.”

“Zach, you’re one of a handful of detectives assigned to NYPD Red. You’ve made two front-page arrests in the past six months. You better get used to the fact that people are going to recognize you. Now, you called me for a ruling. Here it is. Hotels upgrade all the time. Shut up, take it, and you and Cheryl have a happy New Year.”

Boy did we ever. But now it was time to go back to reality. I got out of bed. “I’m going to take a shower,” I said.

Cheryl stretched like a cat in the summer sun, and the sheets slipped below her breasts.

“On second thought,” I said, “I’m hopping back in bed.”

She smiled. “Just hop to the shower. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Behind me, in front of me... I’m sure we can work out the best arrangement once we’re all wet and slippery,” I said.

Cheryl’s cell rang. “It’s probably my parents wishing me a happy New Year,” she said. “We played phone tag all day yesterday. I kept missing them. I’ll be right there.”

There were three bathrooms, and Cheryl and I had experimented with shower gymnastics in every one of them. I headed for our favorite.

I dimmed the lights, dialed up some slow jazz, stepped into the green granite-tiled double shower, and turned on the water. It was heaven.

Despite the fact that my job keeps me in daily contact with New York City’s wealthiest citizens, rarely do I get to live like one. I lost myself in the pulsating rhythms of the six perfect-pressure showerheads, closed my eyes, and thought about the dark-haired, caramel-skinned, drop-dead beautiful, kick-ass smart Latina I was rapidly falling in love with.

I’d met Cheryl Robinson four years ago. She was an NYPD psychologist, and I was a candidate for the department’s most elite unit. It took her three hours to evaluate me. I, on the other hand, needed only three seconds to evaluate her. I’d never seen a cop or a shrink this desirable, and if it weren’t for that gold band on her left hand, and the fact that she stood between me and the best job in the department, I would have thrown myself at her feet.

I got the job, and six months ago, shortly after her wedding ring came off forever, I got Cheryl. I’d only been in love once before. Eleven years ago I had a torrid twenty-eight-day affair with a fellow recruit at the police academy: Kylie MacDonald. But she dumped me and went back to her old boyfriend. A year after that, she married him.

Ten years later, the Department of Let’s-See-If-We-Can-Drive-Zach-Jordan-Crazy decided to test my emotional resilience and put Kylie back in my life. Not as my girlfriend, but as my partner in crime solving. And for the past six months, Kylie and I have been inseparable — except for the part where she goes home to her husband, Spence Harrington, every night.

Fifteen minutes into my bathroom reverie, Cheryl still hadn’t made an appearance, and I was starting to shrivel up in more ways than one.

I toweled off, put on a thick white terry robe, and went back to the master bedroom.

She was still on the phone.

“Be strong,” she said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell her to feel better and give her my love.”

She hung up. “Zach, I’m sorry. Family emergency.”

“Is your mother sick?” I asked.

“No. It’s Fred’s mother.”

Fred? Fred was Cheryl’s ex-husband. “That was Fred who called?”

She nodded. “He’s devastated.”

“I thought Fred was out of the picture.”

“He is. But his mother is dying. I told you I was planning to drive up to Bedford next weekend for Mildred’s birthday. It looks like she’s not going to make it till then. I’m going to run into the office, wrap up a few things, and catch a train up to Northern Westchester Hospital as soon as I can.”

She got out of bed and threw on a robe. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I’m going to shower, and it’s going to be short and solo.” She headed for the bathroom. “Oh, I almost forgot. Your cell rang while I was on the phone with Fred. I saw it was Kylie, so I picked up and told her you’d call right back.”

Kylie wanted me, which meant work. Fred wanted Cheryl, which meant I would have something to obsess about all day besides work.

I called Kylie. “Happy New Year,” I said.

“Not for everybody,” she said. “We have a headless body in Riverside Park.”

Decapitations were standard fare for Mexican drug cartels, but rare in New York — even rarer for our unit. “Are you sure it’s for Red?” I asked.

“The body is wearing a chauffeur’s uniform,” Kylie said, “and there’s a big-ass black limo in the parking lot. License plate ALDEN 2. Which means this homicide is about as Red as you can get. Where are you?”

I told her, and she said she’d pick me up outside the hotel in ten minutes.

My New Year’s euphoria was officially over.

Chapter 2

Not too many New Yorkers know it, but Riverside Park was conceived by the same guy who designed Central Park. And while it’s not Frederick Law Olmsted’s most famous work, the four-mile strip that hugs the Hudson River from 72nd to 158th Streets is the most spectacular stretch of natural beauty and recreational possibilities in the city.

Kylie took the Henry Hudson Parkway north, swung around under the George Washington Bridge, and headed back south on the parkway until we spotted the 151st Street entrance to Riverside Park.

The parking lot was empty except for a dozen assorted police vehicles and one shiny black limo that looked as out of place as a debutante at a biker rally.

We spotted the one guy we were looking for: Chuck Dryden. Chuck is a brilliant criminalist with all the charisma of a wet bath mat. He’d been dubbed Cut And Dryden because he was all business, no small talk. His emotional content ranged from ho to hum, but I’d discovered that there was one defibrillator that could jump-start his dispassionate heart. Like a lot of men before him, he was totally smitten with Kylie. So as soon as we saw him, my partner took the reins.

“We’re in luck, Zach. It’s our favorite CSI. Happy New Year, Chuck,” Kylie said, tantalizingly putting on a pair of latex gloves as if she had something in mind other than preventing the contamination of a crime scene.

He looked down, muttered a quiet “Same to you,” and immediately went into his observations. “The victim appears to be Peter Chevalier, age fifty-five, from Cité Soleil, Haiti. American citizen since 1988, resides on East 81st Street.”

“Appears to be?” Kylie asked.

“There was a wallet in the victim’s pocket,” Dryden said. “Normally the head shot on his license would help me get a positive ID, but as you can see, this man’s head is nowhere in sight.”

He peeled back the tarp that covered the body, gave us ten seconds to take in the mutilation, and then discreetly covered it back up.

“As the vanity license plates would suggest, the vehicle is registered to Alden Investments, which is owned by Hunter Hutchinson Alden Jr. There’s no evidence of a struggle inside the car. Judging by this pool of blood, Mr. Chevalier was standing outside when he was decapitated.”

“Time of death?” I asked.

“Somewhere between 7:52 and 8:11 last night.”

“How the hell did you come up with such a narrow window?” I said.

Dryden almost smiled. “It was well below freezing last night,” he said. “Even colder here at the river’s edge than in the rest of the city, so I can’t give you a definitive time frame till I get him to the lab and run a thorough check on blood pooling, stomach contents, rigor — the usual indicators. However, we retrieved a cell phone from the ground under the driver’s side door, and it appears that the victim was composing a text to Mr. Alden when the killer came up behind him.”

He held it up so we could read it.

Cant find Tripp. Do you want me to

“The text is unfinished and unsent, so I can’t tell exactly when he wrote it,” Dryden said. “But then there’s a flood of incoming texts, all from Alden, all basically saying ‘Call me — where the hell are you?’ Since all of Alden’s previous texts were answered promptly, a logical conclusion would be that the time of death was somewhere between Mr. Chevalier’s last reply, at 7:52, and Mr. Alden’s text that followed at 8:11.”

“Cause of death?” Kylie asked.

“Excellent question, Detective,” Dryden said. “Many cops would hesitate to ask what killed a headless man, and they’d be wrong. There are no bullet wounds or puncture marks on the body, but there is a fresh bruise on his lower back consistent with the classic knee strike delivered in conjunction with a garrote attack. However, since his head was removed with a rope saw, which is quite messy, I can’t find any visible ligature marks in the field, so a garrote is only an educated guess. It’s also possible that he was strangled with the rope saw, and then the killer kept cutting. Either way, decapitation was postmortem.”

“I’m a city girl,” Kylie said. “What in the world is a rope saw?”

We knew that Dryden had a treasure trove of weaponry in his cerebrum, and we’d always suspected that he might have quite a few of them in his basement.

“A rope saw is a jagged-toothed carbon steel chain attached to two handles. It affords the user all the benefits of a chain saw without the noise.”

“Thank you, Chuck,” Kylie said. “You are, as usual, incredibly thorough.”

He nodded. “I’ll call you from the lab once I have further findings. And needless to say, if you come across la tête de Monsieur Chevalier, make sure you send it my way.”

“Sure thing,” Kylie said. She waited till we were twenty feet away before she whispered out of the side of her mouth, “He probably needs it to complete his collection.”

Chapter 3

“I had Matt Smith run Peter Chevalier’s name through the system,” Kylie said. “Over the years he’s picked up hundreds of parking violations for Alden Investments, which is no surprise. People who ride in the back of limos would rather pay a fine than walk half a block. Otherwise, he was an upstanding citizen.”

“Upstanding citizens don’t usually have many enemies,” I said. “His boss, on the other hand, is one of the richest, most ruthless bastards on Wall Street.”

“And as good fortune would have it,” Kylie said, “rich, ruthless bastards are our specialty. Let’s go have a chat with Mr. Alden.”

We double-parked on East 81st Street and were about to get out of the car when the weathered-bronze front door opened. Hunter Alden was standing there with another man, who was about to leave.

“Holy shit,” Kylie said. “The short one in the coat is Silas David Blackstone.”

“You know him?”

“Oh yeah — smarmy little bastard. He’s the head of SDB Investigative Services. If you have a legal matter you want done, Silas Blackstone will do it. If it’s illegal, he’ll do it for more money. Let’s find out what he’s doing here.”

We got out of the car. The two men saw us immediately.

“Kylie?” Blackstone said. “Kylie MacDonald?”

He bounded down the steps and let us in the front gate.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Blackstone said. “I’ve been following your career, and you are just burning up a trail at NYPD, aren’t you?”

“This is my partner,” she said, ignoring the question. “Detective Zach Jordan.”

“Silas David Blackstone,” he said. “Jordan, you are one lucky devil. I’d kill to ride around town all day with this woman. Only with me, it would be a much better car.”

He extended his arm, and it was hate at first handshake.

He turned back to Kylie. “How is your husband doing these days? I heard he was ill.”

Smarmy was an understatement. He must have known that Spence was in rehab because he put air quotes around the word ill.

“He’s on the mend, thank you,” Kylie said. She pulled out her shield and held it up. “NYPD. Hunter Alden?”

“That’s me,” Alden said. “Come on up.”

Kylie and I walked up to the doorway with Blackstone right behind. “Detectives Kylie MacDonald and Zach Jordan,” she said. “If you’ve been consulting with Mr. Blackstone, you must know why we’re here.”

“Yes, Peter’s been missing since last night. I was concerned and called Silas.”

“And I picked up the one eight seven on the scanner. I came here to break the bad news to Mr. Alden.”

“How did you pick it up?” I asked. “The victim’s name wasn’t on the air.”

Blackstone’s lips curled, transforming his phony plastic smile into a genuine contemptuous sneer. “Yes, Detective, but there was a description of the car. Not many Maybachs on the road. They start at about four hundred grand. Plus, this one is tricked out with armor plate, bulletproof windows, and a complete—”

“That’s enough, Silas.” It was Alden.

“I just want them to know that’s a million-dollar car they’ve impounded, and we’d appreciate it if they returned it to you sooner rather than later. By the way,” Silas said, turning back to me and Kylie, “it’s pronounced Mybock, not Mayback. I guess your dispatcher is more used to Hondas and Toyotas.”

Alden raised his voice. “Enough, damn it.”

“I was just leaving,” Blackstone said. “Wonderful to see you again, Kylie. Remember, there’s always a job opening for you at SDB.”

He took the first three steps and then turned back to his boss. “You’re in excellent hands, Mr. Alden. These two cops are not just NYPD: they’re with NYPD Red, which is as good as you’re going to get” — he arched his eyebrows and shrugged — “from the public sector.”

Chapter 4

Hunter Alden escorted us into one of those grand foyers that most people see only in movies. I’ve learned enough to know that directly ahead of us was what they call a butterfly staircase. Or as us poor folks say, the curved kind where you can walk upstairs from either side.

I could see by the grain that the floor was wood, but it gleamed like the ebony keys on a piano. Overhead was a crystal chandelier suspended from an intricately carved paneled ceiling. To the left was a pair of ebonized wooden doors inset with silver grillwork and beveled mirrors.

The only contrast to the monochromatic tones of black and gray was a glorious Christmas tree that was the seasonal focal point of the room. It towered past the iron-forged balcony railing on the second floor and looked like it would be as at home in the White House as it was here on 81st Street. It was like stepping into the holiday edition of Architectural Digest.

“Sorry about Blackstone,” Alden said as he closed the front door. “He’s a bit of an abrasive little asshole, but he’s good at what he does.”

“And what exactly is that?” Kylie asked.

If there had been a tour of the Alden estate in our future, it was abruptly canceled. Hunter Alden stopped right there in the entryway.

“And what the hell business is that of yours, Detective? My family is in the middle of a devastating tragedy. Peter had been with us for twenty-three years. I’m told you’re the best cops the department has to offer, and you lead off with an irresponsible question that is nothing more than a breach of my privacy.”

Some cops might have apologized, but Kylie was born with a seriously defective “I’m sorry” gene. She came right back at him. “Mr. Alden, that wasn’t my intended opening question, but when I see an ‘abrasive little asshole’ like Blackstone at the home of a murder victim, I want to know what he’s doing here. Now, I’m sorry for your loss, but since we’d both like to know who killed Peter Chevalier, let me start off with a different question.”

“I have a few questions of my own.” He turned away from her and looked squarely at me. “Tell me,” he said, adjusting his voice to the more respectful tone reserved for the guy who plays good cop. “Was it a robbery? I hope he didn’t get killed trying to protect my car. Was he shot? Stabbed?”

“No, sir,” I said. “It appears Mr. Chevalier was choked to death and then decapitated.”

That was something Blackstone couldn’t have told him, and Alden took a step back. “De... I... I don’t know what to say.”

“You can start by telling us about Peter. Did he have any enemies?”

“He had a reputation for being a bit of a skirt chaser. He probably pissed off more than a few husbands and boyfriends in his life.”

“Enough to kill him?”

“Detective, I’m his employer, not his drinking buddy. All I know is what I just told you.”

