NYPD Red 3

Chapter 27

When he was twelve years old, Silas Blackstone’s father taught him the secret to success.

“Most people are only good at a couple of things, and they suck at everything else,” Kurt Blackstone said one night as he nursed his third beer. “If you want to get ahead in life, focus on the stuff you’re good at and get even better.”

Young Silas smirked.

Kurt caught it and knew what it meant. “Yeah, I know I’m just a lousy trackwalker for the MTA, but that’s because when I was a kid nobody ever taught me nothing. But if you want to make a nice living, get really good at one thing, and you’ve got the world by the balls.”

Silas knew what he was not good at: playing sports, making friends, and talking to girls. It’s why he spent so much time holed up in his room hunched over a computer.

Thirty years later he was still hunched over a computer, only this time he was looking for digital bread crumbs on Tripp Alden’s MacBook Air. He was rummaging through Tripp’s search history when the phone rang.

Hunter didn’t bother saying hello. Just “Did you talk to Wheeler?”

“Yeah, boss. I offered him double, like you said, but he didn’t jump at it. He said all the previous jobs have been regular citizens. But now you’re asking him to go up against a professional — someone who will fight back.”

“Why the hell does he think I’m willing to pay him twice as much?”

“I know,” Silas said, “but as soon as I told him you’d pay double, he knew it was dangerous. He’s on the fence. He says he needs time to think about it.”

“I don’t have time. Tell him I’ll pay him triple to get off the fence.”

Hunter hung up, and Silas sat back in his chair. Working for Alden, he had learned the value of secrets, and he’d successfully kept one secret from his boss.

The truth about Wheeler.

Eight years ago, a seventy-five-year-old councilwoman in Vermont stood between Alden Investments and a nine-figure land deal. When Hunter couldn’t get her vote, he called Silas into his office and explained the problem.

“How can I help?” Silas asked.

“Find a pro and pay him to kill the stubborn old bitch.”

Silas knew Hunter was serious. Hunter was always serious when it came to money. “Kill the bitch” meant exactly that.

“I know a guy,” Silas said. “Wheeler.”

Hunter held up a hand. “Stop. I can’t be connected to this. I don’t want details. All I want is results.”

Two weeks later, the councilwoman’s car skidded off an icy mountain road. The coroner ruled her death an accident. The following day, Hunter transferred a quarter of a million dollars to Wheeler’s offshore account.

Since then, Wheeler had been called in six more times. Hunter never met the man, but he considered him a valuable asset to his business. What he didn’t know was that there was no Wheeler.

If Silas had offered to kill the old lady himself, Hunter would have laughed. So Silas invented Wheeler, and the more money Hunter made, the more indispensable Wheeler’s services became.

“So Mr. Wheeler,” Silas said out loud. “He’s offering triple. What do you think?”

“I think we can do better, Mr. Blackstone,” Silas said, his voice more menacing this time.

“Quadruple?”

“That has a nice ring to it. If Alden agrees, consider me off the fence.”

Silas went to the fridge, popped the top on a beer, and called Hunter back. “I spoke to Wheeler,” he said. “He’ll do it for an even million.”

Hunter didn’t hesitate. “I’ll pay, but it’s got to be done by Monday. I spoke to the asshole who took Tripp. He calls himself Cain, and he’s smart. He wants a shitload of money. I can stall him, but not for long. How close are you to finding him?”

“I’ve been digging into Tripp’s computer all night. The bad news is it’s all password-protected. The good news is I taught him everything he knows about computer security. He’s using my methods, which means I can hack his files.”

“Call me as soon as you find something, and tell Wheeler to stand by.”

Hunter hung up, and Silas sipped his beer. “Looks like you’ve got the job, Mr. Wheeler,” he said. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“I’d say your father was right, Mr. Blackstone,” the imaginary Mr. Wheeler replied. “If you want to make a nice living, get really good at one thing, and you’ve got the world by the balls.”

Silas raised his beer. “I’ll drink to that.”

Chapter 28

Cain smiled, pleased with the way he’d gone one-on-one with Hunter Alden. Not bad for an amateur.

The alarm on his phone beeped. He looked at the message on the screen.

Even though he’d written it himself, it tickled him. Kidnapping was a serious business, but a little whimsy never hurt.

He went to the kitchen and opened a jar of peanut butter. The boys hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. By now Tripp would be miserable, but the little Puerto Rican would tough it out. Snatching the two kids hadn’t been easy, Cain thought, rubbing his arm where Lonnie had slashed him with the box cutter, but the toughest part had been finding a place to hide them once he had them.

The answer had come to him the day before Christmas. He was watching Eyewitness News on channel 7 when Art McFarland, the education reporter, came on with a story about high levels of PCBs found in lighting fixtures in eight hundred of the city’s schools.

“It will take three years to replace those fixtures,” McFarland stated.

Cain had just about tuned out the story when McFarland dropped the bombshell. “The EPA says almost all the schools are safe enough for classes to continue, but some of them are so contaminated that they had to be shut down immediately.”

He turned up the volume as McFarland wrapped up. “All city schools are currently closed for the holidays, but twenty-two of them will not reopen in January. A list of the affected schools is posted on the station’s website.”

Cain had racked his brain trying to come up with a safe place to stash Tripp, and suddenly, on Christmas Eve, the city of New York had presented him with twenty-two possibilities.

He booted up the TV station’s website. The schools about to be closed were scattered throughout the city, and he carefully mapped out a game plan in his head. He’d visit each one, and then rate them on location, access to public transportation, and how likely they were to attract eyeballs.

And then one school jumped out at him: PS 114 — his alma mater. It had been a wretched place to go through middle school, and the day he graduated, he vowed that he’d never go back.

He was about to cross it off the list when it hit him. Everything that had made 114 unbearable back then might make it perfect for locking up Tripp. Plus it was the school closest to where he lived. He had to at least give it a look.

He waited till midnight before he walked the seven blocks from his apartment on Avenue D in Alphabet City to the rambling old building on Delancey Street, sitting in the shadows of the Williamsburg Bridge. The neighborhood was deserted — no restaurants, no bars, and, except for the school, there was almost no reason for anyone to go there.

It was as desolate a spot as you could find in this thriving city. Even the people who lived in the low-income high-rise on Grand Street knew better than to venture out onto this near-dark stretch of Manhattan, where there was nothing but a fleet of sanitation trucks parked under the bridge. They were sure there would be a mugger behind every truck.

But there was no one. Cain swept the area, one hand on the Glock pistol in his jacket pocket. There were no guards, no surveillance cameras. The smartest way in was through the basement. He went down the stairs and took a look at the basement door. The flimsy padlock that held it shut would have to be replaced with a heavier-duty lock if he expected to keep people out. But the place was perfect.

After all these years, this shithole is good for something, he thought.

He went home and poured himself a drink.

“Thank you, Santa,” he said. “It’s just what I wanted for Christmas. A toxic middle school on the Lower East Side.”

Chapter 29

The janitorial services room in the basement of PS 114 was a burial ground for broken furniture, moldy books, and a fetid lost-and-found pile that had been accumulating since the Truman administration. Nobody went there, especially the janitor.

Then, in 1983, Augie Hoffman took over as head custodian and transformed a vast hellhole into a perfectly organized maintenance command center: maple workbench, neat rows of tools, precisely labeled storage bins, an immaculate kitchenette, and a sleeper sofa for those winter nights when the school’s temperamental heating system required round-the-clock attention.

On the south wall were three floor-to-ceiling ten-by-eight-foot wire cages for gym equipment, school supplies, and anything else that might walk out the door if it wasn’t locked up.

Tripp and Lonnie were in the center cage along with a case of bottled water, an empty spackle can, and a roll of toilet paper. They were asleep when they heard an upstairs door slam shut.

Cain came down the stairs and entered the makeshift prison. He was in black from his watch cap to his boots, his eyes barely visible beneath a ski mask. He went directly to the janitors’ workbench, opened the top drawer, and retrieved the stun gun.

He pointed the fifteen-million-volt Vipertek at his captives, and they backed up to the rear of the wire impound.

“Did you talk to my father?” Tripp asked.

“He wants to make sure you’re still alive,” Cain said, his voice filtered through a voice changer.

“Doesn’t sound like my father. You sure you dialed the right number?”

Lonnie laughed. Cain didn’t.

“He wants a proof-of-life call,” Cain said, dropping to one knee and shoving a dozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches under the sweep space.

“You want me to call him now?”

“Not him. For all I know you people have code words.”

“Can I call my grandfather?”

“No. I want someone outside the family. Make it casual. Tell them to call your father and say you’re fine.”

“And to pay the ransom,” Tripp added.