“Did he ever borrow your car for his own personal use?”

He looked at me like I’d spat in the punch bowl. Clearly he thought I was clueless about the boundaries between upstairs and downstairs. “Absolutely not,” he snapped.

“Then he was working for you when he was murdered. Can you tell us what he was doing all alone in an empty parking lot off the West Side Highway at that hour of the night?”

Alden repeated the question, a sure tell that he’d rather not answer it. But I’d painted him into a corner. “I have no idea” was not an option.

“Simple explanation,” he said. “Around six thirty last night I got a text from my son, Tripp, saying that his car broke down, so I sent Peter to pick him up.”

“Then Tripp must have been one of the last people to see Peter alive,” Kylie said now that she could smell that Alden was on the defensive.

“No, they never connected,” he said quickly. “Tripp called me late last night and said Peter never found him. He eventually got one of his friends to pick him up and spent the night at the kid’s house.”

“What kind of car does your son drive?” Kylie asked.

“One of those useless hybrids. A Prius. Blue, maybe green — I don’t really remember.”

“There was no car matching that description in the area,” I said.

“Have you been to Riverside Park?” Alden said. “It’s huge. I’m sure it’ll turn up. Is that all, Detectives? I’m rather pressed for time.”

“That’s all we have right now,” I said. “But we’d like to talk to your son.”

“You can’t reach him now. He’s a senior at Barnaby Prep, and the school has a strict no-cell-phones rule. But I’ll be glad to leave him a message.”

He took a cell from his pocket. “I realize Silas didn’t broach the subject with any tact,” he said as he tapped his speed dial, “but I really do need my car back as soon as possible. Can I count on you to expedite — hold on, I got his voice mail. Hello, Tripp. Something happened to Peter last night, and the police are here to discuss it. They have a few questions they’d like to ask you. Call me when you can, and I’ll arrange a meeting with them.”

He hung up. “If you leave me your number, I’ll contact you as soon as I hear from him.”

I gave him my card. “One last question. You said your son first called you about his car problems at six thirty. At that hour, the park was dark, empty, and bitter cold. What was he doing there so late?”

“Tripp is a film nut,” Alden said. “So I hired him to make a surprise video for my father, who is turning seventy in March. I think he decided to go get some footage of the old neighborhood where my father grew up.”

“Exactly where is that?” I asked.

Alden hesitated.

“Think hard,” I said. “If your father is anything like mine, he dragged you there more than once to show you where he lived as a kid.”

His memory came back fast. “You’re right. It’s 530 West 136th Street.”

“That’s in Harlem.”

“I know,” Alden said. “Your rags-to-riches story doesn’t get any better than that. I can’t wait to see the look on my father’s face when he sees this video.”

He opened the front door. “Give me a buzz and let me know the status of my car. It’s not just transportation. It’s my mobile office. I’m lost without it.”

He smiled as he saw us out. He seemed to have bounced back nicely from his family’s devastating tragedy.

Chapter 5

Kylie got behind the wheel of our car and gunned it. “What an asshole,” she blurted out. She shot up 81st Street, ran a red light, and hung a hard left on Fifth. “His teenage son texts him for help, the driver he sends is murdered, and he can’t wait for his father to see a home movie?”

The postholiday traffic was light, and I buckled my seat belt when I saw the speedometer creep toward sixty. “It seems like Peter getting his head lopped off was more of an inconvenience than a family crisis,” I said. “And on a completely different subject, would you mind slowing down?”

She didn’t. “And what the hell was that smarmshark Blackstone doing there?”

“You tell me, K-Mac. You’re the one who has a history with him.”

She took one hand off the wheel and flipped me the finger. “No, Zach. You and I have a history. Blackstone is just some dude with a hard-on for me. Nice of him to tell Alden that we’re NYPD Red — that special breed of cop trained to serve and protect the insensitive wealthy.”

“Hey, at least now Alden knows that we’re as good as he’s ever going to get — from the public sector.”

“That pompous ass wouldn’t care if we were NYPD Platinum. He’s not about to cough up anything. He didn’t even want to tell us where his father grew up. Nice move squeezing it out of him.”

“Thanks, but he only gave up what he knows we can find out on our own. His story was full of holes, but I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth when he said that Peter and Tripp never connected. That was the gist of the text Dryden showed us. But I’d still like to make sure.”

She came to a screeching stop at the corner of 72nd and Fifth, jumped out of the car, and moved the sawhorse that was blocking the entrance to Central Park. She ran back to the car, turned it into the park, then got out and put the sawhorse back in place.

“I don’t know why they close the park to cars on a day like this,” she said as we sped west. “There are no joggers, no bikers...”

“Just crazy drivers,” I said. “I gather we’re not going back to the office.”

“You’re starting to get good at this cop stuff, Zach. No, we are definitely not going back to the office.”

“So we’re either going to Barnaby Prep to talk to Tripp, or we’re headed up to Harlem to check out Grandpa’s old neighborhood.”

She smiled. “Both. But we can catch Tripp when school lets out. First let’s hit 530 West 136th Street and see if anyone saw him wandering around with a camera yesterday.”

We had the park all to ourselves, so Kylie drove with complete disregard for red lights, the twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit, and the patches of ice on the roadway.

“And don’t forget,” I said, “if we survive this trip, we have to call Chuck Dryden and get Alden’s Mybock back to him in a big hurry. From what I gather, the poor guy is lost without it.”

“Absolutely,” she said, hurtling around the curves of East Drive. “Getting Alden’s precious mobile office back to him is at the top of my list — right after we find the person who killed Alden’s driver.”

Chapter 6

Kylie barreled through to the north end of the park, took 110th Street to Broadway, and made the turn onto 136th Street in a record-breaking eight minutes. Then she slowed down to a crawl and headed east toward Amsterdam Avenue.

“Keep an eye out for one of those useless hybrids. Blue, maybe green.”

Halfway up the block, I spotted it. “Green Prius,” I said, pointing to a car that was directly in front of number 530. We ran the plates. The car was registered to Alden Investments.

We got out and tried the doors. They were locked.

“Jimmy it,” Kylie said.

“It’s in a valid parking space, and we have no reason to think it was involved in a crime,” I said. “Or did the NYPD recently drop that whole grounds-for-breaking-into-a-legally-parked-car thing?”

“Why would Tripp text his father and say he’s broken down in Riverside Park if his car is here?” Kylie said.

“I’m just guessing,” I said, “but one possibility is, if you’re planning to slice through someone’s spinal column with a rope saw, you figure if you do it in the middle of 136th Street on New Year’s Day, you’re going to draw a crowd. The park, on the other hand, is deserted. No witnesses.”

“You like Tripp for killing Chevalier?” Kylie asked.

“No, but he has to at least be on our list. And if he didn’t do it, then somebody used Tripp’s phone, sent the text, and lured Peter to the park.”

“Somebody like who?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s ask around.”

“Who are we supposed to ask? It’s freezing out here. The street isn’t exactly teeming with witnesses.”

“Let’s go find the widow in the window.”

She looked at me. “Who?”

Kylie and I have two histories. The first is as lovers, and even though it lasted only a month, I’m sure I bared my soul to her, told her my best-kept secrets. The second history is as partners, but that relationship is so new that there are still a few things I haven’t shared with her.

“The widow in the window,” I repeated. “Lots of neighborhoods have one. She’s a white-haired old lady who usually lives on the first floor facing front. Her kids are grown and gone, her husband is dead, and her life is about sitting by the window and taking it all in. These days she may have a cell phone in her hand so that when she sees something interesting she can spread the news to anyone on her speed dial who might remotely give a rat’s ass. Maybe they didn’t have people like that where you grew up, but trust me, in this part of the city, in neighborhoods like this, there’s one on every block. They see everything.”

“That is the dumbest theory I ever heard,” Kylie said.

“Maybe, but right now it’s the only one we’ve got. Humor me. Let’s walk around and look for her.”

We did. We covered the entire block from Broadway to Amsterdam, but there were no widows looking out of any windows.

“Maybe her shift starts later in the day,” Kylie said. “Or maybe she has a second job as the widow in the rocking chair watching daytime TV. Or wait, here’s a thought: maybe it’s just the dumbest theory any cop ever came up with.”

“Fine,” I said. “You have a better idea?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s my sergeant-at-the-front-desk theory. Come on — get back in the car. Humor me.”

Chapter 7

Most NYPD cops don’t get to spend much time outside the clearly defined boundaries of their precincts. One of the best things about my job is that Red has no borders, so I get to soak up the entire multicultural, geographically diversified melting pot called New York City.

The Sugar Hill section of Harlem is one of our grandest, most overlooked neighborhoods. It got its name back in the 1920s, when wealthy African Americans moved there to live the sweet life during the Harlem Renaissance.

We headed uptown and drove past stately row houses that had been homes to many of the leading black writers, musicians, athletes, and political leaders of the twentieth century. It’s so spectacular that not only has it been designated a municipal historic district by the Landmarks Preservation Commission, but Kylie actually slowed down so we could take it all in.

The 30th Precinct is on West 151st Street, a tree-lined block just east of Convent Garden. We entered the building and ID’d ourselves to the front desk sergeant. One look and you knew he was a seasoned pro. Close-cropped silver hair, rugged jaw, piercing eyes, and even sitting down he had the bearing of someone who’d served his country in the military.

“Steve Norcia,” he said. “What brings you to the Three Oh, Detectives?”

“We’re looking for a civilian,” Kylie said. “Probably an older woman who calls the precinct on a regular basis, maybe with noise complaints, double-parked cars she sees from her window, people who don’t pick up after their dogs—”

Sergeant Norcia interrupted. “Say no more, Detective. I know the type. What they really want is a cop to drive by so they can talk, maybe offer him a cup of coffee and some cookies. We’ve got a bunch of regulars. We call it the Lonely Hearts Club. You looking for anyone in particular, or should I just tell you who makes the best chocolate chip?”

“I can narrow it down for you,” Kylie said. “She’d have called yesterday — possibly complaining about a kid with a movie camera. Maybe she said he was a Peeping Tom or wanted to know if he had a permit.”

“I know exactly who you’re talking about. I took the call myself,” Norcia said, and went to his computer. “Just give me a minute.”

“Take your time, Sergeant,” Kylie said. “This is a lot easier than going door-to-door.” She grinned at me. “Or window to window.”

“Bingo,” Norcia said in much less than a minute. “I knew it was her.”

“Who?” Kylie said, taking out a pen and pad.

“Fannie Gittleman. Lives at 530 West 136th, apartment 2A. She called yesterday at 3:35 p.m. Except it wasn’t one of those lonely-widow-with-free-baked-goods calls I was talking about. Gittleman is a bit of a troublemaker — a community activist. Always ready to drag the cops in if it’ll help whatever cause she’s harping on that day. Yesterday she reported seeing two terrorists filming the building next door. She was pretty sure they were plotting to blow it up.”

“Terrorists?” Kylie said. “Who’d you send to answer the call?”

“Detective, it was January first. Nine guys phoned in sick. It’s our annual epidemic of post — New Year’s Eve Brown Bottle Flu. Hell, I can’t blame them. I did the same thing when I was their age.”

“So you didn’t send anyone?”

“I would have — eventually.” He grinned. “Handling these old ladies is a balancing act. You start jumping too fast, and they’ll call you ten times a day. I was shorthanded, so it wasn’t at the top of my list. I would have sent out the first available RMP, but Gittleman called back ten minutes later to thank me.”

“For what?”

“Beats the heck out of me, but according to her, the guy I sent did an excellent job. Problem solved.”

“Didn’t that seem a little strange to you?” Kylie asked.

Norcia looked down at us from his desk on high. “Detective, do you have any idea how many calls I juggle a day? So, no, I don’t think it’s particularly strange if some wacky old broad calls to thank me for sending an imaginary cop to arrest a couple of imaginary terrorists.”

“On the other hand,” he added with a shit-eating grin that is rare among front desk sergeants, “two NYPD Red detectives investigating said imaginary crime — now that is pretty goddamn bizarre.”

Chapter 8

One of the life skills that Kylie has never seemed to master is the ability to not gloat. Humility has never been her strong suit, and she took her most recent triumph as yet another opportunity to remind me that she finished first in our class at the academy, while I came in sixth.

We drove back to 136th Street and rang Mrs. Gittleman’s bell. She was not exactly the little old white-haired lady I had pictured. I’d gotten the “old” part right: she was somewhere north of eighty. But her hair was more of a high-octane orange, and she was dressed, bejeweled, and made up as if she was expecting company. Apparently she was: us.

She blocked the doorway while she inspected our IDs. “Jordan and MacDonald,” she said. “You’re new to the precinct. Are you here for a follow-up on yesterday’s incident?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kylie said, running with it. “We just need to clear up a few facts.”

“Come in,” she said, opening the door. “Careful. It’s a little messy.”

Messy was putting it mildly. The apartment was a pack rat’s paradise. It was like she had started decorating sixty years ago and never got around to stopping. Every inch of wall space was covered with framed artwork, many pieces of which she told us she had painted herself. Three sofas were crammed into the tiny living room, one a launching pad for her abundant pillow collection, another a catchall for assorted leaflets, flyers, and brochures. The third one had a cat curled up in the corner.

“Sit there,” Gittleman said. “She’s deaf. You won’t bother her.”

Kylie sat. I stood. Gittleman sat on the edge of a cluttered coffee table. As promised, she was all business. No coffee, no cookies. “So, was I right?” she asked. “Were they terrorists?”

“It’s an ongoing investigation,” Kylie said, “so we can’t say much just now. But we’re trying to wrap it up. If it’s not too much trouble, could you take us through what you saw?”

She cleared her throat. “It was three thirty. I see two boys with a movie camera. One is tall; he’s white. The other is darker — I’m not saying Arab, but who knows? They’re filming the building next door, pointing their camera at Mrs. Glantz’s window. Some people would say ‘Not my business,’ but I’m a firm believer in ‘If you see something, say something.’ Let me tell you, this was definitely something. So I called Steve—”

“Steve?” Kylie said.

“Sergeant Norcia. I thought you work for him. Anyway, I don’t bother with 911. I called Steve direct at the precinct, and he sends over an undercover cop.”

“How did you know the cop was undercover?”

“Oh please. With that red wig and the fake red beard? Of course he was undercover. Anyway, he walks over to the white boy, handcuffs him, no questions asked.”

We had pulled up Tripp Alden’s driver’s license photo from the DMV. I showed it to her.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” she said. “As I was saying, the cop put the cuffs on him, and then, out of the blue, the other one — the Arab kid — he comes at him with a box cutter. Cut him — you could see the blood soaking into the sleeve on his jacket.”

“What kind of jacket?” I asked.

“One of those hooded sweatshirts they all wear. It was gray with navy-blue trim, and it said Yankees in blue on the front. Anyway, the cop pulls out his stun gun, and zap — the boy goes down. Then he takes the white kid to the paddy wagon, comes back, and drags off the other one.”

“Did you notice which paddy wagon he was driving?” Kylie asked.

“A blue van, unmarked. Anyway, he opens the back doors and tosses the two of them in. And then — get this — he had to tie the doors shut with one of those stretchy cords. I’m not going to tell you how to run the police department, but if you’re going to put prisoners in there, you’d think the city could spend a few bucks on a lock that works.” She paused. “So is there a reward?”

Kylie looked at me, but before either of us could answer, Gittleman fielded her own question. “Don’t worry. I’ll check with Steve.”

Chapter 9

His New Year’s resolutions officially on hold, Hunter Alden opened a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue to help him think.

Peter’s head was a problem. It was too late to turn it over to the cops. Oh, I’m sorry, Detectives. This morning, when you told me my driver was decapitated, I completely forgot to mention that I found his head in my son’s camera case last night. But I’m sure there’s no need for you to talk to Tripp. He’s busy with schoolwork.

Hunter’s only choice was to keep it hidden until the cops stopped coming around. Blackstone had suggested the twenty-cubic-foot chest freezer in the basement, so Peter was currently resting peacefully under a hundred pounds of Kobe beef Wagyu steaks, Canadian lobster tails, and premium pulled pork.

Hunter sat down at his desk, poured a splash of the Scotch into his coffee, and stared at the cell phone that the murderer had sent the night before. Then his gaze shifted to the piece of paper he had removed from Peter Chevalier’s lips.

There’s money to be made.

The five words haunted Hunter. He closed his eyes and drifted back fourteen years to Grace Bay, a strip of beach on Providenciales in the Turks and Caicos Islands.

He’d been flown to Turks by private jet, whisked through customs and immigration, driven to a hotel that was closed for its annual September upgrades, and escorted to a conference room.

The man inside was not dressed for the islands. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, the official uniform of the Swiss lawyer. He stood. “Samuel Joost,” he said crisply.

There is only one way that large sums of money can change hands between two people who don’t trust each other. A third party — one beyond reproach — has to be brought in. Joost was a senior partner in a Zurich law firm that had been acting as go-between for wealthy clients and Swiss banks since the 1930s.

He opened a leather attaché and took out a small calculator, an assortment of pens, and a thick binder marked Project Gutenberg. If he had a personality, he had failed to bring it with him.

Documents were signed, funds were moved, and every detail of his involvement was spelled out and agreed upon. Joost assigned him a code name: Leviticus.

Within minutes of Joost’s departure, a second man arrived. He was a tall, gaunt, androgynous presence with slicked-back shoulder-length blond hair.

“There’s money to be made,” he said in a measured, conspiratorial whisper. “You know the risks, the rewards, and the consequences of violating any of the rules. Do you have any questions?”

“Who else is along for the ride?”

“The identities of the other participants are as closely guarded as your own. This is not a social club. Secrecy is paramount to the success or failure of this operation.”

Hunter laughed. “Secrecy and a shitload of money.”

“Mr. Alden,” the nameless blond man said. “In my world, billionaires are as common as fig trees. Do not think you have been invited to this meeting because of your assets. You have been handpicked because of your ideology.”

“And what ideology is that?” Hunter asked.

“Greed.”

It was a day that had changed Hunter Alden’s life. A secret he had thought impossible to unearth. And yet...

He opened his eyes, and his gaze settled on the silver framed picture of Marjorie sitting on his desk. Tripp, then only four, was on her lap. The weekend before she died, Marjorie had told him she was pregnant, and there were so many times that he wished they’d had that second child.

His phone rang, jolting him back to the present. It was Silas Blackstone.

And then there were times like this, Hunter thought, picking up the phone, when he knew his life would have been so much easier if he’d had no children at all.

“Those two cops found the Prius,” Blackstone said. “It was on 136th Street. I went straight there as soon as I left your house. They were still with you, but by the time I got uptown they were already there. How the hell did they find it so fast?”

“I gave them the address.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why do you think? They pressed me. I had to give them something. It doesn’t matter. What happened after they found the car?”

“They did a quick scan from the outside, then they left. I had Tripp’s keys, so I searched the car. Nothing. I was about to leave when the cops came back. I thought maybe they picked up a warrant to search the car, but no — they went straight to one of the buildings and interviewed a tenant.”

“Who?”

“Some old lady. She came to the window a couple of times while the cops were there. She was pointing and yakking away, so I figured she must have seen what went down with Tripp, and she was filling them in.”

“Talk to her. Find out what she saw.”

“Done,” Blackstone said. “As soon as they left, I rang her bell. At first, she didn’t want to let me in, so I told her I was a PI looking for a missing kid. I showed her Tripp’s picture, and she wigged out. Said he was a terrorist, and the cops arrested him yesterday.”

“Son of a bitch,” Hunter said, taking a swig of his eighty-proof coffee. “The cops never told me they arrested him.”

“They didn’t,” Blackstone said. “It’s all in her head. She saw some guy with a red beard drag Tripp off in a blue van. She told Jordan and MacDonald that he was an undercover cop, but I’m sure they know better.”

“I knew the kid was taken. The package I got last night made that abundantly clear. The problem is, now the cops know it. Find Tripp before they do — that’s all I care about.”

“Whoever took Tripp took his buddy too. Do you care about him?”

“What buddy?”

“A short dark kid. They were shooting a movie together. The old lady says he’s an Arab terrorist.”

“Arab? Is she nuts? He’s Puerto Rican. Lonnie Martinez — he’s helping Tripp with the movie for my father. Why would anyone take him? He’s a dirt-poor hood rat, lives with his grandmother — not worth a nickel to a kidnapper.”

“Then he’s in on it,” Blackstone said. “Whoever is behind this knows they can’t get close to you and your family, so they recruited this Lonnie kid to be the inside man. Who knew where they were going to be filming?”

“Just me... and Lonnie.”

“Looks like he set Tripp up.”

“Little bastard. I’d send you to his house, but I have no idea where he lives.”

“No worries, boss. I scrolled through Tripp’s GPS. The name Lonnie is at the top of the list.”

“Then get your ass over there and see what you can find out from the grandmother.”

He hung up the phone, dumped what was left of his coffee into a large potted plant, and refilled the cup with straight Johnnie Walker Blue.

He sat back in his chair and picked up the note delivered by his dead driver. There’s money to be made.

He took a long swallow of Scotch and sneered. “We’ll see about that, motherfucker.”

Chapter 10

“Mrs. Gittleman wasn’t the most credible witness,” I said. “She thought Tripp was a terrorist, and she was positive that the guy with the paddy wagon that could only be locked with a stretchy cord was one of New York’s Finest.”

“I liked her,” Kylie said. “She was feisty.”

“I’m not too keen on feisty women,” I said. “Usually they try to hog all the glory, and they drive too fast.”

She punched me in the shoulder.

“However,” I said, “her whole story about Red Beard and the stun gun, and the other kid using a box cutter to try to get away, helps explain why Tripp Alden is nowhere to be found. “We can’t call him, but I’m not about to sit around and wait till school lets out to find out if he’s been abducted or not.”

“Finally,” Kylie said, “we agree on something.”

She turned on the lights and siren, shot down Amsterdam, hung a hard left at 110th, careened around the traffic circle at the north end of the park doing fifty, and ran the lights along Central Park West until we got to 88th Street.

“Was that too feisty for you?” she asked, parking in a crosswalk in front of the imposing six-story building that had been the home of Barnaby Prep since the early nineteenth century.

The first two students we passed in the hall were talking about Tripp’s driver’s murder.

“I guess the strict cell phone rules Alden told us about aren’t being enforced today,” Kylie said. “And if those two know, everybody knows.”

“You’re right,” I said. “If Peter Chevalier had been an ordinary citizen, his murder might have gone unnoticed in a city of eight million people. But he was a billionaire’s chauffeur in a car that cost more than a house.”

“It’s not just that,” Kylie said. “The New York press loves body parts, and whether a torso washes up on Rockaway Beach or a head goes missing in Riverside Park, it’s going to be fodder for every media outlet from tabloids to prime time. I’ll bet you by now the text messages, Twitter feeds, and Facebook updates have spread through this school like a virus.”

We found the headmaster’s office and were escorted right in. G. Martin Anderson was young, preppy, and totally tuned in. I had barely gotten my shield out of my pocket when he said, “Terrible thing about Mr. Chevalier. Everyone here is quite upset. These kids know they live in a tough city, but when it hits this close to home... What can I do to help?”

“We realize it’s the middle of a school day,” Kylie said, “but we’d like to talk to Tripp Alden.”

“Tripp?” Anderson said. “Oh, he’s not here today. Under the circumstances, I’d have been surprised if he had come in. I know he was very fond of Peter.”

Tripp had never showed up. Point for Gittleman.

“He has a friend,” I said. “Someone he’s shooting a film with.”

“Lonnie Martinez,” Anderson said. “Just a second.”

He ran his finger down a computer printout and stopped midpage. “I thought I’d seen his name on the absentee sheet. He’s not here today either.”

Another point for Gittleman.

“We know how to reach the Aldens,” Kylie said, “but it would help if we could talk to Lonnie’s parents. Do you know how we can get in touch with them?”

“I have every student’s contact numbers right here,” he said, sitting down in front of his computer. “Here we go: Alonso Martinez. Everyone calls him Lonnie. He lives with his grandmother, Juanita Martinez. He’s a scholarship student — great kid. Very popular.”

“What else can you tell us about him?” I asked.

“What you said before about Tripp and Lonnie shooting a film together — they’re quite good at it. Mr. Madison, who chairs our film studies department, says both boys have a bright future in the industry. In fact, he can probably tell you more about them than I can. We have a mentoring program here at Barnaby, and because of their passion for film, putting Lonnie and Tripp with Ryan Madison was a perfect match. I’m sure he was in touch with both boys over the holiday break — the deadline for a lot of college applications was December thirty-first.”

“How soon can we talk to Mr. Madison?” I asked.

“Immediately. I’ll send for a runner to escort you to his class.” He jotted a phone number on a piece of paper. “This is my personal cell,” he said. “Whatever I can do to help.”

We thanked him, gave him our numbers, and waited for the runner.

“You making any sense of this?” I asked Kylie.

“I totally figured it out,” she said. “Tripp sent a text to say his car was at Riverside Park, but the car turned out to be on 136th Street. Alden told us Tripp was in school, but Tripp isn’t here. Gittleman said some guy in a red wig and a phony red beard cuffed Tripp and hauled him off in a van, but Alden swears he heard from Tripp last night, and all’s right with the world.”

“That about sums it up,” I said. “So what did you figure out?”

She cocked her head to one side and grinned. “Elementary, my dear Jordan. Clearly, somebody is lying their ass off.”

Chapter 11

In the post-Columbine landscape, classroom doors have to be tough enough to deter an intruder. But because the maniac with a gun is often a student, school officials always have to be able to look inside. The doors at Barnaby Prep were all solid oak with thick two-by-two glass inserts at eye level.

Our runner, Jeffrey, was a tall, gangly kid with age-appropriate acne and braces. He walked us up to the third floor, stopped in front of room 314, and pointed through the glass. “That’s him,” he said, laughing. “That’s Mr. Madison.”

We peered inside. A man wearing black jeans and a navy turtleneck was standing on top of the teacher’s desk, his arms raised high. He had a Barbie doll in one hand and pounded his chest with the other. Every kid in the room watched with rapt attention.

“Film class,” Jeffrey said. “They’re studying King Kong.”

Kylie threw him a look. “Really, kid? I was going to go with Bambi.”

Madison jumped up and down on the desk, swatting at imaginary airplanes. Suddenly he jerked backward in pain, mortally wounded. He slunk down, gently set Barbie on the desk, and slumped slowly to the floor.

“It was beauty killed the beast,” Jeffrey the ever-helpful tour guide said. “I took the class last year.”

The kids applauded. Madison stood up, ran his fingers through his hair, then looked our way. I beckoned with one finger. He smiled, said something to his students, and came out.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” he said. “Ryan Madison. Are you prospective parents?”

“NYPD. We’d like to talk,” I said, “but we can wait till your class is over.”

“Hell, no,” he said. “This is a perfect chance to sneak a smoke. You’re not the tobacco police, are you?” He laughed. “Let’s go up to the roof. It’s cold as hell up there, but it’s legal.”

Jeffrey took off, and we followed Madison up three more flights of stairs. He was in his midthirties, full of energy, and loaded with attitude.

“Sorry about the cigs,” he said, lighting up. “I watched too much film noir as a kid. How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for Tripp Alden,” I said.

“He’s not here today.”

“We know. The headmaster thought you might be able to help us find him.”

“Oh, of course. This is about Peter Chevalier’s murder, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. We’d like to talk to Tripp as soon as possible.”

“I’m not sure if he even knows about it,” he said, turning his head and blowing smoke into the freezing January air. “Wait a minute — that’s stupid. He must know about it by now. Hell, everybody in school does. But he didn’t seem to know about Peter’s death last night. At least he didn’t say anything.”

“You spoke to him last night?” Kylie said.

“Texted.”

“What time?”

Madison dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out his cell. “It was 12:07.”

“Tripp Alden sent you a text after midnight,” I said. It was half statement, half question. “What did he say?”

He read the text to us: “Lonnie and I are headed upstate for a few more interviews. Sorry to blow off class tomorrow and Friday. Back Saturday. Can we book the editing room over the weekend?”