“Are you dicking with me, or are you stupid? You say ‘Pay the ransom,’ and they’re not going to call your father. They’re going to call the cops.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s real simple, kid. Call a friend. Someone you trust. Tell them to tell your old man you’re happy and healthy. That’s it. Short and sweet.”

“Okay. Give me a phone.”

“You give orders just like your father, don’t you? I’ll do it in the morning. He can stew till then.”

Cain took a long look around the room. Nothing out of place. He shook the cage door. Locked tight. “Don’t eat it all at once,” he said, backing away from the cage. “Room service is closed for the night.”

He put the stun gun back in the top drawer of the workbench and slammed the storeroom door on his way out. The boys listened as he walked down the corridor and trudged up the stairs. The outer door opened and closed, and he disappeared back into the world.

Lonnie grabbed two sandwiches and tossed one to Tripp. “Who you gonna call?”

“He said a friend. Someone I trust.”

“That would be me,” Lonnie said, “but I’ve asked the front desk to hold all my calls.”

“There’s only one other person besides you that I trust,” Tripp said. “I’ll call Peter.”

Chapter 30

Hangovers are like snowflakes: no two are alike. Of course, that’s just my theory. Truth be told, I haven’t had nearly enough hangovers in my life to qualify as an authority on the subject, but even in my limited experience, I find that they each come with their own special brand of physical and mental misery.

Waking up at 5:00 a.m. on the third day of the new year, I found myself with a throbbing head, a rumbling belly, and an overwhelming veil of guilt. Actually, it was more like a guilt, shame, and remorse cocktail. I’d been cheating on my girlfriend, and I felt like shit. Okay, maybe I hadn’t cheated on her, but I still felt like shit.

I turned to one of the world’s oldest hangover cures: yoga. I pulled out the mat and spent the next half hour stretching my body, cleansing my spirit, and hopefully exorcising the devil’s horny ass from my soul.

That, plus a hot shower and two cups of fresh-brewed French roast, left me feeling better. Technically, I hadn’t done anything wrong. Kylie was my friend, my partner, and she had needed a strong shoulder to lean on. I was there for her. If I crossed a line, it was only in my fantasies. I’m a man, and men don’t always think with their shoulders.

I had just about given myself complete absolution when the phone rang. As soon as I saw Cheryl’s picture fill the screen, I froze. The universe was not ready to cut me some slack. There was no time to recite the sinner’s prayer.

“Hey... how’d it go last night?” I said, my voice appropriately somber, like I’d been holding my own deathwatch for Mildred out of solidarity.

“She’s hanging on. I’ve decided to run into the city, grab some clothes, stop at the precinct to pick up some work, then go back to Westchester and wait for the end.”

“Anything I can do?”

“No, I just wanted to connect.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, and I knew she wasn’t groping for the words to apologize for her behavior on the precinct steps yesterday. She was waiting for me.

“I’m sorry about yesterday. I guess I was a little insensitive,” I said.

“No you weren’t,” she said sweetly.

I couldn’t believe she was letting me off the hook. “Really?”

“No, Zach. I was a little insensitive. You — and I say this not as your girlfriend, but as a board-certified behavior analyst — you were completely emotionally oblivious.”

She was not letting me off the hook. In fact, she impaled me with it. But at least she said it with a smile.

“Thank you, Dr. Robinson. I guess I’m lucky to be dating a shrink so I don’t underestimate my shortcomings.”

“That’s me: full-service girlfriend.”

“Just don’t put it on my departmental evaluation.”

“Don’t worry — I have a separate file of all your flaws just for home consumption.”

“Well, whichever one of them flared up yesterday, I’m sorry, and I’m ready to move on.”

“Me too. So, what did you do after I left you high and dry last night?”

“Me?” I said.

“Yes, you. What did you do last night?”

My half-baked brain scrambled for a plausible half-truth. “Well, Kylie and I worked pretty late. Then we grabbed a bite to eat.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Some cop bar with halfway decent food,” I said. Nameless sounded harmless. If it had been memorable, I’d have remembered the name.

“Sounds like fun.”

“Not as much fun as two nights in the La-Di-Da Suite at the Steele Towers with you. But you know me — I make the most of what’s available. Speaking of available, as soon as you are, there’s a new Greek place opening up near my—” My phone beeped. It was Captain Cates. “Sorry, the boss is on the other line. I’ve got to run.”

“I’ll see you later,” she said.

I took Cates’s call.

“Jordan, how fast can you get here?” Cates said.

“Very. I’m just getting ready to leave.”

“Make it quick. I’m expecting a visitor in fifteen minutes, and I want you and MacDonald here to help me deal with the politics.”

“We’ll be there. Kylie and I are starting to build a good relationship with the mayor.”

“It’s not the mayor,” Cates said. “Her I can handle on my own.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s the man who can get things done around this city faster than the mayor or any one of us. Hutch Alden.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. My head was throbbing again.

Chapter 31

If I had any doubt who owned the Cadillac limo parked outside the precinct, the license plate spelled it out in orange and black: ALDEN 1.

Kylie was waiting for me on the front steps.

“How’d you get here so fast?” I said.

“I woke up early, picked up the car, and was at the diner when Cates called. Hutch Alden showed up a few minutes ago. He’s waiting for us.”

“What’s his mood?”

“Very chummy,” she said. “But guys like Alden never show their cards. He was in full-blown, salt-of-the-earth, man-of-the-people, billionaire mode — just like last night.”

“Only last night it was ‘Let’s watch a meteor shower together,’” I said. “This morning it may be a shit storm. Let’s go up to Cates’s office and find out.”

Alden greeted us warmly. Cates took the lead.

“Mr. Alden was just telling me that the mayor set up a meeting between him and you,” she said as if she’d just heard about it for the first time. “And he was generous enough to come to the station to do a follow-up.”

“The mayor is busy,” Hutch said. “I appreciate her personal concern for our family, but why drag her back into this? I’m sure we can resolve it right here on the departmental level.”

The threat was clear. “I’m sure we can,” Cates said, playing the game.

“My grandson is fine,” Alden said. “As soon as you left, I went to see Hunter, and wouldn’t you know it — Tripp called while I was there. I told him you’d like to talk to him, but he’s so upset by Peter’s death that he needs a few days to himself.”

“That’s understandable,” Cates said, “but in solving any homicide, time is our enemy. Maybe you can set up a phone call between him and the detectives.”

“If I thought he could help in any way, I’d be glad to accommodate you,” Hutch said. “But I questioned him at length, and he knows nothing. He didn’t even know about the murder till it hit the news. I think the best way to handle this is for NYPD to pursue the leads you have, and let Tripp come to peace with his loss. Once he’s gone through the grieving process, I’ll see to it that he makes himself available for any questions. Can you do that for me?”

Unspoken: If you say “No,” I’ll call my buddy Muriel Sykes.

Cates graciously agreed. Hutch thanked us and left.

“He’s gone over to the dark side,” Kylie said. “He’s totally in sync with Hunter. No cops. Let the family take care of it.”

“I know he’s stonewalling, but unless you suspect Tripp of being the killer, let it go,” Cates said. “Now fill me in on what you’ve got so far on Peter Chevalier.”

“Hunter would like us to believe a jealous husband did it,” I said. “Peter was a lifelong bachelor who loved the ladies, but he played by the rules. He definitely wasn’t the home wrecker or the womanizer Alden made him out to be.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Cates said. “Hunter Alden wouldn’t be the first uptight rich white guy to exaggerate the exploits of a sexually active black man. It sounds to me like Peter was killed because of the man he worked for, not for the man he was.”

“We’re on the same page,” Kylie said. “Tripp Alden was kidnapped, and instead of sending one of his fingers or an ear to his father, the killer sent Peter Chevalier’s head. It makes a much louder statement.”

“If you’re right,” Cates said, “Alden is either too smart or too nervous to move it, which means the head is probably on ice somewhere in his house. But there’s not a judge in this city crazy enough to sign a search warrant. Based on your conversations with Alden, do you think he’ll pay the ransom?”

“Yes,” Kylie said. “And the minute he does, the killer is going to disappear off the face of the earth. Screw Hutch Alden. We should be talking to that kid.”

Cates set her right elbow on the desk and rested her mouth and chin on the knuckles of her right hand. She was thinking — something she was very good at.

Thirty seconds into her Rodin’s Thinker pose, she looked up. “I know you don’t want to hear this,” she said, looking straight at Kylie, “but I want to remind everyone in this room — myself included — that police departments work for the taxpayers. I’d bet a month’s salary that someone took Tripp Alden and is negotiating a payoff with his family. But the family flat-out denies it. And now, a man with a lot of juice in this town told us as politely as he could to back off. So until we have proof that’s a lot more substantive than an eighty-year-old woman who thinks she saw an undercover cop arrest Tripp Alden, this unit will stand down. Your job is not to solve an unreported kidnapping. Your job is to catch a murderer. Any questions?”

“Just one,” Kylie said. “How do you propose we do that if we have to wait for our main person of interest to go through his ‘grieving process’?”

“You might start by talking to Peter’s family.”

“The Aldens are his family.”

“Peter has a brother in Haiti. He flew to New York last night and is stopping by my office later this morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kylie said. “He’ll probably need reassurance that NYPD is doing everything it can to find his brother’s murderer. Would you like me to lie to him, or do you want to handle it?”

She turned and stormed out of the office. Cates looked to me and shook her head.

“Don’t be too mad at her, Captain,” I said. “She’s frustrated.”

“That’s not my ‘I’m pissed at her’ look,” Cates said. “It’s my ‘Boy, do I feel sorry for you’ look. Have a nice day.”

Chapter 32

By the time I left Cates’s office, Kylie was at her desk unleashing her fury on her computer keyboard.

“What are you writing?” I said.

She didn’t look up.

“A letter of resignation? A tell-all book on the injustices you’ve had to endure as a member of New York’s Finest? I’ve heard poetry is an excellent way to express your innermost—”

She gave me the finger. In return, I gave her some time. She stopped typing after a few minutes, then made a violent assault on some of the paperwork we’d amassed on the case. She turned pages with a vengeance, threw a ballpoint pen across the room for failing to write on the first stroke, and stormed to a file cabinet, where she yanked open and slammed shut half a dozen metal drawers.

I loved it.

I don’t care what time of day it was, or what she was wearing: Kylie MacDonald was a smoldering-hot woman. And when she was angry, the heat factor went up exponentially.

I thought back to the previous night and the not-so-subtle way she had put her hand on my arm, the two forks interlocking over Mississippi mud pie, and the long good-night hug that didn’t last long enough. Then I thought back to the days when we were together, and I’d sometimes go out of my way to piss her off because the make-up sex was so fantastic.

If I was keeping a diary, the entry would have said, “Got exceedingly horny. Could not focus on murder investigation.”

After twenty minutes, I decided we’d both indulged ourselves long enough. “If it makes a difference, I’m on your side,” I said.

“Then why didn’t you back me up, Zach?”

“Because Cates is not the enemy. Because she can get as tormented about the system as any of us. And because when you’re a cop you get shit thrown at you from all sides. The only difference with Red is that most of the time the shit gets thrown down from on high. Cates is playing by the rules because she’s smart enough to know that she doesn’t have enough street cred to go head-to-head with a new mayor who has less than seventy-two hours on the job.”

She blinked. Smiled, actually. The ice was broken.

“So now what?” she said.

“I don’t know. You were working like a madwoman. It looked like you were onto something.”

“I was looking for a loophole, trying to figure out if we could charge Tripp Alden with something. Then we could go after him.”

Before I could say “Stop wasting your time,” my phone rang. It was Bob McGrath, the front desk sergeant.

I’d prearranged for McGrath to call me when Cheryl arrived. “But don’t broadcast it,” I’d told him. “I don’t want the whole squad to hear you yelling, ‘Hey, Jordan, your main squeeze is here.’”

“Don’t worry about it,” McGrath had promised. “I’m the most discreet six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-fifty-five-pound cop in the department.”

I picked up the phone. “Hey McGrath, what’s the word?”

“Elvis has entered the building,” he said in a gruff whisper. “How’s that, Detective? Subtle enough for you?”

I laughed, thanked him, and turned to Kylie. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” I said.

“Where are you going?”

A simple question, but not for a man who finds himself torn between two women. The official male rules of dating clearly state, “Never let one know how strong your feelings are for the other.”

“Cheryl’s office,” I said, trying to sound like I was heading there on official business.

Kylie didn’t buy it for a second.

She winked. “Have fun.”

Chapter 33

I was too conflicted to have fun. In fact, I was a perfect candidate for a session with the department shrink, but that, of course, was out of the question. The best that Dr. Robinson could do right now was welcome me with a good old-fashioned, PG-rated, safe-for-work hug.

I took the stairs two at a time, came bounding through her office door, and kicked it shut behind me.

“Zach,” she said, completely taken by surprise. “How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t,” I said. “I stop by every five minutes just to bask in your aura.”

She wrapped her arms around me. “My aura sucks right now. But it’s good to see you.”

I pressed her close, and she tilted her head up to mine. Just as our lips touched, the door opened.

I’d never met the man standing in the doorway, had never even seen a picture of him, but I immediately knew who he was.

He was tall, with a runner’s body and Paul Newman — blue eyes. His hair was light brown and shaggy, giving him a rumpled surfer look that went well with the carefully groomed stubble on his face.

“Fred,” Cheryl said, dropping her arms from around my neck like she’d just been caught behind the barn with the strapping young stable boy.

“You must be Zach,” Fred said, flashing me a toothpaste-commercial smile. He reached out, and we shook hands.

I’m a good judge of character. It’s one of the prerequisites of the job. One look at Fred, and my first thought was, Nice guy. If I wound up sitting next to him on an airplane, we’d probably chat it up. But this was different. Fred and I weren’t sharing an armrest on a flight to LA. We were sharing my girlfriend.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Cheryl,” he said.

“So much for doctor-patient confidentiality,” I said, trying to keep it light.

Fred laughed. “No, really. She tells me you and your partner are two of the smartest detectives in the city.”

“Thank you,” I said, looking at Cheryl. “Of course, even the smartest cops can do dumb things from time to time. Am I right, doc?”

She nodded. I got the feeling it was not a happy nod. The conversation we’d had a few hours before was still bouncing around in my head. I hadn’t just been insensitive. I was emotionally oblivious. I had to step up my game.

“Sorry to hear about your mom,” I said with all the compassion I could muster. “How are you holding up?”

“My mother raised me on her own,” Fred said. “We’ve always been close, and I can’t bear the thought of...” He stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

He held up a hand and turned his head away from us. It took him a solid ten seconds to regain his composure. “Anyway,” he said, forcing energy back into his voice, “your question was, how am I holding up? The answer is, I’m holding up a hell of a lot better than I would have if I were dealing with this on my own. I couldn’t have gone through it without Cheryl. She’s an angel.”

“Don’t I know it,” I said, putting my arm around Cheryl. “We’re lucky to have her.”

I stood there, my chest puffed up, a contented smile on my face, as if I were waiting for Fred to pull out a camera and snap a picture of the happy couple.

Fred didn’t need a camera. He got the picture. He gave Cheryl an uncomfortable smile. “Why don’t I leave you two alone,” he said. “I’ll wait for you outside. Nice to meet you, Zach.”

Then, faster than you can say “Three’s a crowd,” he was gone.

Cheryl squirmed out from under my arm. “What the hell was that about?” she said.

“What was what about?” I said, walking to the door and shutting it again. “And don’t tell me I was insensitive. I told him I was sorry about his mother.”

“And as soon as he said how grateful he was for me to be there for him, you grabbed on to me, and you were ready to square off like a bull elephant during the mating ritual.”

“Hey, you blindsided me. I didn’t expect to run into your ex-husband. I thought you were taking the train in by yourself.”

“I didn’t want to be at the mercy of Metro-North, so Fred drove me in. That’s still no reason for you to act like... like... like a caveman.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Me jealous. Me not know what else to do.”

She laughed. “You’re hopeless.”

“Not hopeless,” I said, moving toward her. “Just a little damaged.” I put my hands around her waist and pulled her body against mine. “All I need is a good therapist.”

There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for an answer, Kylie charged in. “Barnaby Prep,” she said.

For the second time in a few minutes, Cheryl and I pulled apart in a hurry. “What’s going on?” I said.

“That teacher, Ryan Madison, just called me. He just heard from Tripp. He wants us to meet him in the headmaster’s office. Now.”

I followed Kylie to the door, turned, and took one last look at Cheryl. “Rain check on the hug?” I said.

She nodded, a happier nod this time. “If you’re lucky,” she said.

Chapter 34

“So it looks like you and Cheryl are once again the happiest couple at the One Nine,” Kylie said as she peeled out and barreled up 67th Street.

“Circumstantial evidence,” I said. “It’s not as rosy as it might appear. I was in the middle of begging forgiveness when you busted in on us.”

“What dumb thing did you do now?”

“I ran into her ex, and I may have behaved like a bit of an asshole.”

“And when you say ‘a bit’ of an asshole, you mean...”

“Flaming.”

“For God’s sake, Zach. The poor guy’s mother is dying.”

“We all have our character defects. You, for example, drive like we’re in a stolen car.”

“At least I get us where we need to go,” she said, not easing up on the gas pedal. “You’re the one who’s going to crash and burn unless you do some immediate damage control on your relationship. And I know just the person who can help you. His name is Scott Coffman. I’ll give you his card.”