Madison showed us the text, then put the phone back in his pocket. “Today’s our first day after the Christmas break,” he said. “Can you believe they started us back up on a Thursday? Tripp and Lonnie aren’t the only kids cutting school today and tomorrow. So I wrote back, ‘Don’t sweat it,’ and I booked the editing suite for them. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“What interviews was he referring to?” Kylie asked.

“He’s making a film about his grandfather. The old man has family in Rochester. Tripp and Lonnie have gone up there a few times to interview some of his cousins.”

“Do you know any of their names?”

Madison had one of those boyish grins that I’m sure endeared him to his students. He tried it out on Kylie. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say some of them are probably named Alden, but I have no idea.”

She did not grin back.

“Sorry if that sounded snarky, Detective,” he said, going from boyish to sheepish. “My job is to give these kids guidance on mise-en-scène, but I’m not involved in production.”

“How would they get upstate?” I asked.

“Tripp has a car — a Prius.”

“Thank you,” I said, giving him my card. “If you hear from either one of them, have them call this number.”

“Hey, why wait? I’ll text Tripp. I’ll bet he and Lonnie would love to hang with you guys.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “I’m freezing. Let’s get inside.”

We reentered the building and walked back down to the third floor.

“Why do you think Tripp and Lonnie would want to hang out with us?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Those two are crime film junkies. They’ve staged a bank robbery, a carjacking — all that cool stuff you guys do in real life.”

Kylie blurted out the obvious next question before I could. “Did they ever stage a kidnapping?”

“Not that I know of,” Madison said, “but that’s a cool idea. They’re pretty good at staging these crime scenes. The irony is that they do it all guerrilla-style. No permits, so technically, they’re breaking the law every time they shoot. Are we good for now? I’ve got to get back. Now that I’ve got their attention with the monkeyshines, I want to get into the good stuff, like the film’s blatant undertones of racism during a period of increasing racial and social tension in America. You’re welcome to sit in. Don’t worry: I won’t blow your cover.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I think we’ll pass.” My cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. “That’s our boss. Now I’m sure we’ll pass.”

Madison went back inside the classroom, and I took the call from Cates. “Yes, Captain,” I said.

“I just heard from Mayor Sykes,” she said.

Red had been held in very high esteem by the previous administration, and we were all hoping that the new mayor would be just as supportive. “That’s a good sign,” I said. “I think she’s going to be your new best friend.”

“Our new best friend,” Cates said. “She wants a rundown on the murder of Alden’s driver. She’ll be here in fifteen minutes. You be here in fourteen.”

Chapter 12

“He was cute,” Kylie said as she sped downtown on Central Park West.

Kylie is a world-class ballbuster, and I knew she was going to retaliate for my crack about feisty women hogging all the glory. This was her first attempt.

“He was okay,” I said.

“Okay? Zach, he was hot. I’d go out with him.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He seems a little young for you. I think you and Jeffrey should at least wait till his skin clears up and his braces come off.”

“I’m talking about Madison, and you know it,” she said. “I’d take the class just to look at those gorgeous blue eyes.”

“Oh, you mean the teacher — Madison? He was freaking adorable,” I said. “Definitely the second cutest guy up there on the roof.”

She laughed, and I felt like maybe I’d won that round. But just to be on the safe side, I swiveled my body and edged closer to the passenger side door so she couldn’t punch me again.

We whipped across the 65th Street transverse to the east side and pulled up in front of the One Nine on East 67th five minutes ahead of our deadline.

We were walking up the steps of the precinct when the front door flew open, and Cheryl came racing out.

“Zach,” she said.

“Hey... I thought you were taking the train up to the hospital this morning.”

“I made the mistake of coming in to wrap up some work, and I was bombarded with calls from people who spent the holiday making big plans for the new year and needed to pick my brain on all of them immediately.”

“Aren’t you the shrink who taught me that ‘No’ is a complete sentence?” I asked.

“I did say no to most of them,” Cheryl said, “but Captain Cates needed me for something that couldn’t wait. I called Fred and asked how Mildred was doing, and he said she might only have a few days. Cates only needed me for a few hours, so I stayed. I finally pried myself loose.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your ex-mother-in-law,” Kylie said.

“Thanks,” Cheryl said. “I can’t even think of her as my ex-anything. She’s the mother of my ex-husband, and I really have to see her before she dies. The best thing about my marriage to Fred was the quality time I spent with Mildred.” She gave me a quick hug. “I’ll catch a late train back.”

“I’ll be pulling a long shift, so how about a late dinner,” I said. “We can order in, open a bottle of wine—”

Her cell phone rang, and she grabbed it. “Fred, I’m on my way. I’ll be on the 1:47. Pick me up at the Mount Kisco station.”

I could see she was ready to hang up, but apparently Fred kept talking. Cheryl listened patiently, punctuating the one-sided conversation with the occasional “Mmm hmm,” which is what shrinks say when they’ve heard it all before.

Finally, she jumped in. “Fred, if you keep talking, I’ll miss my train. Good-bye.”

“So, about tonight,” I said as soon as she hung up. “About what time do you think you’ll be—”

“Zach!” she said. “How can you expect me to plan a dinner date now? Fred is a total wreck. He’s already called half a dozen times.”

“Maybe next time he calls you can remind him that he’s no longer married to you,” I snapped.

I regretted it as soon as I said it. In a heartbeat, the calm, compassionate therapist reverted to hot-blooded, quick-tempered Latina.

“Do you hear yourself?” she said, clenching her jaw to keep the anger from exploding into a scream. “His mother is dying. How insensitive can you be?”

“I didn’t mean it to sound so callous,” I said, backpedaling. “It’s just that Fred is engaged. Why is he calling you instead of his fiancée?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but his fiancée left him.”

I hadn’t expected that. “I... I thought she was pregnant.”

“She is,” Cheryl said. “But Fred found out that he isn’t the father, which is why he’s been calling me and not her.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“Not knowing is acceptable. Not thinking isn’t.”

She stormed down the precinct steps just as a black Escalade pulled up. The driver jumped out and opened the back door, and Muriel Sykes, the city’s new mayor, stepped out.

Kylie and I had a history with Sykes. Evelyn Parker-Steele, the murdered wife of the hotel magnate who upgraded Cheryl and me to a palace in the clouds, had also been Muriel Sykes’s campaign manager. At first we had butted heads with Sykes, but once we solved the crime, we became her go-to cops.

“Detectives,” she called out as soon as she spotted us. “Hell of a way to start my second day on the job, but I’m happy to see you two on the case.”

I could see Cheryl halfway up the block trying to flag down a cab on Lexington Avenue. One stopped, and she got in.

Oh good, I thought. Don’t want her to miss the train that’s taking her back to Fred. My brain began to race, and my mind conjured up thoughts of their tearful reunion. Cheryl was a natural-born caregiver, and I knew she’d be there for Fred in his hour of despair, consoling him, comforting him, offering him a shoulder to cry on...

“Zach!”

I snapped out of my self-inflicted misery montage. It was Kylie.

“What?” I said.

“Can we get back to work? The mayor is on her way upstairs.”

“Sorry. I was just thinking...”

“No, Zach. Cheryl’s right. You weren’t thinking. The only thing on your mind was your bruised male ego. You want my advice?”

“I can’t wait. Lay it on me, Dr. Phyllis.”

“Don’t get tangled up in whatever soap opera you’re creating in your head. You’ve already botched things up with Cheryl as it is.”

“Yeah, I guess I really shot myself in the foot.”

“Oh, you’re right about shooting yourself,” she said, grinning. “But you’ve got the wrong body part, Casanova. It definitely wasn’t your foot.”

Chapter 13

Kylie and I took the stairs two at a time and made it to the third floor just as the mayor was getting out of the elevator. We followed her into Captain Cates’s office.

Sykes wasted no time. “Where are you on the murder of Hunter Alden’s driver?”

“Alden would like us to believe that Peter Chevalier was a womanizer who was probably murdered by a jealous husband,” I said. “But something else is going on. Alden’s son didn’t show up at school today, and he’s not at home grieving.”

Most politicians have very little understanding of the inner workings of the criminal justice system, but Sykes was a former U.S. attorney. She had prosecuted criminal cases for the federal government for sixteen years. “And you suspect it’s not just another rich kid playing hooky?” she said.

“We have a witness who says she saw Tripp and a friend of his taken into custody by an undercover cop yesterday, hours before Peter was killed,” Kylie said. “But we know for sure the precinct never sent a cop. It sounded to us more like both kids were abducted.”

“How reliable is your witness?”

“To us or to a jury?” I said. “Her name is Fannie Gittleman. She’s at least eighty years old. She’s a bit off the wall, but definitely not delusional. We’re convinced she got it right. Those kids were taken.”

“What does Hunter Alden say?”

“He swears that Tripp is fine. Says he got a text from him last night — after he was supposedly kidnapped. Of course, if Tripp is being held for ransom, the kidnappers would have told Alden to keep the cops out, which is why he’d be lying to us.”

“So then we went to the kid’s school,” I continued. “One of the teachers showed us a text he got from Tripp — also late last night. He bailed out of classes for a couple of days. Said he was going up to Rochester for this film project he’s shooting for his father.”

“The kidnapper could have sent that text so the school wouldn’t report the boy missing,” Sykes said. “Let’s get back to the murder of the driver. Are you anywhere on that?”

“No, but if Tripp Alden was abducted, that might explain why Chevalier was killed and beheaded. One of the scenarios we’ve run is that his head was sent to Alden as a warning — pay the ransom or your son is next.”

“Detectives, it all makes sense, but you’re walking a fine line trying to solve a crime that nobody has yet reported.”

“Mrs. Gittleman reported it,” Kylie said.

“Before you confront Hunter Alden with an eighty-year-old eyewitness, why don’t you talk to the parents of the other victim? See if they’re willing to work with us.”

“The other kid lives with his grandmother. From what I hear she’s lucky to have rent money, let alone ransom money.”

“All we need is for her to file a missing persons report. Then I don’t care how poor she is — she gets all the resources of NYPD Red,” Sykes said. “One more thing. Hunter Alden can be overbearing, but don’t let him push you. He’s not your boss — even if he tries to act like it. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Hunter is a lot more than overbearing. What I should have said was, he’s a major pain in the ass. If you think his son is a crime victim, and he doesn’t cooperate, talk to me. I’ll connect you with someone much easier to deal with.”

“We may well take you up on that,” I said. “Who are you talking about?”

“His father, Hutch Alden.”

Cates finally spoke. “Madam Mayor, thank you. Having you back us up means a lot.”

“Don’t thank me,” Sykes said. “The Aldens might have a lot of political clout, but this isn’t politics. This department gets my support before they do.”

Chapter 14

Silas Blackstone parked the Audi and stared up at the cluster of identical redbrick buildings. They looked harmless on the outside, but he knew better. He’d grown up in public housing in the Mott Haven section of the Bronx. Violence was everywhere. If the gangs and the drug dealers didn’t get you, a random bullet could. The first thing you teach a kid living in the projects: Never stand in front of a window.

The fact that Lonnie Martinez went to a rich white kids’ school meant nothing. This was a whole other world. Blackstone checked his gun. “Better safe than sorry,” he said, tucking it back into his holster.

He got out of the car, locked it, and then looked up and down Paladino Avenue. Calling it an avenue was a joke. It was nothing more than a service road running along the Harlem River Drive. Just as well. No kids walking around with nothing better to do than key every car on the block.

The tiny vestibule of 64 Paladino smelled faintly of disinfectant. Eau de Pine-Sol, his father used to call it. He found the name Juanita Martinez on the panel of doorbells and pressed the button.

The intercom crackled. “Who is it?” a woman’s voice said.

“I have a package for Lonnie Martinez. It’s from Mr. Alden.”

She buzzed him in.

He took the elevator to the sixth floor. He knocked on the door to apartment 6H, and an attractive woman opened it halfway and leaned against the doorjamb.

“Where’s Lonnie?” he said.

“Lonnie no here. I take package.”

“Package? No. I said I have a message from Mr. Alden.”

“Alden?” she repeated. “Tripp Alden — he no here.”

Blackstone took another look. Her English sucked, but the rest of her was drop-dead amazing. Five foot two, with a tight little body, thick dark hair, and skin the color of warm honey. She was wearing a blue uniform with the Costco logo on the shirt. The name tag said Juanita, which was the grandmother’s name, but he had been expecting some fat old broad with her hair in a bun. This chick had it going on.

“Are you Lonnie’s grandmother?” he said.

Her eyes lit up when she heard the name. She flashed a smile. “Sí, sí. Soy Lonnie abuela. Gronmodder.”

“You speak English?”

She shrugged. “Un poco. No much.”

“Mr. Alden wants to hire Lonnie to help Tripp with another movie.”

She gave him a smile and a vacant stare.

He shook his head. “Let me leave a note for Lonnie,” he said, writing in midair with an imaginary pencil. “You got paper and a pencil? Papel? Lápiz?”

“Sí, sí,” she said. “Papel y lápiz. I get for you.”

She turned to go inside to find something for him to write with, and the door swung open.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. He followed her into the apartment and grabbed the newspaper off the kitchen table.

“The New York Post?” he said. “You don’t read El Diario?”

“No comprendo,” she said.

“Is that how you’re going to play this?” Blackstone said. “You no comprende my English? You work at Costco, you read the Post — I’m pretty sure you habla inglés like a pro.”

She smirked. “Quién sabe, señor?”

Blackstone knew it was a lost cause, and with his ninety-thousand-dollar wheels parked in this dicey neighborhood, he wasn’t going to stick around.

“Fine. Play it your way,” he said. “Your grandson is not in trouble — not yet — and if you want to keep it that way, you’ll drop the act and tell him to call me at this number.” He handed the hot little grandmother his card.

She took it. “Gracias,” she said as he walked out the door.

He didn’t look back. “De fucking nada, bitch,” he mumbled to himself.

Chapter 15

“Well, well, well,” Kylie said. We were driving down Paladino Avenue, and she slowed the car to a crawl. “Guess who’s here.” She pointed to a black Audi A8 L that didn’t fit the profile of the neighborhood. The vanity plates said SDB.

“Gosh,” I said. “I wonder what that stands for.”

“Short Dickless Bastard,” Kylie said.

“The good news is,” I said, “if Blackstone is here, then he and Alden are as clueless as we are about where Tripp is.”