“Are you serious? I’m already dating a therapist. You think another shrink is going to help? Thanks, but I don’t need Dr. Coffman to fix my relationship with Cheryl.”

She laughed. “You’re an idiot. Scott’s not a therapist.”

“Then what is he?”

“He’s my go-to sales guy at Tiffany’s.”

“I can’t afford Tiffany’s. But jewelry is a great idea. I think I’ll talk to Wally.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s my go-to sales guy at the dollar store.”

We kept up the verbal sparring all the way to Barnaby Prep, and by the time we got to Headmaster G. Martin Anderson’s office, I had a smile on my face.

Ryan Madison, on the other hand, did not. He was no longer the happy-go-lucky, let’s-sneak-a-smoke-on-the-roof guy we’d met yesterday. The unflappable Mr. Madison was definitely flapped.

“Ryan here is quite unnerved, and justifiably so,” Mr. Anderson said, putting it all in headmaster-speak. “As am I. We have liability issues. Barnaby can’t be involved in any of this.”

“Any of what?” I asked. The four of us were in Anderson’s office, and Madison had yet to tell us what was going on.

“Tripp Alden left me a voice mail,” Madison said. “I’ll play it for you.”

He set his phone to speaker and played back the message.

“Hey, Mr. Madison. I need a big favor. Please call my folks and tell them I’m fine. I can’t come home, and I really can’t talk to my dad. Just tell them I’m okay. Thanks.”

“And did you call his parents?” I asked.

“No, I did not call his parents,” Madison said, springing from his chair. “What kind of a schmuck do you think I am?”

“Calm down, sir,” Kylie said. “We’re all on the same side here.”

“No we’re not,” Madison said. “You’re investigating a murder. I’m on the side that wants nothing to do with it. I think the world of Tripp Alden, but what if he murdered his driver? You think I want to get in the middle of that?”

“We have no reason to suspect that Tripp killed Peter Chevalier,” I said.

“That’s your script, Detective. In my script, anything is possible. This whole thing is turning into a bad movie, and I don’t want any part of it.”

We were in a no-smoking building, and it was clear that Madison’s neurons were screaming for a cig.

“That’s fine,” I said. “We can take it from here. What time did the call come in?”

He looked at his phone. “This morning at 8:11. I was upstairs in my room.”

“And where was your phone when he called?” Kylie asked.

“It was on my—” Madison stopped, realizing what Kylie had just done.

“Go ahead, sir,” she said. “Where was your phone when the call came in?”

“It was on my desk. And yes, Detective, I heard it ring, I saw it was Tripp calling, and I purposely let it go to voice mail. I don’t want to be involved in their drama. Is that a crime?”

“Not at all,” she said. “Considering the circumstances, not taking his call is totally understandable. Can I have your phone? I’ll record the voice mail onto mine, and my partner and I will relay Tripp’s message to the Aldens.”

He handed Kylie his phone and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “I’m going outside to burn one. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“I hope you understand our dilemma,” Anderson said as soon as Madison left. “Our job is to develop these young men, not get caught up in their personal lives. We don’t know if Tripp’s reluctance to call home is connected to Mr. Chevalier’s death. That’s your bailiwick. Barnaby Prep has to stay above the fray. We cannot be the interlocutor between Tripp and his parents.”

“We understand completely,” I said, “and we’d be happy to pass Tripp’s message along to the family.”

The truth was that Hunter Alden was definitely hiding something, and we’d have been happy for any excuse to take another shot at him.

Chapter 35

Twenty minutes later, we were back at the Alden house. Janelle answered the door. Like Ryan Madison, she had lost some of the spark she had the day before. She was still beautiful, but today I could see the stress lines in her face, and her green eyes were tinged with red.

“Oh,” she said, which is what civilized people say instead of “You again? What the hell do you want now?”

“We have a message for you from your son,” I said.

It was like the cop equivalent of open sesame. She swung the door wide, escorted us to her husband’s office, and knocked.

One word from the other side: “What?”

“Hunter, the police are back. They have a message for us from Tripp.”

Alden opened the door and let us in. Janelle took a seat. We stood.

“Tripp called you?” Alden said.

“Not directly, but we have a message from him for you and your wife,” I said.

“Let’s hear it,” he said, settling into a leather chair behind the desk.

“It’s a family matter,” I said, pointing to Silas Blackstone, who was standing in a far corner of the room.

“Ignore him,” Alden said. “What’s the message?”

“It was delivered to one of Tripp’s teachers less than an hour ago,” Kylie said. “The school asked us to pass it on to you.”

Kylie played the voice mail.

Janelle held her breath until she heard “Please call my folks and tell them I’m fine.” A wave of relief washed over her, but it was immediately followed by a wince when Tripp said, “I can’t come home, and I really can’t talk to my dad.”

Hunter was stone-faced throughout. “Just like I told you,” he said as soon as the voice mail ended. “He’s fine. He’s okay. You heard every word he said.”

“We’re more interested in what he didn’t say,” I said.

“And I’m interested in getting back to work. Thank you for coming. Janelle, see these two out. Again.”

Janelle stood up. “No.” She turned to me. “What do you mean you’re interested in what he didn’t say on the message?”

“We’ve been told that your son is grieving over Peter’s death, yet he doesn’t even mention it. Not ‘When is the funeral?’ or ‘Did they catch the killer yet?’ Your husband has assured us that Tripp has been calling here regularly, and yet Tripp says, ‘I can’t come home, and I really can’t talk to my dad.’”

“That’s enough!” Hunter said, coming out from behind the desk. “Get out.”

I remembered the words of our new mayor: “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.” I was hoping she’d remember them, too.

“I’m... not... done,” I said, laying it out like a poor man’s version of Dirty Harry.

“Neither am I,” Janelle said. “Go on, Detective.”

“Mrs. Alden, Tripp’s message came in this morning. Not to your home phone or your cell phone, but to his teacher — a third party whose phone wouldn’t be set up to trace the call. Tripp has been missing since the murder, and quite frankly this voice mail sounds like a proof-of-life call.”

“He’s been kidnapped, hasn’t he?” Janelle said.

“We don’t know, but if he has, whoever abducted him would have instructed the family not to call in the police. That would be a mistake, very possibly one that could cost your son his life.”

Janelle didn’t say anything. Hunter put a hand on her shoulder. “I hope you’re happy, Detectives. You’ve successfully scared the shit out of my wife. Your work here is done. Unless you have anything to charge us with, leave.”

There’s no law against being supremely arrogant, so there was nothing we could charge him with.

We left.

Chapter 36

Silas Blackstone escorted the two cops out and watched as they drove off. Heading back to the office, he could hear the screaming.

He snickered. Janelle was going nuclear.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she shouted.

Hunter kept his cool. His response was so low that Blackstone couldn’t make it out. But Janelle’s reaction ripped through the thick mahogany door.

“Spare me? How? By telling me to stay out of it because I’m not Tripp’s mother?”

Blackstone shook his head. Careful, sweetie. The dead wife is off-limits. You keep this up, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Hunter calls in Wheeler to get rid of you next.

“How much money are they asking for?” Janelle demanded.

This was one answer Blackstone didn’t want to miss. He eased closer to the door.

Hunter deflected the question. “A lot.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “We have kidnap and ransom insurance.”

Silence.

It was no longer a problem of Hunter’s voice not being audible. Blackstone was close enough to hear their body movements. It couldn’t have been clearer if he’d bugged the room. Hunter just hadn’t said a word.

“Is there a problem with the K & R?” Janelle asked.

“Yeah. The R. The insurance company will pay up to ten million, but this guy is asking for ten times that.”

“Are you serious?” Janelle said. “A hundred million dollars?”

Blackstone couldn’t believe it either. They both must have heard wrong.

“Great math skills, Janelle. Ten times ten is a hundred. Now subtract the ten the insurance company will pay from the hundred this lunatic wants and see how much has to come out of my pocket.”

“I don’t care what it costs,” Janelle said. “Pay it.”

“For a dirt-poor cracker from Alabama you’re pretty fast and loose with my ninety million, aren’t you?”

“You have more than you’ll ever need. You only have one son.”

“And before I spend a dime, I had to make sure that one son was alive. Last night I told the guy I wanted a proof-of-life call.”

“Now you’ve got it.”

“And so do the cops. I can’t believe that asshole teacher dragged them in. Who the hell is he, anyway?”

“Seriously? You don’t know who Ryan Madison is? Tripp talks about him all the time. He’s been a mentor to your son for two years.”

“Well, Mr. Mentor is a pussy for calling the cops. And how did he know to send for those two particular detectives? I’ll tell you how. They talked to him yesterday when they went to Barnaby, and they told him if he heard from Tripp to call them. So he did.”

“Can you blame him for that? The police are in the middle of a murder investigation—”

“I don’t care! I’ve been writing checks to that school since Tripp was in kindergarten. At least a hundred grand a year above and beyond the tuition. You’d think that would buy a little discretion, but no, that candy-ass teacher couldn’t wait to dial 911. Well, guess what? I’m going to make sure he doesn’t do it again. Blackstone!”

Silas flinched at the sound of his name. He quickly backed out to the foyer. “Coming,” he yelled from the other room. He waited five seconds and entered the office.

Hunter was at the wall safe.

“What can I do for you, boss?”

“Get your car ready. You’re my new driver.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My car is in the impound lot, and my driver is dead. You’re my new driver.” He pulled four stacks of cash from the safe and shoved them into a leather envelope.

“You wait here and make yourself useful,” he said to Janelle. “Those cops have held on to the Maybach long enough. Call their boss. Hell, I don’t care if you have to call the mayor. I want it back.”

“And where are you going?”

“Barnaby Prep,” Hunter said as he strode out the door. “Parent-teacher conference.”

Chapter 37

Patrice Chevalier was tall, dark, and probably handsome, but his brother’s brutal murder had left his face shrouded with grief, pain, and anger.

Cates made the introductions, Kylie and I extended our condolences, and the four of us sat down in Cates’s office to talk about a subject that three of us would have liked to put off.

Cates eased us into it. “Dr. Chevalier and I have been talking, and from what he tells me, his brother was quite the philanthropist.”

“That’s not how Peter would put it,” Chevalier said. “He would simply say he was just a guy helping out his kid brother.”

“What did he do to help?” I said.

“He paid to send me to college in France, then four years of Tulane medical school. I’m a pediatrician in one of Haiti’s most impoverished regions, and after Hurricane Gilbert, Peter helped me build a children’s clinic.”

“That, Dr. Chevalier,” Cates said, “is my definition of a philanthropist.”

“Thank you, Captain. Now, how close are you to finding Peter’s murderer and recovering his remains? The Peter Chevalier Children’s Clinic stands as a tribute to my brother’s generosity, and thousands of Haitians — many of whom owe him their lives — mourn his death and are waiting for me to bring him home.” He paused. “All of him.”

“It’s impossible to tell you how close, but please know that Detectives Jordan and MacDonald are the most accomplished team under my command, and I promise you that bringing Peter’s killer to justice is our highest priority.”

It was not what he wanted to hear, but the man was practical. “How can I help?” he asked.

“Did you talk to your brother often?” I asked.

A hint of a smile. “Incessantly. He would often have nothing to do except sit in a parked car waiting for Mr. Alden. So he’d call me. I had to constantly remind him that chauffeurs have more time on their hands than doctors.”

“So if Peter had any enemies, he might have told you—”

Chevalier held up a hand. “If you had met him, you wouldn’t even suggest that.”

“Maybe not enemies,” I said, “but a romantic affair that—”

The hand again. “Peter was in a loving relationship with a single woman. But you know that already, Detective. You spoke with Juanita. Now I have a question for you. Have you spoken to Tripp Alden since my brother’s death?”

“No, sir. We’ve been looking for him.”

“As have I. And Juanita is worried sick because she hasn’t heard from her grandson Lonnie.”

“If I may ask,” Kylie said, “why are you looking for Tripp?”

“Quite likely the same reason you are. Peter was working for the Aldens when he was killed. If anyone can help you in your investigation, it’s the family. But you won’t get anything out of Hunter Alden. So last night I went to see Janelle, but she either couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me where to find Tripp.”

“How close was Tripp to Peter?” Kylie said.

“They adored one another. When Tripp was ten years old, he was bored spending the summer in Southampton and asked if he could visit the village where my brother and I grew up. He and Peter flew to Haiti and stayed two weeks. The next summer, he spent a month. And he came back every year until he was fifteen. He is not affected by his wealth. He was right at home in our village — and at this point he speaks fluent Creole. Between you and me, I’d say Peter was more of a father figure to the boy than Alden was. The fact that Tripp hasn’t reached out to me after Peter’s death has me very concerned.”

“It has us concerned too,” Cates said. “We will find him and get some answers from him.”

“When?” Chevalier snapped loudly. “And don’t tell me that you have the most accomplished team under your command looking for him, because I know otherwise. Hutch Alden was here this morning using his boundless political powers to keep you from doing just that, wasn’t he?”

Cates didn’t say a word.

“Thank you for not denying it. My apologies for raising my voice.”

“I can only imagine the stress you’ve been under these past forty-eight hours,” Cates said. “No apologies necessary, Dr. Chevalier.”

“Please. Call me Patrice,” he said, mellowing his tone. “Last night, when I visited Janelle, I asked if I could go through Peter’s personal effects. With her permission, I took his computer and his cell phone.”

“We already have his phone,” I said.

“You have his business phone. This is his personal cell, and since the police hadn’t seized it, I assumed it was not part of your investigation. Once I had his contacts, I was able to reach out to our people.”

“Our people?” Cates said.

“There is a strong Haitian community in this city, many of whom work in quiet obscurity for the privileged few your unit was created to serve. My brother was part of that community. They were the glue that kept Peter connected to his Haitian culture.”

“And one of those people works for Hutch Alden,” Cates said.

Chevalier nodded. “Yes. But I shouldn’t have to go underground to get the information I deserve in connection to my brother’s murder. In the future, I’d like you and your detectives to be much more forthcoming.”

“Understood,” Cates said.

“And please tell me that you won’t let the politics of wealth and power stand in the way of finding Peter’s killer.”

Cates rose from her chair and extended her arm. “You have my word on it, Patrice.”

He stood and shook her hand. He smiled — all the way this time. His eyes brightened, and his lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth. There was no more “probably” about it. Patrice Chevalier was a handsome man.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said.

She smiled back. “Call me Delia.”

On the surface, it might have looked like there was a spark between them, a connection that might have led to dinner, and then who knows what. But I knew better. Delia Cates did not allow sparks to fly between her and the family of a homicide victim. The good doctor had caught her in the act of trying to bullshit him, so she turned up the charm, hoping to regain some of his trust. It was a variation on good cop/bad cop with Cates playing both roles.

She only had one agenda. Find the killer and the two missing teenagers.

Chevalier’s agenda was the same as hers. Only he had one more priority — one he had shared with us from the get-go.

To bring his brother home. All of him.

Chapter 38

Augie Hoffman braced himself for the frigid blast that would hit him as soon as he made the turn onto the wide expanse of Grand Street. He rounded the corner, and the wind whipped up from the East River and bit into his face. He didn’t care. Tomorrow at this time he’d be out of New York. Another two days and he’d be in Florida. Forever.

After thirty-two years, this was the last time he had to make the eleven-minute trek to PS 114. He’d told himself he was going to clean out his desk, but the truth was he needed to say one final good-bye to the old place.

He reflected on the craziness of the last few weeks. He had flown to West Palm Beach to spend the holidays with his brother Joe. Joe’s wife, Debbie, had invited Nadine over for dinner, and by the end of the evening, Augie was love-struck. Two days later, he got the email telling him that PS 114 would be closed until further notice. “I don’t have a job to go back to,” he told Nadine.

“Then don’t go back,” she said. She didn’t have to say it twice. He put in for early retirement, flew to New York, and packed. Tonight, she was flying up, the movers would come in the morning, and he and Nadine would drive back to West Palm to spend the rest of their lives together.

Thank you, God, he thought when he got to the school. I knew there was a reason why you had all those toxic chemicals dripping out of those light fixtures.

Since the school was closed, snow had been allowed to pile up everywhere, but there was a clear path from the street to the basement door. Kids, Augie thought. Judging by the boot prints, there had been three of them.

He took out his key ring and reached for the padlock. “Son of a bitch,” he said. Whoever had been down there had changed the lock.

Damn bureaucrats, Augie thought. They screw you up, even on your last day.

He took a closer look at the new padlock. “What the hell?” he said. It was a top-of-the-line, core-hardened steel Abus Granit.

The damn lock must have cost a hundred and fifty bucks, which was a hundred and forty-five more than the school usually spent. It was like seeing filet mignon on the school lunch menu instead of fish sticks. It didn’t make sense, and in Augie Hoffman’s orderly world, things that didn’t make sense kept him awake at night.

Who would change the lock? And why?

He probably should look into it. He had a key to the front door, but that meant trekking all the way around the building in the deep snow.

Hell, no, he told himself. I don’t work here anymore. It’s not my problem.

Sure it is, the little voice inside his head reminded him.

He turned and tromped through the snow toward the front of the building.

Old habits die hard.