We parked out of sight. Ten minutes later, SDB came out of Lonnie Martinez’s building, then circled the Audi, inspecting it for damage.

“What’s he going to do if he finds a dent?” Kylie said. “Call a cop?”

He drove off, and we walked up a neatly shoveled path to number 64. We got lucky. Somebody was coming out, which let us go directly upstairs without having to ring the bell. Kylie knocked, and Juanita Martinez opened the door.

“NYPD,” Kylie said.

“You real cops or bullshit cops?” she said.

Kylie flashed her shield. “Homicide detectives. We’re as real as it gets.”

“Good, because I had my share of bullshit from the last one.”

“Short guy? Big ego?”

“Blackstone.” She let us in. The place was compact, neat, and whatever was simmering in the big stew pot on the stovetop smelled fantastic.

“What was Blackstone doing here?” I asked.

“Looking for my grandson Lonnie. Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell that pinche cabrón.”

“Would you tell us?” I said.

“Why do homicide cops want to know where Lonnie is?”

“We want to talk to his friend Tripp Alden, and we thought Lonnie might know where he is.”

“I don’t know where either of them are.”

“When did you last see Lonnie?” I asked.

“Yesterday for breakfast. Then he went out with Tripp — they’re shooting a movie. Later on he sent me a text. Said he was going to spend the night at Tripp’s house. This morning I find out about the murder.” She held up today’s Post. “That’s why you’re here, right?”

“Did you know the victim, Peter Chevalier?” Kylie asked.

“He was Tripp’s driver. Of course I knew him. You think I’m going to let my kid ride around in a car without meeting the guy behind the wheel?”

“And?”

“He passed the test. I trusted him with my grandson. But now I’m nervous. I haven’t seen Lonnie since yesterday. Should I be worried?”

“We have no reason to think anything is wrong,” Kylie lied. “We’d just like to talk to both boys.”

“I’ll give you Lonnie’s cell number. If you find him, tell him to call me.”

She wrote down the number on a scrap of paper and held it out to Kylie. “You think you can catch the bastard who killed Peter?”

“I don’t think so,” Kylie said. “I know we’ll catch him.”

The tears came without warning. Juanita pressed her hand to her eyes, trying to hold them back, but a mournful wail came from deep down inside, and her body convulsed with the pain of loss.

Kylie rested a hand on her shoulder. “You and Peter were close, weren’t you?”

She shook her head. “We dated. He was such a wonderful man. He gave so much of himself to others. How could such a beautiful life be cut so short?”

“We see it all the time,” Kylie said. “It’s senseless, but I promise you we will find the person who killed him.”

Juanita lowered her head. “It was my fault,” she said, still sobbing.

“How so?” Kylie asked casually. But I knew her antenna had gone up just like mine had as soon as we heard the words my fault.

“There’s a couple on East Seventy-Third Street,” Juanita said. “Very nice people. I clean their apartment every Wednesday. This year they had a New Year’s Eve party, and they asked me to help out. I got there at five o’clock to set up, then I was serving, and I didn’t finish cleaning everything up until two in the morning. They paid me well, but I was so busy, I forgot to throw the water out the window.”

Kylie looked confused. “What water?”

“It’s a Puerto Rican custom,” I said. “Cheryl told me about it. You pour a bucket of water out of a window at the stroke of midnight at the beginning of each year for good luck.”

“Not luck,” Juanita said. “It washes away the evil spirits.”

“Ms. Martinez,” Kylie said, “I’ve been around a lot of evil people, and I can tell you this: the only thing that can come from dumping a pail of water out the window and onto East Seventy-Third Street is a dry cleaning bill or a big fat lawsuit.”

She laughed, took a dish towel from the counter, and wiped her eyes. “Lonnie doesn’t know about me and Peter. It was private.”

“And that’s the way it will stay,” Kylie said. “You have my word on it.”

“Thank you. I knew you’d understand. Secrets of the heart. We all have them, don’t we, Detective?”

“Yes we do, Ms. Martinez. Yes we do. We are so sorry for your loss.”

She gave Juanita her card, and we took the elevator down to the lobby.

“I’m glad you were there,” I said as we got into the car. “I couldn’t have handled it nearly as well.”

“It’s called empathy, Zach. Men aren’t very good at it.”

“Hey, I may not be in the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, but I’m as empathetic as they come.”

“Yeah, I was deeply moved by the way you told Cheryl to say good-bye to her dying friend and get her ass back to New York as fast as she can.”

Before I could even buckle up, she gunned the engine and tore down Paladino Avenue.

“For somebody who’s so damn smug about her ability to get in touch with her inner woman,” I said, “you drive like you’ve got a hell of a lot of testosterone coursing through your veins.”

“Testosterone?” she said. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“Hmm... I never really thought about it.”

Her right fist shot out like lightning, and she gave me another solid punch to the shoulder.

She smiled. “But you may have a point.”

Chapter 16

Silas Blackstone turned into the driveway on East 81st Street and looked at his watch: 3:45 p.m. By now the Hunter Alden Happy Hour would be in full swing.

He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and mentally braced himself — a bit of emotional Kevlar for the inevitable verbal pummeling. Blackstone knew what he was: an indentured servant working for a heartless prick. But that prick accounted for 90 percent of his income. Quitting was not an option.

He tapped the intercom button on the front gate, smiled at the security camera, and waited until he was buzzed through. He took the stairs, then waited again until Janelle took her sweet time opening the door.

“Mr. Blackstone,” she said without any of her usual charm. She didn’t like him, what he did, or how he did it, and she did little to hide her feelings.

“Mrs. Alden,” he said as amiably as he could. “How are you doing today?”

“We had a death in the family. How do you think I’m doing?”

“Oh yeah. Terrible thing. Peter was a good guy. We’ll all miss him.” He capped the hollow sentiment with an equally disingenuous shake of his head. He waited for her to invite him in.

She didn’t. “My husband is downstairs,” she said, turning away and leaving him standing in the open doorway.

In the real world, My husband is downstairs might mean He’s in the rec room or He’s working out in the gym next to the boiler. But Hunter Alden didn’t live in the real world. He was in the 1 percent of the 1 percent. His downstairs was a cedar and stone grotto that housed a swimming pool, a sauna, and a hot tub — a lush tropical paradise that cost millions to build, and millions more to maintain a perfect temperature-humidity balance during the grim New York winter.

Hunter was soaking in the tub, a glass of red wine in his right hand, two cell phones sitting on a towel within easy reach of his left.

His eyes were lethal weapons, and they were locked and loaded with loathing and disgust. They drilled into Blackstone. “What do you have on the Puerto Rican kid?” he said.

“Lonnie may not be the friend Tripp thinks he is. He’s gone. In the wind.”

“Of course he’s gone. He got taken when they took Tripp.”

“Or maybe it was just staged to look that way. His grandmother didn’t seem to be too worried that he’s missing. She played dumb, but I’m sure she knows plenty.”

“Then put somebody on her around the clock.”

“Waste of time, boss. Lonnie’s not stupid. He’s not going home to Grandma. I have a better idea. Let me scrub Tripp’s computer.”

“His computer? Really? You think he put it in his calendar? ‘Shoot movie. Get kidnapped.’”

“Look. Eight times out of ten,” Silas said, inventing a statistic, “when somebody takes a kid, it’s someone he knows. If Tripp was in touch with this guy by email or through chat rooms, I’ll find him.”

“And then what?”

“Tripp comes home safe and sound. We turn this guy over to the cops—”

“Have you not been paying attention? The last thing I want is this guy talking to the cops, or a DA, or a judge. I don’t want him talking to anyone. Ever. I want him dead.”

Blackstone didn’t blink. He’d heard it before. No euphemisms. Not “I have a business problem.” Not “I want him eliminated.” Just a flat-out “I want him dead.”

“I’ll call Wheeler and get a price.”

“I don’t have time to dick around. Tell him I’ll pay him double what I paid him the last time.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

Alden polished off what was left in his glass and lifted it above his head. Blackstone reflexively took it and walked to the bar. The wine bottle was nearly depleted. He poured what was left into Hunter’s glass and handed it back to him.

He downed it in one swallow. “The computer is in Tripp’s room,” he said. “If Janelle asks you why you’re taking it, tell her Tripp called, and you’re running it up to his school for him.”

“She doesn’t know he’s missing?”

“Why would I tell her? What is she going to do besides annoy the shit out of me? She knows Peter is dead. Apart from that, she doesn’t know anything about anything, and it better stay that way. So keep your mouth shut.”

“I always do,” Silas said. “You want me to open another bottle of wine?”

Hunter lifted himself out of the hot tub. “I’ll get my own wine. You just call Wheeler and tell him I’m making room in my freezer for another head.”

Chapter 17

Tripp Alden was huddled in a corner on the floor, his six-hundred-dollar goose down parka zipped and wrapped tightly around him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Six feet away, Lonnie Martinez, wearing a Barnaby Prep hoodie and a polyester fleece jacket, sat with his knees pulled up to his chest. “You said that already.”

“I know, but I can’t stop thinking about it. You’re only here because of me. It’s my fault.”

Lonnie shook his head. “Is it your fault that some nut job snatched you off the street?”

“Hey, I’ve known my whole life that this could happen to me. My father’s rich. Ever since I was a little kid he’d pound into me, ‘Watch who you talk to, watch where you go.’ So what do I do? I go up to Harlem, and I wind up in the back of a van. When I get home he’s going to tear me a new one.”

“Tripp, I know you think your dad is a dick, but what are you supposed to do? Live in a bubble? Dude, if some wacko with a stun gun wants to grab you, he’s going to grab you. It doesn’t matter if you’re in Harlem or on Park Avenue.”

“Tell that to my old man.”

“The only thing I want to tell your father is, ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Alden, sir, for coughing up the ransom money to get me and Tripp out.’”

“He’s not going to cough up anything so fast,” Tripp said.

Lonnie scooted his butt across the floor so he was toe to toe with Tripp. “What are you saying? He’s going to let us rot here?”

“Relax: we’ll get out. But not because my father is all heart. He’s got ransom insurance.”

Lonnie lifted both shoulders in a shrug. “Never heard of it.”

“You know how people have car insurance?” Tripp said. “If you’re in an accident, the insurance company pays to have the car repaired. I have ransom insurance. Somebody takes me, the insurance company pays off the kidnapper.”

Lonnie stood up. “Then why the hell are we still locked up, starving, and freezing to death? Where’s the insurance guy with the check? He can settle up with the asshole who took us and get us out of here.”

Tripp laughed. “It’s a little more complicated than that. Plus I know my father. However much money this guy asks for, he’ll negotiate.”

“Why? I thought you said the insurance company pays.”

“Up to a point. After that it comes out of my father’s pocket.”

Lonnie leaned against the wall and stared down at Tripp. “Then I’m dead.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your father. If he starts negotiating with this guy, then I’m dead meat. That crazy-ass dude will kill me.”

“Kill you? Why would he kill you? We’re not worth anything to him dead.”

“You’re not worth anything dead. You’re this guy’s hole card. Me? I’m not worth shit. Use your brain, Tripp. Your father has more money in his sock drawer than my entire family has had since... since forever. My grandmother makes twelve fifty an hour as a food demonstrator. What’s she going to do? Pay a kidnapper off with samples of Greek yogurt and Bavarian sausage?”

“Chill out. My father will pay for both of us.”

“Oh yeah. I bet he can’t wait to fill up a duffel bag with a couple of million to save my sorry Puerto Rican ass.”

“My father is not going to let you die.”

“Tripp, think about it. This guy who put us in here, he knows how much money he wants. The number doesn’t matter. Let’s just say it’s X dollars. He tells your father how much.”

“Okay.”

“But then your father starts haggling with him. He says ‘How about half of X?’ So now the kidnapper gets all pissed off.”

“My father pisses everybody off when he negotiates. It’s how he wears people down.”

“But the kidnapper isn’t like a regular business guy. He knows your father can afford X, or ten X, or a hundred X. So he figures, ‘Okay, I’m going to send this asshole a message.’”

“Like what?”

“Like in The Godfather when the Hollywood producer wakes up and finds a horse’s head in his bed. That’s the kind of message kidnappers send. That’s the way they get what they want.”

“So what are you saying? This guy is going to kill me to get my father to pay the full amount?”

“No, Tripp. He’s not going to kill you. He’s going to kill me. Don’t you get it? I’m the horse’s head!”

Tripp wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. It all made too much sense. He folded his arms and hugged the parka to his chest. “Oh,” he said, looking up at his best friend. “Then I guess I know what that makes me.”

Chapter 18

We pulled up to the Alden town house for the second time in a few hours. This time it came as no surprise that Blackstone’s Audi was parked out front.

Kylie flashed her badge at the security camera, and we were buzzed through the gate. A familiar face opened the door. I’d seen pictures of Janelle Alden, but they didn’t do her justice. Up close she was heart-stopping. Green eyes, blond hair, pink sweater, blue jeans — all my favorite colors on one incredible-looking woman.

“Mrs. Alden,” I said. “NYPD.”

She let us in. “Thank you for coming,” she said, a soft, sweet smile on her face like she’d invited us over for cocktails. “Do you have any — what’s the right word — leads?”

“We’re working on it,” I said. “We spoke to your husband earlier, and we’re here to do a follow-up. Is he home?”

“Hunter is at the pool,” she said as casually as most people might say “He’s in the kitchen.” To her, having a private indoor pool on the Upper East Side of Manhattan must have seemed perfectly normal.

We took the elevator downstairs, and she led us through a jungle of lush, exotic trees.

Silas Blackstone saw us first. “Detectives,” he said. “We meet again. How goes the homicide investigation?”

I ignored the question and looked down at Hunter Alden, who was soaking in a hot tub, a glass of wine in his hand. The flushed skin, drooping eyelids, and sagging cheeks let me know this was far from his first drink of the day.

“Any news on Peter?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I said. “Have you heard from your son?”

“Not since last night,” he said, putting a little spin of exasperation on it to make sure we knew that we were wasting his time.

“He wasn’t in school today.”

Alden shook his head. “Kids,” he said as if a single word could explain away the disappearance of a person of interest in a murder case.

“Tripp texted one of his teachers last night. He said he was on his way to Rochester to interview some people for that film he’s shooting.”