Chapter 39

“Where is he?” Lonnie said, standing at the cage door, his fingers laced around the ten-gauge welded wire mesh.

“He’s not coming,” Tripp said.

“I swear I heard him upstairs fiddling with the lock a few minutes ago.”

“Why would he come back so fast?” Tripp said. “We still have food. Plus, he was here this morning when I made the phone call to Mr. Madison.” Tripp lowered himself to the floor of the cage.

“You think Madison called your old man by now?”

“Yeah. I do. I trust him. Don’t you?”

Lonnie shrugged. “Not as much as I trust Peter. I don’t understand why he wouldn’t let you call Peter.”

“He said Peter is too much like family. He thinks we have some kind of secret telephone code, and I’d be able to give Peter a clue to where—”

An upstairs door slammed, and Lonnie jumped up. “I told you he’s back. He came in another way.”

They listened to the echo of heavy footsteps clomping down a corridor.

“I’ll tell you one thing, dude,” Lonnie whispered. “If he tries anything, I’m not going down without a fight.”

The door to the storeroom opened, and the overhead lights went on. A man in an orange parka entered the room, saw the two teens in the cage, and stopped. He had no idea what to make of them.

“What the heck’s going on here, boys?”

“Some crazy motherfucker grabbed us off the street and locked us up,” Lonnie yelled. “Let us out, man. Let us out.”

“Hang on, hang on,” Augie said, hustling over to a lockbox on the wall. He fiddled with his keys while Lonnie bounced up and down on his heels, rattling the wire cage and yelling, “Come on, come on, hurry, hurry, hurry.”

Augie unlocked the box and grabbed a key off the rack. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

He unlocked the cage and the door swung open. Lonnie was out first. Tripp was right behind him.

“Thanks, man,” Lonnie said.

“How long have you been here?” Augie asked. “Who took you?”

“Three days, and I don’t know,” Lonnie said. “You got a cell? We need to call 911.”

Augie unzipped a side pocket on his parka and reached for his phone. “This is insane,” he said. “You’ve been locked in here for three—” He let out a piercing scream and fell to the floor, writhing in pain.

Lonnie spun around. There, standing over Augie, was his best friend, Tripp, the stun gun in his hand.

“Drag him into the cage,” Tripp said calmly.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Lonnie yelled.

Tripp held the stun gun steady and pointed it at Lonnie’s chest. “I don’t want to shoot you too, but I will. I swear. Just drag him into the cage.”

“Tripp, I think maybe you went stir-crazy. This guy is on our side. He—”

Tripp waved the gun. “I mean it. Get back in the cage and drag him in there with you, or I swear to God I will fry your ass.”

“Go to hell. I’ve been in there three days. I’m not going back.”

“Just get back in there for ten more minutes,” Tripp said. “Trust me.”

“Trust you? You go home, and I stay locked up?”

“Ten more minutes, Lonnie. I swear I’ll call the cops as soon as I get out of here. And I am not going home.”

“Where are you going?”

“Anyplace but home.”

“Is this about your father, Tripp? You think he’s going to punish you for getting kidnapped? What could he do? Take away your Platinum card? Make you fly coach?”

“You have no idea what my father is capable of.”

Augie started to move. He tried to sit up.

“Please,” Tripp said, “drag him into the cage and give me his cell phone, or I’ll zap the both of you.”

Cursing, Lonnie grabbed Augie’s legs, pulled him along the floor and into the cage, and handed the cell phone to Tripp.

“Mission accomplished,” he said. “Now what?”

“I have to lock you in there with him for ten minutes. But first we have to talk. I owe you an explanation.”

“You think?”

“Walk me into the hall,” Tripp said. “I don’t want this guy to hear what I have to say.”

With the gun to his back, Lonnie walked out the door and into the corridor. “This better be good, Tripp,” he said. “Or one of these days when you least expect it, I’m going to beat your rich monkey ass.”

Chapter 40

The leather envelope filled with cash under his arm, Hunter arrived at Barnaby and went directly to the headmaster’s office.

“Mr. Alden,” Anderson said, a Big Benefactor smile on his lips, a guarded look in his eyes. “We were all so saddened to hear of Peter’s—”

“I need to speak to one of my son’s teachers,” Hunter said. “His name is Madison.”

“I’ll see if he’s available,” Anderson said. “The three of us can meet right here in my—”

“Not the three of us. Just me and Madison. Why don’t you see if he’s available?”

“Follow me,” Anderson said. He knew better than to say anything else.

They took the stairs to the third floor, and Anderson led Hunter to a large open room. There were a dozen computer workstations, each manned by a teenage boy, his eyes glued to a wide-screen monitor, his ears covered with headphones. None of them looked up.

Hunter shook his head in disgust. Twelve fathers spending a fortune so their sons can piss their lives away making movies nobody will ever watch.

“Mr. Madison,” Anderson said, crossing the room to where the teacher was leaning over one student’s screen.

They had a brief exchange, and Madison walked over to Hunter and extended a hand. “Ryan Madison,” he said. “We can have some privacy in my office.”

Madison’s office was small and cramped. The walls were plastered with movie posters, and the shelves and most of the available floor space were cluttered with camera equipment. Madison took a seat behind his desk.

“From what I understand, my son contacted you twice since the murder,” Hunter said, lowering himself into a wicker-backed side chair. “Once by text, once by voice mail.”

Madison nodded.

“So it looks to me like you’re Tripp’s go-to guy,” Hunter said. “Knowing the way his brain works, I figure he’s going to contact you again.”

“If he does—”

“Let me finish,” Hunter said. “I understand that those first two times you did what you had to do. Call the cops. Keep the school out of it. I get it. The school pays you. They incentivize you to play by their rules.”

“Mr. Alden, with all due respect, I didn’t call the police because I’m on the payroll at Barnaby Prep. I called because it was the right thing to do.”

“And who told you it was the right thing? The cops? All they want to do is hassle my son. You should have called me. But you didn’t, because you had no incentive. So I’d like to change the rules.”

Hunter reached into the leather envelope, pulled out a stack of bills, and put it on Madison’s desk. “That’s five thousand dollars,” he said. He pulled out a second stack and set it on top of the first. “Ten.” He reached in again.

“Stop!” Madison said. “Mr. Alden, I don’t accept bribes.”

Hunter smiled. “I’m not bribing you. I’m incentivizing you to do the right thing.”

He pulled two more stacks of money from the envelope. “Let me start off our new relationship with twenty thousand dollars’ worth of incentive.”

He slid the money across the desk and watched as the teacher’s eyes rested on the four banded packets.

Hunter knew the look. For a working stiff like Madison, twenty thousand tax-free dollars was like winning the lottery.

Madison’s phone rang.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s my landline. School business.” He picked it up. “Film studies.”

The voice on the other end exploded in his ear. “Mr. Madison, it’s Tripp. I need help. I’m sorry I called the school phone, but your cell number is on my speed dial, and I don’t know it by heart, so—”

“Mr. Berger,” Madison said.

“No, no, it’s Tripp.”

“Mr. Berger,” Madison repeated. “I can’t talk now. I’m in conference with a parent.” He turned to Hunter. “Sorry, Mr. Alden. I’ll be right with you.”

“Oh shit. My father’s with you?”

“Yes. May I put you on hold for a minute?” Madison didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed the hold button.

He turned to Hunter. “Mr. Alden, I grew up poor. I was jealous of kids like Tripp until I started working at a rich kids’ school, and I realized that money doesn’t build character. I have four years to work with them, and hopefully help mold their—”

“Are you lecturing me? You think I give a shit about character?” Hunter said. “Just tell me what it will take to get you to wipe that holier-than-thou smirk off your face. Everybody has a price, Madison.”

“That’s what the last father said when he put five times that amount on my desk. His pothead kid never did a lick of work, so I gave him an F. Daddy wanted to buy an A. I’m not for sale, Mr. Alden. Now if you don’t mind, I have a classroom to get back to.”

“Thank you for your time,” Hunter said, shoving the money back into the envelope. “If you come to your senses, give me a call.”

He left the office, closing the door behind him.

Madison picked up the phone. “Tripp, what’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m okay. I’m at a subway station on the corner of East Broadway and Rutgers Street. I need to talk.”

“Tripp, I can’t just up and leave my classes. I can meet you after work.”

“How about that place where we ate dinner after we shot the carjacking scene? You remember it?”

“I do. I’ll shoot for five o’clock.”

“I’ll be there,” Tripp said. “Did you say anything to my father?”

“Yes. I told him I’m a teacher, and I had no desire to get caught up in your family drama.” Madison exhaled heavily. “But apparently that’s unavoidable.”

Chapter 41

Hunter got in the back of Blackstone’s Audi and slammed the door.

“Get me home,” he said. “You got anything to drink back here?”

Silas rolled his eyes. Sure. I’ll send the sommelier to your table with a wine list. “Sorry, boss,” he said, pulling out. “You want me to stop along the way?”

“No. I want you to call your people and have them do a complete workup on this private school cream puff Ryan Madison.”

“What am I looking for?”

“The usual,” Hunter said. “Drugs, hookers, cheating on his taxes — anything and everything.”

“You were only there fifteen minutes. What did he do?”

“Son of a bitch won’t cooperate. Right now he’s our only connection to Tripp, so I tell him, ‘The next time you hear from him, call me, not the cops.’ One hand washes the other, I say. ‘I’ll pay for your trouble.’ I put the cash down on his goddamn desk.”

“And?”

“And the candy-ass Boy Scout says he doesn’t take bribes. Fine. Let’s just see what kind of a Boy Scout he really is. I want every one of this guy’s dirty little secrets. Documents, pictures — everything and anything you can dig up on him.”

“What if he’s clean?” Silas said, turning onto the 85th Street transverse.

“Nobody is clean. Nobody.”

“I get it, but I mean he’s a teacher. Teachers get parking tickets. They don’t rip off the IRS. They don’t run drugs. What if there’s nothing?”

“Then invent something,” Hunter barked. “By tomorrow this time, I want to own that bastard.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll get right on it.”

“Not you. I said have your people do it. Your job is to sit on Madison. Drop me off at home, then go back and watch his every move.”

“Am I looking for anything in particular?” Silas said.

“God, do I have to spell it out for you? This guy is a hotline to the goddamn police. He’s done it twice, and he’ll do it again. I want you to stay with him. See what he does. See where he goes. And if he goes to the cops, I want to know about it.”

“Will do,” Silas said, wondering how Peter Chevalier had managed to haul this arrogant prick around for twenty-three years. He stayed silent for the rest of the ride to East 81st Street.

“Don’t dick around. Call your people,” Alden said, getting out of the Audi and slamming the door.

“Calling my people,” Silas muttered. He looked at his watch. It was almost 11:00 p.m. in Mumbai. He pulled up the contacts screen on his phone and tapped a name.

Vivek answered on the first ring. “SDB Investigative Services. Vivek speaking.”

“I hope you didn’t plan on getting any sleep tonight, Vivek,” Silas said. “I’ve got Hunter Alden up my ass. He wants a level-three workup on a Ryan Madison.”

“And what does Mr. Alden think the nefarious Mr. Madison has done?”

“That’s the problem. Madison isn’t one of our usual power brokers of dubious character. He’s a teacher at the Barnaby school in New York. It’s possible that the most despicable thing he’s done is piss off Alden by turning down a bribe. We may have to get creative.”

“In that case, I hope Mr. Madison is a model citizen. It’s always more fun for me to fabricate skeletons to put in people’s closets than it is to dig up the real ones. What kind of school is this Barnaby?”

“All boys.”

“Oh please, Silas,” Vivek said, chuckling. “You are making it too easy.”

Chapter 42

Kylie and I walked around the corner to Gerri’s Diner and plopped down in a booth. Gerri Gomperts herself, the proprietor and unofficial den mother of the One Nine, came over to wait on us. “I apologize,” she said.

“For what?” Kylie asked.

“For not having a liquor license. You two look like you could use something stronger than a milk shake. What’ll you have?”

We ordered. “And from the looks on your faces,” Gerri said, “I’m guessing you’d like a side order of leave-us-alone-so-we-can-work.”

As soon as Gerri went off to get our lunch, Kylie said, “Patrice Chevalier gave me a whole new perspective on our victim. Isn’t it funny how Hunter Alden completely failed to mention that Peter helped build a children’s clinic?”

“That’s because humanitarians don’t get their heads cut off,” I said. “Guys who mess with other guys’ wives do. Alden wants us to believe Peter deserved what he got. That way we might stop badgering him about his missing son.”

She grinned. “He doesn’t know us very well, does he?”

Her cell phone rang, and she answered it.

“Oh hey, Janet. Tomorrow? Really? Tomorrow’s Saturday. No, I don’t want to put it off. It’s just that I’m swamped at work. Hold on.” She turned to me. “It’s Janet Longobardi. Can you spare me tomorrow for an hour at three o’clock?”

“It won’t be easy,” I said, “but I think I can muddle through sixty minutes without having you around to tell me how to do my job.”

She was too far away to punch me. She got back on the phone. “Okay. I’ll do it. Email me his address and phone number. Thanks. Bye.”

“You never take time off work,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“You know how my friend Janet is. She’s a fixer. If someone has a problem, she’s got to jump in and help.”

“What’s she helping you with?”

“I needed a lawyer, and of course not only did she find me the best one in the entire city, she took the liberty of scheduling an appointment with him. She made it for Saturday thinking I’m one of those normal people who have lives on weekends. Don’t worry. I’m sure it won’t even take me the whole hour.”

“Since when do you have legal problems?”

“Not legal,” she said. “Matrimonial.”

“Whoa. Last night you were telling me how Spence was on rocky ground at rehab, and now you’re seeing a divorce lawyer?”

“Zach, I’m not seeing a divorce lawyer. I’m just exploring my options. And it’s not a sudden decision. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

I wondered if she’d been thinking about it last night when we were playfully interlocking forks over the Mississippi mud pie, or when she was giving me a marathon good-night hug on Third Avenue.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I said.

“No.”

Damn. I did.

I was trying to think of how to convince her that talking it out would help when my phone rang.

“It’s Cates,” I said, and I grabbed the phone. “Jordan here.”

Cates knew Kylie and I were at lunch, and she wasn’t the type to interrupt with something trivial. “Start rolling,” she said.

I got up from the table and headed for the door, the phone pressed to my ear. Kylie was right behind me. As we passed the counter, I caught Gerri’s eye, and she waved us on. We weren’t the first cops to bolt before our order made it out of the kitchen. We ran down Lexington and around the corner to 67th Street. By the time we got to our car, Cates had given me the big picture.

“Where to?” Kylie said, getting behind the wheel of the Ford.

“Go to 329 Delancey, under the Williamsburg Bridge. Nine one one just got a call — two captives were locked in the basement of PS 114.”

“Tripp and Lonnie?” Kylie asked.

“Lonnie, yes. The other was a school maintenance worker.”

“What about Tripp Alden?”

“According to the first responders, Tripp knocked the maintenance guy out with a stun gun and took off. The kid’s in the wind.”

“So much for our grief-stricken little rich boy,” Kylie said, running the red light on Lex.

“Stop talking and drive faster,” I said.

Chapter 43

“Nobody’s here,” Kylie said when we got to PS 114. And by nobody she meant only five cop cars, a fire truck, and an EMS unit, which is not exactly a massive turnout for a school 911.

“There were no kids inside, and dispatch put it on the air as a B and E, so nobody’s connected the dots yet,” I said. “Let’s get in there before they do.”

We started with the maintenance worker. Augie Hoffman was the witness every cop hopes for. Organized, clearheaded, and in complete command of the details. But he was dumbfounded.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” he said.

Then he told us what had gone down. Good Samaritan rescues kidnap victim. Victim zaps Samaritan with stun gun. He was right. It didn’t make any sense.

Augie turned down a free ride to the hospital in the EMS bus. “I’m fine, but my new girlfriend will kill me if I don’t pick her up at the airport on time. I have to check her flight, but the kid took my phone. You got one I can borrow?”

“If he has your cell, we can track him,” Kylie said. “What’s your number?”

He gave it to us along with his girlfriend’s number so we could reach him.

Lonnie Martinez was next. His account of the abduction matched Mrs. Gittleman’s. The only difference was that she referred to the man with the red beard as an undercover cop. Lonnie called him the kidnapper. After all the denial we’d heard from Alden, it was nice to finally hear one of the victims using the K-word.

“Did he say anything about ransom?” I asked.

“Like how much? No, but he said Tripp’s father wouldn’t pay unless Tripp made a call to prove he was alive.”

“Did he tell Tripp who to call?”

“No. Just who not to call. No family. He pulls out Tripp’s cell and says ‘Pick one of your contacts.’ Tripp says ‘Peter, my driver.’ The guy says no way.”

I looked at Kylie, then back at Lonnie. “Did he say why?”

“He said ‘Peter’s like family — he’s too close. Pick someone else.’ So Tripp called one of our teachers, Mr. Madison.”

I believed him. Partly because it synced up with what I already knew, but mostly because after listening to Augie, I knew this wasn’t the part that Lonnie Martinez was going to lie to us about.

“One last question,” I said. “When the police arrived, you and Mr. Hoffman were in the cage, and Tripp was gone. How’d that happen?”