Hunter nodded. “That makes sense. My father has family up there.”

“We found his Prius on 136th Street this morning and impounded it,” Kylie said. “We were wondering how he’d get upstate without a car.”

“Yeah, that’s a real stumper, Detective,” Alden said. “But I’m going to take a wild guess and say train, bus, plane out of La Guardia. The kid is resourceful. He’ll figure it out. What I can’t figure out is why you’re not looking for Peter’s killer. Why are you so focused on Tripp? Do you think he’s got some magical lead that will solve this case for you?”

“Sir,” Kylie said, “we told you this morning that—”

“And I told you this morning that Peter Chevalier was a skirt chaser. There are a dozen jealous husbands and boyfriends who’d be happy to cut his head and his balls off. There’s your lead. As for my son, I promised you that when I heard from him, I would have him call you. The fact that you’re back a few hours later badgering me with the same request borders on harassment. Do you understand that, or would it help if I called your superiors and had them explain it to you?”

Before Kylie or I could answer, one of the cell phones sitting on the towel rang. Not the one with the leather case embossed with the initials HHA, but the piece of crap AT&T flip phone you can pick up at Best Buy for twenty bucks.

Silas jumped. Hunter stared at it but didn’t move.

“You want me to answer it?” Janelle Alden said after the third ring.

“Let it go,” Hunter said, “but I would very much appreciate it if you showed these two officers to the front door.”

Another ring, but Hunter didn’t budge. He stared at us over the rim of his wineglass, defiantly ignoring the phone.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Alden,” I said, slowly, deliberately. Kylie and I weren’t going anywhere.

“We realize this has been a stressful day for you,” she said.

The phone rang two more times. And then it stopped.

“We’ll be in touch,” I said, waiting for the burner phone to ring again. It didn’t.

We took the elevator upstairs with Janelle. “You’ll have to forgive my husband,” she said. “He’s very upset about Peter’s death.”

“We completely understand,” I said, my response as full of crap as her explanation of Alden’s behavior. “Do you know where your son is?”

“No, but he’s eighteen. I can’t always...” She shrugged off the rest of the answer.

“Did he contact you last night?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No,” she repeated.

“It’s important that we talk to him,” I said. “Here’s my card. If he calls you, please have him call me.”

“Absolutely,” she said, flashing me a beauty-pageant-winning smile.

So far our investigation hadn’t turned up much, but there was one thing I knew for sure. Of all the people who had lied to me today, Janelle Alden was by far the prettiest.

Chapter 19

The man who knew the one secret that could destroy Hunter Alden’s life, his legacy, and his entire financial empire sat in his Subaru Outback, heater running, watching the people come and go at the house on East 81st Street.

He had no idea who the short man in the Audi was, but the vanity license plates were a good place to start. He Googled “SDB” and came up with assorted acronyms — a talent agency in Los Angeles, a website for the school district of Beloit, Wisconsin — and then, jackpot: SDB Investigative Services in New York, New York.

A picture of the founder, Silas David Blackstone, was on the home page. The diminutive Mr. B was a private eye.

The two cops who showed up ten minutes later were much easier to identify. Detectives Zach Jordan and Kylie MacDonald had made the front page twice, for taking down the two most notorious serial killers in recent New York history: first The Chameleon, and then the Hazmat Killer.

Peter Chevalier’s murder had also made page one. If it bleeds it leads, and a headless body in the park always helps sell newspapers. But the man in the Subaru didn’t care about getting ink. He wasn’t killing for glory. He was only in it to make a buck — a hundred million of them, to be exact.

He wished he could see the look on Hunter Alden’s face when he heard that number. Calling the burner phone while the cops were in the house hadn’t been part of his original plan. It was pure inspiration. A little improv. Alden wouldn’t dare answer with Jordan and MacDonald breathing down his neck. They left within minutes of the call, obviously booted out by a control freak desperately trying to control something.

The two cops were smart enough to know that Tripp had been kidnapped, but without a formal complaint from the Aldens, they were bound by the rules of NYPD to stay out of it.

Silas Blackstone, on the other hand, was a hired gun who made up his own rules as he went along. SDB would be trouble.

The man in the Subaru was prepared for trouble. Overprepared. He had studied The Art of War, the definitive Chinese treatise on military strategy written twenty-five hundred years ago by the brilliant general and philosopher Sun Tzu. He had then spent three months and thousands of dollars planning every detail of the operation with military precision. And when he was finally ready, he had stepped back and asked himself, “What haven’t I thought of?”

He didn’t know what he didn’t know, but if the goal was to be ready for any situation, he needed an arsenal. Not just weapons, but the same sophisticated equipment that was used by anyone orchestrating a clandestine operation.

He had found everything he needed on the Internet. There were hundreds of online retailers selling surveillance devices and other tools of the espionage trade to jealous wives, paranoid employers, Peeping Toms, or, in his case, a kidnapper with a hundred million dollars at stake.

For his money, the best one on the Web was Cheaters Spy Shop. There was a backpack on the floor of the car filled with covert paraphernalia he’d bought from the company, much of which he had ordered “just in case.” He pulled it up on the passenger seat, rummaged through it, and found what he was looking for: a micro GPS tracker. Weatherproof, magnetic, and, most important, wireless.

He got out of the Subaru, walked toward Blackstone’s car, bent down as if to tie his shoe, and within seconds the tracker was held fast to the underbelly of the Audi.

He returned to his car, and thirty minutes later, Blackstone emerged from the town house carrying a laptop under his arm. He got into the Audi and drove it to 89th and York. The man in the Subaru tracked his journey every inch of the way without even moving from his parking spot on East 81st.

The GPS worked perfectly. He smiled as he realized that, like the legendary General Sun Tzu, the vehicle tracker was another glorious gift from the land of dragons and emperors.

Chapter 20

Kylie could barely wait till we got back in the car.

“Holy shit,” she said as soon as the doors were closed. “Do you realize who just called Alden while we were standing there?”

“Well, gosh, Detective,” I said in my best country bumpkin voice, “I know you graduated first in our class at the academy, and I only came in sixth, but since Mr. Alden didn’t pick up the phone, I’m going to take a wild stab at it and say it was one of them telemarketers.”

She actually laughed. “All right, all right, I know you know. I just mean wasn’t that amazing? We were standing right there, and the damn throwaway phone goes off. Did you see the look in Alden’s eyes? He didn’t know whether to piss his pants or butter his toast. Blackstone too.”

“But not Janelle,” I said. “She was ready to answer the call. Do you think that means she doesn’t know Tripp is missing?”

“Or it could mean that she thinks like a mother hen — she knows he’s been kidnapped, and she’s taking the ransom call no matter who the hell is in the room.”

Gracie Mansion was only two minutes from Alden’s house. We checked in with security, asked to speak with the mayor, and in less than five minutes we were escorted to her office.

It was the same office Mayor Spellman had occupied until midnight on December thirty-first, but it had been completely redecorated in less than two days. The walls, the carpeting, and the upholstery had gone from serious blues and brooding browns to more hopeful, playful shades of peach, mint green, and pale yellow. The ponderous mahogany command post of a desk had been replaced with a sleek, efficient chrome and glass table. Most important, the anxiety-plagued, glass-is-half-empty, sky-is-falling man who had hidden behind the desk was now a confident, upbeat woman in a cheery turquoise Hillary pantsuit.

“Wow,” my never-too-shy-to-offer-up-her-opinion partner said. “Madam Mayor, you’ve transformed this place.”

“Thanks. It’s a work in progress,” the mayor said, shrugging off the dramatic makeover. “What’s happening on the Peter Chevalier investigation?”

“I wish we had half as much progress to report,” Kylie said. She recapped Alden’s drink-addled poolside tantrum.

Sykes said nothing until Kylie got to the part where Alden didn’t pick up the burner phone.

“He just let it ring?” Sykes said. “How could he not answer a phone call from the person who abducted his son?”

“He must be playing by this guy’s rules. I guess that’s what you do when your kid’s life is on the line.”

“It’s not what I’d do,” Sykes said. She had four kids and, judging by the family photo on the wall, a busload of grandkids. “That arrogant son of a bitch is stonewalling the very people who can help him.”

“He specifically told us he doesn’t want our help,” I said. “At least not as far as Tripp is concerned.”

“He might get his way if this were just about NYPD suspecting his son was kidnapped,” Sykes said. “But this is a homicide investigation. The police have to work under the assumption that whoever has Tripp in their custody also killed Peter — or at least has information that will help you find the killer. Hunter Alden is obstructing justice. Let me see if I can help.”

She picked up the phone. “Wait in my outer office,” she said. “It’s never pretty to watch a politician sucking up to a billionaire.”

“Did you see that?” Kylie said as soon as we closed the door behind us. “It’s about time the city of New York finally elected a female mayor.”

“Hey, I’m all for girl power,” I said, “but it looks to me like all she’s doing is calling in a chit.”

“Mayor Spellman would have called in a committee — all men. You don’t get it, do you Zach?”

“Enlighten me.”

She immediately launched into a manifesto about why women should run the world. “Bottom line,” she said, three minutes into her impassioned speech, “women are like heat-seeking missiles. We see what has to be done, and we slam into action. We know how to take charge.”

“Some women are especially good at that,” I said. “If I recall, you’ve earned at least three commendations for slamming into action. Oh, no, wait — those were disciplinary reports that were filed because you forgot to tell the person in charge that you were taking charge.”

“Those weren’t disciplinary reports,” Kylie said. “That was pure bureaucratic bullshit—”

The mayor opened the door and cut her off midsentence. “Bureaucratic bullshit is highly underappreciated,” she said. “In some circles it’s considered an art form. I myself just had to tell my wealthiest supporter that his son was drunk, belligerent, and refused to cooperate with the police in the very first homicide investigation of my fledgling administration.”

We went inside and shut the door. “How’d he take it?” Kylie said.

“To his credit, Hutch is genuinely upset about Peter’s death and said he’d do whatever he can to help us find the killer. I told him the two lead detectives would be right over to ask him some questions.”

“Did you tell him we’re looking for his grandson?” I asked.

“No. That’s police work, not politics. Besides, I think you should be there and get a firsthand look at his reaction when you tell him.”

I was beginning to think Kylie was right. Sykes was highly enlightened, extremely effective, and delightfully human. Maybe women should be in charge for a couple of hundred years and we’ll see if they screw things up any worse than men have.

“Thank you, Madam Mayor,” I said. “This is a big help.”

“Anytime,” she said. “And I mean that. But do me one favor — don’t be too tough on him. This place is starting to grow on me. I may want to renew my lease down the road, and I definitely will need Hutch Alden on my side.”

Kylie could barely wait till we got back in the car.

“Holy shit,” she said as soon as the doors were closed. “Do you realize who just called Alden while we were standing there?”

“Well, gosh, Detective,” I said in my best country bumpkin voice, “I know you graduated first in our class at the academy, and I only came in sixth, but since Mr. Alden didn’t pick up the phone, I’m going to take a wild stab at it and say it was one of them telemarketers.”

She actually laughed. “All right, all right, I know you know. I just mean wasn’t that amazing? We were standing right there, and the damn throwaway phone goes off. Did you see the look in Alden’s eyes? He didn’t know whether to piss his pants or butter his toast. Blackstone too.”

“But not Janelle,” I said. “She was ready to answer the call. Do you think that means she doesn’t know Tripp is missing?”

“Or it could mean that she thinks like a mother hen — she knows he’s been kidnapped, and she’s taking the ransom call no matter who the hell is in the room.”

Gracie Mansion was only two minutes from Alden’s house. We checked in with security, asked to speak with the mayor, and in less than five minutes we were escorted to her office.

It was the same office Mayor Spellman had occupied until midnight on December thirty-first, but it had been completely redecorated in less than two days. The walls, the carpeting, and the upholstery had gone from serious blues and brooding browns to more hopeful, playful shades of peach, mint green, and pale yellow. The ponderous mahogany command post of a desk had been replaced with a sleek, efficient chrome and glass table. Most important, the anxiety-plagued, glass-is-half-empty, sky-is-falling man who had hidden behind the desk was now a confident, upbeat woman in a cheery turquoise Hillary pantsuit.

“Wow,” my never-too-shy-to-offer-up-her-opinion partner said. “Madam Mayor, you’ve transformed this place.”

“Thanks. It’s a work in progress,” the mayor said, shrugging off the dramatic makeover. “What’s happening on the Peter Chevalier investigation?”

“I wish we had half as much progress to report,” Kylie said. She recapped Alden’s drink-addled poolside tantrum.

Sykes said nothing until Kylie got to the part where Alden didn’t pick up the burner phone.

“He just let it ring?” Sykes said. “How could he not answer a phone call from the person who abducted his son?”

“He must be playing by this guy’s rules. I guess that’s what you do when your kid’s life is on the line.”

“It’s not what I’d do,” Sykes said. She had four kids and, judging by the family photo on the wall, a busload of grandkids. “That arrogant son of a bitch is stonewalling the very people who can help him.”

“He specifically told us he doesn’t want our help,” I said. “At least not as far as Tripp is concerned.”

“He might get his way if this were just about NYPD suspecting his son was kidnapped,” Sykes said. “But this is a homicide investigation. The police have to work under the assumption that whoever has Tripp in their custody also killed Peter — or at least has information that will help you find the killer. Hunter Alden is obstructing justice. Let me see if I can help.”

She picked up the phone. “Wait in my outer office,” she said. “It’s never pretty to watch a politician sucking up to a billionaire.”

“Did you see that?” Kylie said as soon as we closed the door behind us. “It’s about time the city of New York finally elected a female mayor.”

“Hey, I’m all for girl power,” I said, “but it looks to me like all she’s doing is calling in a chit.”

“Mayor Spellman would have called in a committee — all men. You don’t get it, do you Zach?”

“Enlighten me.”

She immediately launched into a manifesto about why women should run the world. “Bottom line,” she said, three minutes into her impassioned speech, “women are like heat-seeking missiles. We see what has to be done, and we slam into action. We know how to take charge.”

“Some women are especially good at that,” I said. “If I recall, you’ve earned at least three commendations for slamming into action. Oh, no, wait — those were disciplinary reports that were filed because you forgot to tell the person in charge that you were taking charge.”

“Those weren’t disciplinary reports,” Kylie said. “That was pure bureaucratic bullshit—”

The mayor opened the door and cut her off midsentence. “Bureaucratic bullshit is highly underappreciated,” she said. “In some circles it’s considered an art form. I myself just had to tell my wealthiest supporter that his son was drunk, belligerent, and refused to cooperate with the police in the very first homicide investigation of my fledgling administration.”

We went inside and shut the door. “How’d he take it?” Kylie said.

“To his credit, Hutch is genuinely upset about Peter’s death and said he’d do whatever he can to help us find the killer. I told him the two lead detectives would be right over to ask him some questions.”

“Did you tell him we’re looking for his grandson?” I asked.

“No. That’s police work, not politics. Besides, I think you should be there and get a firsthand look at his reaction when you tell him.”

I was beginning to think Kylie was right. Sykes was highly enlightened, extremely effective, and delightfully human. Maybe women should be in charge for a couple of hundred years and we’ll see if they screw things up any worse than men have.

“Thank you, Madam Mayor,” I said. “This is a big help.”

“Anytime,” she said. “And I mean that. But do me one favor — don’t be too tough on him. This place is starting to grow on me. I may want to renew my lease down the road, and I definitely will need Hutch Alden on my side.”

Chapter 21

Five minutes after the cops left, Hunter Alden finished his second bottle of wine and announced to Janelle that he was taking a nap.

He woke up two hours later, showered, went to his study, and popped a Lavazza Espresso Classico into his Keurig. The sleep and the coffee helped, and as he sat at his desk, sipping his third cup, he started to feel his brain coming back online.

He tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Fact: Anybody could have taken Tripp.

Rich families were always a target. That’s why he had kidnap and ransom insurance. For less than twenty thousand dollars a year, the K & R covered Tripp for up to ten million. If this was just a kidnapping, he told himself, he’d have called in NYPD and paid the kidnappers out of his insurance company’s pocket.

Fact: Whoever took Tripp knew about Project Gutenberg.

That was clear from the five-word note that came with Peter’s head. This was more than a kidnapping. This was blackmail.

He knew there were other investors involved in Gutenberg, but he had no idea who they were, and they in turn wouldn’t know him. Joost, the lawyer, couldn’t be behind it either. He was a functionary, not a kidnapper. That left the nameless blond man who had orchestrated the entire operation. Hunter had no idea who he was, where he came from, or where in the world he could be now. But for the moment he was the only logical choice.

The door to his study opened. It was Janelle. “Were you able to sleep?” she said.

“A couple of hours.”

She sat down in the leather chair on the other side of his desk. “Can I get you some dinner?” she asked.

“The coffee is all I need right now. You want some?”

“No. Well, maybe just a taste of yours,” she said.

He passed her the cup. He knew she wasn’t interested in how the coffee tasted. Only in how it smelled.

She inhaled deeply and took a small sip. “Mmm,” she said. “It’s excellent.”

Translation: It’s alcohol-free.

“Can I ask what went on downstairs at the pool before?” Janelle said.

“Nothing you need to worry about. It’s under control.”

“Then where’s Tripp?”

“You heard the cops,” Hunter said. “He went up to Rochester to get some more footage of the family.”

“Oh, you mean Uncle Gavin and Aunt Lucy.”

Hunter nodded. “Exactly.”

“I just called Gavin,” Janelle said. “He and Lucy are in Atlantic City. They’ve been there since New Year’s Eve, and they’re not going home till Saturday. So let me ask you again: where’s Tripp? He hasn’t called and he hasn’t answered his phone.”

“For God’s sake, Janelle. Last night you were telling me he’s a big boy — stop chasing him.”

“Last night Peter Chevalier wasn’t murdered. Last night the cops weren’t here looking for Tripp. Last night you were micromanaging — now you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Then whose cell phone is that?” she asked, pointing to the burner on his desk.

“Mine,” Hunter said.

“But you don’t answer it when the cops are in the room? What if it rings now? Will you pick up with me in the room?”

Hunter’s voice kicked up a notch. “It won’t ring with you in the room, because you’re leaving. Now.”

“Leaving? You think I’m one of your flunkies, like Silas Blackstone? By the way, he left the house with Tripp’s computer — told me he’s dropping it off at school for Tripp. You two really ought to get your story straight. Is Tripp in school? Is he in Rochester? Or are those two cops right — he’s missing?”

Hunter didn’t answer. For Janelle, the silence was answer enough.

“He is missing, isn’t he?” she said. “That’s why the police were here. They want to help. Why won’t you let them? Hunter... he’s our son.”

Hunter pounded a fist on the desk and bolted to his feet. “No, Janelle. My son, not yours. My problem to solve, not yours. My decision to make, not yours.”

She stood up, reached across the desk, and slapped him across the face. “Fuck you, he’s not my son,” she said. “He’s missing. I don’t care if you need my help or not. Tripp does.”

“Stay out of it, Janelle,” Hunter said, lowering his voice to a menacing whisper. “I’m warning you. Stay out of it, or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what? Bully me like you bully everyone else? Shit on me like you shit on Marjorie? I’m not everyone else, Hunter, and I’m certainly not Marjorie. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m going to damn well find out.”

She walked out of the room and slammed the door.

Hunter picked up his cup and walked to the bar. He added a shot of Scotch to the espresso, sat back down, and stared at the burner phone.

His cheek stung, and he massaged it with one hand.

“Bitch,” he muttered.

He knew her well. She was definitely going to be trouble.

Chapter 22

“The FDR or Fifth?” Kylie asked as we got to the top of the driveway at Gracie.

“I’m busy,” I said. “Surprise me.”

She turned left and headed south on East End Avenue. “Busy with what?”

“I’m checking out Hutch Alden.” I had pulled up Safari on my iPhone and typed his name in the Google search bar. “According to Forbes, he’s the forty-second richest person in America and number seven in the state of New York.”

“That’s a big help, Zach. Why don’t you try asking the Magic 8 Ball if he knows where his grandson is?”

My phone rang, and Cheryl’s picture flashed on my screen.

I answered, still haunted by the high-school-sophomore, but-I-thought-you-were-going-to-the-prom-with-me tantrum I had thrown that afternoon. “Hey, how’s it going?” I said with every ounce of sensitivity my bruised male ego could drum up. “How’s Mildred?”

“It’s almost over,” she said, and I could hear the resignation in her voice. Cheryl doesn’t create drama. “Almost over” meant exactly that.

“I’m sorry. But I’m glad you got up there in time,” I said.

“Thanks. I think she recognized me when I got here, but an hour later she slipped into a coma. I’m just sitting here at her bedside, holding her hand, talking to her, hoping she can hear me. I can’t leave her. I’m spending the night.”

I, on the other hand, have been known to create drama. Especially in my own head. I’d have liked myself a lot more if my natural instinct was to be compassionate and supportive, but I wasn’t thinking about Cheryl being there for Mildred. I was thinking about the fact that Mildred was going to die, and then Cheryl would be spending the night in Westchester being there for her needy ex-husband.

I reined in the craziness. I’d already spent enough time today with my foot in my mouth. “She’s lucky to have you,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks. Good night.” She hung up. I sat there, not happy about the situation, but relieved that I hadn’t made it any worse.

We had crossed 79th Street, and Kylie turned left onto Fifth Avenue. “I only heard one side of the conversation,” she said, “but it sounded like you handled it very well.”

“And I have you to thank, Dr. MacDonald. With all that good advice you gave me on the precinct steps this afternoon, I couldn’t possibly have screwed it up.”

“I’m glad I could help. It’s just too bad you’re dining alone tonight.”

“It’s the manly man thing to do,” I said. “Any time the asshole who dumped your girlfriend needs her back at his side so he can have a shoulder to cry on, a real man ships her out and tells her to spend the night with him.”

“Zachary Jordan, you are the poster boy for benevolence and understanding. And as good fortune would have it, my current husband is in drug rehab, so I have some room on my dance card. Can I interest you in an evening of wings, beer, and cop talk?”

“Yes, yes, and no.”

“So that would be a yes on the wings, another yes on the beer, but you’re not in the mood to ruin dinner by discussing the shit we’ve had to wade through all day,” she said. “Sounds reasonable. It’s a date.”

I’d like to think of myself as a mature, enlightened man. The fact that Cheryl was willing to stay and help a jerk like Fred was a testament to what a sympathetic and caring soul she was. You’d hope I might feel good about that. But there was another part of me that was insanely jealous and downright pissed. What I really wanted to do was call Cheryl back and say, “Hey, it’s fine with me if you’re up in Westchester holding your ex-husband’s hand. While you’re doing that, I’ll be in New York, pounding down beers with my ex-girlfriend. Have a nice night.”

Of course, I’d never do it. I may not be all that mature, but I’m definitely not stupid.

Chapter 23

As soon as we pulled up to 808 Fifth Avenue, the doorman hustled out and opened the driver’s side door.

“We’re here to see Mr. Alden,” Kylie said.

“Police?” he said.

“Are we that obvious?” Kylie said.

“No, no. Mr. Alden told me to keep an eye out for you.” He escorted us to the elevator.

“Alden is in the triplex,” the elevator operator said. “Thirty-one, — two, and — three. They told me to take you to thirty-two. Someone will be there to meet you.”

The elevator door opened onto some kind of palatial foyer, but I didn’t have time to take it in. A man in a dark gray suit was waiting for us.

“This way,” he said. “Leave your coats on. It’s freezing out there.”

He ushered us briskly through opulence and grandeur that few people ever get to see even fleetingly, led us up a flight of marble stairs to the thirty-third floor, and opened a glass door to a vast terrace that could only be described in architectural terms as fucking awesome.

It was colder out here than it was thirty-three floors below, and I pulled my collar up and put on my gloves.

“He’s waiting for you over there,” our escort said. He quickly hopped back inside the warm and cozy little mansion in the sky and closed the door behind him.

“Over there” was a corner of the terrace where a man in a gray parka with a fur-lined hood was standing behind the biggest telescope I’d ever seen outside of a planetarium.

“Officers,” he said. “You got a minute? Take a look at this before we start.”

He stood me behind the monster telescope.

“Quadrantids,” he said as I leaned into the eyepiece. “The January meteor shower. It’s nature’s version of the Fourth of July.”

“I don’t see any fireworks,” I said.

“They go by intermittently. You may have to wait an hour or so, but this is the best night of the year to see them. Meanwhile, you’re looking at Arcturus — fourth brightest star in the sky. Most people in New York can’t see it, but this is a decommissioned telescope I bought from Butler University. Pretty spectacular, isn’t it? Let your partner have a look.”

“Mr. Alden,” Kylie said, “I’d be happy to gaze at the stars with you all night, but right now we’re on a much less heavenly mission.”

“Sorry. I can get caught up in these things and lose all track of time,” Alden said, walking toward the terrace door. “I don’t know how I can help you solve Peter’s murder, but I’ll do what I can.”

The manservant opened the door for us and took our coats, and Alden led us to a crackling fireplace. A maid materialized and set down three steaming cups of hot cocoa.

“Muriel Sykes called,” Alden said. “Told me my son was being uncooperative. I don’t understand. Peter was family. We’ll do whatever we can to help.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “For starters, what can you tell us about his personal life?”

“He has a brother in Haiti. A doctor.”

“How about his friends in New York? He worked for your family a long time. Surely you must know something about his habits, who he hung out with when he was off the clock — those are the kind of details that would help.”

Alden smiled. “Did you ever hear the story of the man who walks past the mental hospital?” he said. “He can hear all the patients inside shouting, ‘Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen!’ but the fence is too high for him to see what is going on. Then he spots a knothole in one of the planks. He looks through it, and bam — a stick pokes him in the eye, and he hears the inmates all shouting, ‘Fourteen! Fourteen! Fourteen!’”

He took a sip of his cocoa. “I mind my own business, Detectives.”

I was doing my best to abide by the mayor’s don’t-strong-arm-the-rich-guy rule, but I could see that Kylie had zero tolerance for stargazing and folksy anecdotes. “Mr. Alden,” she said, “we have reason to believe that your grandson Tripp was abducted yesterday.”

She had his undivided attention. His face went from down-home Norman Rockwell grandpa on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post to steely-eyed tycoon on the cover of Forbes.

It took less than five minutes to give him the whole backstory. He sat quietly till we mentioned Blackstone.

“That little turd — he’s more con man than private eye.”

“Whatever he is,” Kylie said, “your son hired him to find the kidnappers. It’s a serious mistake. Kidnappers always tell their victims’ families not to call the police. And if they set fire to your house, they’d tell you not to call the fire department. The fact is, a kidnapped child has a better chance of survival if the distraught parents bring in trained police professionals as soon as possible.”

“Without a ransom call, none of this is conclusive,” Alden said. “Right now, all you have is some old lady’s testimony and a gut feeling.”

“And my gut tells me there are two young lives at stake, and your son is standing in the way of saving them,” Kylie said. “Sir, we need someone to talk some sense into him.”

He shook his head. “Only two people could ever reason with Hunter. His mother, who passed in 1997, and his wife Marjorie, who died in the North Tower on 9/11.”

“What about you?” Kylie asked.

“Me? Young lady, my son is a grown man, and there is nothing I can say or do to influence his actions or his behavior.” He stood up. “My grandson, on the other hand, is eighteen, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to bed until I know where and how he is. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Chapter 24

Kylie and I were headed south on Fifth when I figured it out. I’m a better than average detective, but I’d completely missed the first clue. That morning, on the steps of Hunter Alden’s town house, Blackstone had asked Kylie about Spence. She had responded with, “He’s on the mend, thank you.”

On the mend? Who says crap like that? The Kylie I know cuts off personal questions from assholes like Blackstone with a quick verbal one-two punch. Verb. Pronoun. Bam — end of discussion.

The second clue was more obvious. As soon as Cheryl called to say she was spending the night in Westchester, Kylie asked me out for a night of wings and beer. Not pizza. Not Chinese. Wings and beer.

And then the clincher. She turned left onto 20th Street, and all the pieces came together. Spence wasn’t on the mend; he was in bad shape, which meant Kylie’s marriage was in worse shape. And we weren’t just going for wings and beer; we were going back to one of the happiest chapters in Kylie’s life — a time when she was a young recruit following her dream and madly in love with a man who wanted to be with her forever. Me.

Wing Nuts was around the corner from the academy, and it was the go-to watering hole for recruits who wanted to eat and drink all night on the cheap. It’s where Kylie and I had dinner the first night we made love. And for the next twenty-seven days, it was our favorite pre- and postcoital haunt.

We walked in, and it looked, smelled, and felt just the way I’d left it. Same menu, same decor, same bartender, same everything. The only thing missing was my after-sex glow.

We ordered a bunch of wings and a pitcher of Brooklyn Blast and found a table as far from the crowd as we could.

Kylie poured two beers. “So what’s going on with you and Cheryl?”

“Nothing’s going on. Everything’s great. We spent New Year’s together, and all of a sudden Fred shows up out of left field. One minute I think he’s going to get married and have a baby; the next minute I find out he’s none of the above, and he wants to lean on Cheryl. You were right. My male ego got in the way. But I’m over it. She’ll be back tomorrow; everything’s cool.”

Kylie gave me one of her signature head tilts, complete with dubious smile and a slow eye roll. She didn’t buy my fairy tale with the tidy little happy ending.

A white-haired waitress showed up with two trays of wings. “Well, would you look at who’s back,” she said.

“Hey, Gladys,” Kylie said.

“Don’t ask me to remember your names, honey,” she said, “but you’re the three-alarm, and your boyfriend is the mild.” She set the wings down and left.

“Brings back memories,” Kylie said, biting into a wing.

“Beer will do that for you,” I said.

She kicked me under the table. “Come on, Zach. Whatever else happened over the past eleven years, you have to admit we had some good times back in the day.”

Whatever else happened? Spence Harrington managed to kick his cocaine habit just as I was getting into my Kylie MacDonald habit. She took him back, married him, and for ten years they were one of the beautiful couples you see in the Style section of the Times. New York royalty. And then Camelot exploded. A killer that Kylie and I were chasing decided to get back at her by targeting Spence. He survived the attack, but he was no match for the Percocet he took for the pain. He was in and out of one rehab in three days. Last month he flew to Oregon for another shot at recovery.

“Yeah, we had fun,” I said, getting back to her stroll down memory lane. “And look at us now — two hot shit detectives just hanging out in a joint filled with wannabe cops.”

“Yeah, that’s us,” she said. “One kick-ass hot shit team.”

She smiled. The beer was doing its job. This was as good a time as any to see if my trouble-in-paradise theory was right. “So how’s Spence doing?”

The smile vanished. “I spoke to his counselor last week. He said Spence just won’t give himself to the program. Then Spence called me New Year’s Eve. He says he’s fine, but he can’t imagine another ninety days away from home. So me, I immediately go into recovering-drug-addict’s-wife autopilot, and I told him to take it one day at a time. He goes, ‘Oh Christ, Kylie, not you too.’ He said ‘Happy New Year’ and slammed the phone down.”

I responded with a noncommittal nod. “So what are you going to do now?”

“I know exactly what I’m going to do,” she said, waving at Gladys. “I’m going to order us another pitcher of beer.”

We chowed down on wings, and halfway through the second pitcher she was leaning across the table, one hand resting on my arm, and starting every other sentence with “Do you remember when?”

Boy, did I remember. I remembered the first day I looked up and saw the green-eyed, golden-haired beauty walk into my life. I remembered the first kiss, and the tender lovemaking, and the joy of realizing I’d met the woman I wanted to be with forever. And then I remembered the last night we sat in this seedy old wings joint, and Kylie told me she was going back to Spence. “He’s recovered,” she said. “I have to give him one more chance.”

And now it sounded like Spence was as unrecovered as possible.

We talked for two hours. Somewhere along the way, I realized that the crowd had thinned out, and that our third pitcher of beer was dangerously low. Kylie topped off both our glasses, and we asked Gladys for two coffees, one Mississippi mud pie, and two forks.

We dug into the pie like two kids on a sugar binge. Forks dueling, vying for the best chunks of chocolate, and Kylie doing what she always does: play hard to win.

She doesn’t like to lose at anything. Especially relationships. Her parents set the bar low. Their marriage failed. Then her father struck out two more times, her mother once. Kylie’s goal was to get married and make it stick.

But it’s not easy for an ambitious cop to stay married to a drug addict.

We’d played this Mississippi mud wrestling game before, and as usual, Kylie grabbed the last piece. That’s when I had my three-pitchers-of-beer epiphany. This morning I woke up in a penthouse suite with Cheryl and thought, I’ve never been happier. Tonight I’m in a Third Avenue dive, getting hammered on Brooklyn Blast with Kylie, thinking, I’ve never been happier.

We were both legally too drunk to drive, and while Kylie loves to break the rules, that’s the one we never even bend. Luckily there’s no rule dictating how long two cop partners can hug when they’re saying good night, because we’d have gone way over the limit.

I put her in the first cab, and she gave me one final hug. “Thanks, Zach,” she said. “I really needed this.”

I was about to say something like “I’m really sorry about you and Spence,” but I kept my mouth shut.

Who the hell was I kidding?

Chapter 25

The room was dark, dank, dungeon-like. Tripp Alden stood spread eagle, his wrists and ankles shackled to iron-forged rings set in the stone wall.

In front of him loomed the tall blond man, dressed only in skintight black leather pants, his golden mane pulled back into a tight ponytail, his bare chest oiled and glistening in the orange glow cast by a pair of torches on the wall.

“Your father cares more about money than he does about you,” he said, unsheathing a curved sword from the steel scabbard that hung at his side. He positioned the blade an inch from the boy’s neck.

Tripp was sobbing. “Please. He’ll pay whatever you want. I know he will. Just call him back. Please.”

A phone rang.

“That’s him,” Tripp screamed. “He’s calling you back.”

“Too late,” the tall blond man said. He grasped the hilt with both hands and drew the sword back, ready to deliver a single deadly strike.

The phone rang again, louder this time, and Hunter Alden snapped awake, slamming his knee on the underside of his desk. He yelped in pain and fumbled for his iPhone. Hutch’s face appeared on the screen.

“Dad? What’s going on?”

“The police were just at my apartment. They think Tripp was kidnapped.”

Hunter forced a laugh. “Dad, Tripp is fine. Go back to staring at the moon, or the planets, or whatever else is up there in the stratosphere.”

“The only thing I’m staring at is your front gate,” Hutch said. “I didn’t ring because I don’t want Janelle to know I’m here. Open up. I’m freezing.”

An op-ed piece in the Times once said that Hutch and Hunter Alden were men of biblical proportions. One was Solomon, a man of wisdom, wealth, and power; the other was the serpent who slithered through the Garden of Eden.

The snake buzzed his father through the gate, shoved the burner phone into his pocket and made his way to the foyer, his mind churning, trying to hash out a plan for dealing with Solomon.

“Dad,” he said, opening the front door. “I was just going to call you.”

Hutch Alden stood there, hatless, gloveless, his parka unzipped. “Where’s Tripp?” he demanded, his breath a white puff of smoke in the cold air.

“Don’t worry about him,” Hunter said. “Come on in. I’ll pour you a drink.”

“What’s going on?” Hutch said as he followed Hunter to the office.

“What’s going on is the cops are driving me crazy. They’re supposed to be looking for Peter’s killer, but they keep coming around asking for Tripp.”

“They said he was abducted. There’s a witness.”

“They came to me with the same bullshit. The truth is the kid was out filming one of his crazy movies, some old lady saw it, and she thought it was for real. It’s not. End of story.”

“Then where is Tripp?”

“Tripp?” Hunter said, pouring from a three-thousand-dollar bottle of Richard Hennessy cognac. “Getting drunk, or shacked up with some girl, or whatever it is eighteen-year-old kids do when someone they love gets murdered.”

Hutch cupped the crystal snifter and slowly swirled the amber liquid around the bowl. “Be that as it may, what does it hurt for him to talk to the cops? Maybe he knows something that will help.”

“Dad, I talked to him. He never connected with Peter. The cops should be interviewing Peter’s drinking buddies, not some kid who knows nothing. And the worst part of it is they keep coming back here. It’s upsetting Janelle. I’m at the end of my rope. But they won’t quit. I don’t know what to do.”

Hutch snapped at the bait. “You should have called me. I know exactly what to do.”

Hunter held up both hands. “I know, I know. I was going to call, but I hated to ask you to use up a chit with the new mayor on her first day.”

“I don’t have to call the mayor,” Hutch said, raising the glass to his nose and breathing in the aroma. “I’ll find out who those two detectives report to, and I’ll talk to their boss.”

Hunter shrugged. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble...”

“Are you kidding? I have enough juice to call the head of Homeland Security or the goddamn president of the United States. How much trouble is it for me to ask some precinct captain to call off his dogs and give Tripp a break for a few days? I’ll take care of it first thing in the morning.”

He took a small sip of the cognac and let it run over his palate. “This is exceptional, but I’m not going to stick around and enjoy it,” he said, setting the snifter down. “You look like hell. Get some sleep.”

“Will do,” Hunter said, leading his father toward the foyer.

The burner phone in Hunter’s pocket rang.

“Don’t answer it,” Hutch said, stopping at the front door. “Whatever it is, they can call back in the morning.”

“Great advice, except it is morning in Japan, and I told this developer in Tokyo to call me now.”

The phone rang again, and Hunter opened the front door.

“Give me a minute. This damn thing is stuck,” Hutch said, struggling with the zipper on his parka.

The phone rang again. And again. And again.

On the sixth ring the old man was still in the doorway, trying to zip up.

Hunter couldn’t wait. He dug into his pocket and yelled into the phone, “Hold on.” He turned to his father. “Dad, I have to take this call.”

Hutch gave up on the zipper and pulled the parka around him for the twenty-foot walk to the curb. Hunter shut the door and pulled the phone to his ear. “Hello, this is Hunter Alden.”

The voice on the other end said only two words, but they were all Hunter needed to hear to realize that his worst fears were about to be realized.

“Hello, Leviticus.”

Chapter 26

Hunter steeled himself. He had known this call was coming, and he had two ways to deal with it. The first was to come on like a freight train. His reputation for bullying, browbeating, and psychologically eviscerating his opponents was notorious. Victoriam terrore. Victory by intimidation.

There was a second way. It went against every fiber of his being, but it was the only way to play it when the other guy had all the cards. Be nice.

“Who is this?” Hunter asked politely.

“Why don’t we keep it Old Testament, Leviticus? Call me Cain.”

“And I’d prefer if you called me Hunter.”

“You’re a hard man to reach, Hunter.” His pitch was flat, his inflection robotic. He was using a voice modifier, and a cheap one at that.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t take your call earlier, Mr. Cain, but the police were here, and while I have no experience in these matters, I felt it wise not to negotiate ransom money in their presence.”

“Good call. Bringing the cops in on this would not be in either of our best interests.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you killed my driver. Decapitations have a way of attracting law enforcement.”

“I’m sorry for that. It couldn’t be avoided.”

“And what about kidnapping my son? Could that have been avoided?”

“I’m not sure I follow. I’m holding Tripp for ransom. Logic would dictate that the process begins with an abduction.”

“I beg to differ,” Hunter said. “You’re blackmailing me, Mr. Cain. You have — or at least you think you have — information that I don’t want to become public knowledge, and you want me to buy your silence. That’s extortion, plain and simple. So let me repeat the question: why did you take Tripp when all you had to do is negotiate?”

“Oh, I see where you’re going,” Cain said. “Easy answer. I did that to help you.”

“Now I’m not sure that I follow,” Hunter said.

“Simple logic. Paying off a blackmailer has a way of — as you put it — attracting law enforcement. And once their interest is piqued, they tend to start digging into what it is you’re willing to pay to hide. But if you’re paying off a ransom demand, nobody bats an eye. It lets the whole world see you as the loving father, the sympathetic victim, instead of the monster we both know you are.”

Hunter took a deep breath. He’d made his decision. Don’t intimidate; manipulate.

“I appreciate your concern for my public image, but I could have easily paid you in cash if you had asked. Nobody would know about the transaction, and life would go on.”

“I doubt if you have that much cash on hand to meet my price.”

This was it. Let’s get down to business, Mr. Cain. “And how much are we talking about?”

“Ten percent.”

Hunter had been ready for a dollar amount, but this was a punch in the gut. “Ten percent of what?” he asked, but he was afraid that he already knew the answer.

“Of the money you made from that little Bible study group of yours. Let me do the math for you. Project Gutenberg netted you a one-billion-dollar profit. My 10 percent comes to a hundred million.”

Hunter sat down on the foyer steps, barely able to breathe. He’d heard the unhearable. Cain knew the unknowable. Not just the vague notion of Project Gutenberg, but numbers. Real numbers.

Hunter changed the subject. “Let me speak to my son.”

“He can’t come to the phone, but I can assure you he is alive and well.”

“Prove it. Bring him here tonight, and I will pay you five million dollars. No questions asked.”

“That sounds like a fair price for your son. But if you want to protect your reputation” — Cain paused — “and your freedom, I’m going to need another ninety-five mil. I have an account in the Caymans, so the logistics are simple.”

“On your end, maybe, but not on mine. Do you know what it takes to pull together that kind of money?”

“No, I don’t, but I’m sure you do.”

“The first step is to know what I’m paying for. How do I know my son is still alive? Let me speak to him.”

“That’s not going to happen. You people have codes, secret words. I’ll get you proof that he’s alive, but I don’t trust you to talk to him on the phone.”

“As for this fantasy of me netting a billion dollars from this so-called Project Gutenberg, how do I know you have any evidence whatsoever to back up that ridiculous claim?”

“You don’t know,” Cain said. “You’re a risk taker, Hunter. You look at the upside, and you look at the downside. So here are your options. If, after all I’ve revealed already, you think I can’t hurt you, then don’t pay me. But I think you sense the truth. I know enough to bury you. And once the details of Project Gutenberg get out, you’ll make Bernie Madoff look like a choirboy. Sleep on it, Leviticus. I wouldn’t want you to make any rash decisions.”

Cain hung up.

“Oh, I’ve already made my decision, Mr. Cain,” Hunter said. He put the burner phone back in his pocket and headed for the secure landline in his office.

By now Blackstone should have gotten a price from Wheeler.