“It was crazy,” Lonnie said. “Just when Hoffman was cutting us loose, the guy comes back. He sees us, and then bam, bam, he drops me and Hoffman, but Tripp runs for it.”

“Where do you think he ran to?” Kylie asked.

He gave us his best clueless look.

“I didn’t realize he shot you too,” I said. “You need to get to a hospital.”

“I’m fine. What I need is to get to a pizza joint. I’m starved.”

“We can’t let you go until we take a look at the wound,” I said. “Can you show me where it hit you?”

He pulled up his shirt and showed us a bruise on his shoulder.

“Nasty,” I said. “Let me see the wound from the day you were abducted.”

“Oh... that one healed,” he said. “I was wearing a coat so it wasn’t too bad. All I have is the one from today.”

“Sit tight for a few more minutes,” I said. “We’re going to call your grandmother, then one of the officers will drive you home.”

Kylie and I walked out into the hall.

“Nicely done, partner,” she said. “That mark on his shoulder was brown instead of bright red. And there was no swelling. It’s not a fresh wound.”

“So now we’ve got the rich guy and the poor kid lying to us,” I said.

“Forget all the bullshit he was shoveling,” she said. “I’m still reeling from the truth. Did you catch what he said?”

“Did I catch it? I looked over at you to make sure you caught it. Tripp wanted to call Peter. All this time you and I are trying to question Tripp about the murder, and now we find out that the kid doesn’t even know Peter is dead.”

Chapter 44

Four hours and twenty minutes into Silas Blackstone’s stakeout at Barnaby Prep, Ryan Madison stepped out of the front door, unzipped his jacket pocket, and pulled out a set of keys. Car keys.

“Hallelujah,” Silas muttered. “The man’s got wheels.”

He had hated the thought of abandoning the Audi on the street and following his target into the subway, and now he didn’t have to. Madison walked a block, pulled his low-rent teacher car out of a postage stamp lot attached to the school, and headed north on Central Park West.

Silas kept five car lengths behind him. Fifteen minutes later they had driven across Manhattan and onto the RFK Bridge toward Queens.

We’re not in Kansas anymore, Silas thought. Where the hell are you going? Not home. Vivek had confirmed that Madison lived in lower Manhattan.

It was just after 5:00 p.m. when Madison got off the Grand Central Parkway at Hillside Avenue. A mile later he turned onto Musket Street and pulled into the parking lot of the Silver Moon Diner.

Silas was starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake. He had decided that Hunter was being a jerk, and that tailing Madison would be a waste of time, but nobody drives this far for diner food. Something was going on.

Madison parked the car and went into the Silver Moon. The building had wraparound windows, and Silas watched as Madison scanned the room, saw what he was looking for, and joined someone at a booth that looked out onto the parking lot.

Silas pulled a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment so he could get a better look at Madison’s mystery dinner date.

“Son of a bitch,” he said as soon as the image of the disheveled, sleep-deprived teenager filled the lens. Tripp.

Silas grabbed his cell phone. His finger was on Hunter’s speed dial when he stopped. Too soon. First find out what’s going on.

Sitting in the diner window munching on a burger, Tripp Alden sure as hell didn’t look kidnapped. But he had been — Silas was positive. Even if the old lady had lied to the cops. Even if Hunter had lied to Janelle about the hundred million. Peter’s head in a box with the burner phone — that was the clincher.

The only thing Silas could figure was that Tripp had gotten away. The kidnapper was a bumbling amateur. The back doors of his van were held together with a bungee cord. He let the Puerto Rican kid slash him with a— The other kid. Where the hell was he?

Nothing made sense. Including the baby-faced teacher driving out to a diner in Queens. One thing Silas knew for sure. There was a million bucks in it for him if he killed Cain, but Alden wouldn’t pay him an extra dime if all he did was bring his son home.

There was only one way that Silas had a shot at a big payday. He had to talk to Tripp. Alone.

Almost on cue, Madison stood up. Tripp didn’t budge. He sat there, mopping up a puddle of ketchup with a handful of fries. Madison left the diner, walked five steps from the entrance, and lit up a cigarette.

He took three quick drags, put it out, pulled his collar up, and walked into the parking lot. Not toward his car, but straight for the Audi.

He made me, Silas thought. And now he’s going to hassle me.

Madison tapped on the driver’s side window, and Silas rolled it down. “Can I help you?” he asked.

In the last few seconds of his life, Silas Blackstone realized that he had completely misjudged Ryan Madison. The teacher was standing there, a nine-millimeter Glock in Silas’s face, a six-inch suppressor on the business end.

All of Blackstone’s instincts kicked in. Don’t do anything stupid. Try to calm him down. “Mr. Mad—” was all he managed to get out before the bullet drilled a tiny circle in his forehead and hurtled blood, brain, and the back of his skull all over the passenger seat of the Audi.

Madison tucked the gun back under his jacket, lowered himself to the ground, removed the GPS tracker from under Silas’s car, and put it in his pocket.

He looked around the parking lot. Twenty cars. No people. He took one final look at the bloody heap in the front seat of the Audi. “This was not part of my plan, Mr. Blackstone,” he said. “You have nobody to blame but yourself.”

He turned and headed back to the Silver Moon to get Tripp. It was time to get this kidnapping back on track.

Chapter 45

As soon as Madison stepped out of the diner for a smoke, Tripp dug into his pocket and pulled out Augie’s phone. After the calls to 911 and Barnaby, he’d kept it off. By now the cops would have the number, and they could ping him.

But he had to talk to someone. Madison was starting to scare him. As soon as Tripp told him what had happened, the teacher had leaned across the table, his eyes on fire. “What the hell were you thinking?” he growled.

Tripp tried to explain, but Madison could focus on only one thing. “So by some miracle you managed to lock them both up, you got away, and then you decided that the smartest thing you could do was to call the cops?”

“Mr. Madison, I couldn’t just leave them there. I knew you weren’t going to go back. They’d starve to death.”

“Very noble, Tripp. And unbelievably stupid. Now the cops will know you’re in on it.”

“No, they won’t. The guy was too out of it to know what happened, and Lonnie won’t rat me out. He’s going to say you stun-gunned them, and I got away.”

Madison exploded. “Me? You told him I was there?”

“Not you by name. Trust me: I just spent three days in a cage with him. Lonnie has no idea it’s you. We’re good.”

“No, Tripp, we’re not good, but I’ll just have to deal with it.” He looked out the window at the parking lot. “You stay here. I’m going out for a smoke.”

Tripp knew he didn’t have much time. He had to risk it. He turned on Augie’s phone and dialed the one number he had known by heart since he was a kid.

The voice on the other end said hello, and Tripp said, “Peter. It’s Tripp. I need you.”

“Tripp? This isn’t Peter. It’s Patrice.”

“Patrice, what are you doing in New York? And where’s Peter?”

“Oh, Lord,” Patrice said. “You don’t know.”

“What?”

A pause, then: “Tripp, there’s no easy way to tell you. Peter is dead.”

Tripp tried to speak, but he couldn’t. He choked back the tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Patrice said. “I know how much you loved him.”

“What did he die of?”

“He was murdered. Wednesday night when he drove to Riverside Park to pick you up, someone attacked him, and...” Patrice held back the details. “Someone attacked him and killed him.”

“Wednesday night?” Tripp said. “I wasn’t in the—” Even in his state of shock he could put the pieces together. Madison.

“Tripp, you and I should sit down and talk,” Patrice said. “Where are you?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m getting out of here.”

“Stay where you are. I’ll come and get you. I’ll take you home.”

“No.”

“I understand if you don’t want to go home. At least let me take you to the police. They need your help finding Peter’s killer.”

“I can’t talk to the police. Not yet.”

“Okay. Maybe I can help you. Why are you calling Peter?”

“He was holding something for me. I need to get it back, but if he’s... if he’s dead, I don’t know what to do. He was the only one I could trust.”

“I’ve known you all of your life,” Patrice said. “If you can trust my brother, you can trust me. What was Peter holding for you?”

“A flash drive.”

“I’ve just gone over all his things. I have his computer. But there was no flash drive.”

“It doesn’t look like a regular flash. It’s shaped like a—”

Madison ripped the phone from Tripp’s hand. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” he said, disconnecting the call. “You’re supposed to be a kidnap victim. Who are you calling?”

“Lonnie. I called Lonnie. I wanted to make sure he’s okay. Don’t worry. He knows I’m not kidnapped.”

And I know you’re lying. I took Lonnie’s phone away from him three days ago. Madison didn’t know who Tripp had called, but he wasn’t going to stick around and find out. He dropped a twenty on the table. “Come on. We have to go.”

They left the diner and walked out into the cold night air. “Can I at least get the phone back?” Tripp said.

“Jesus, kid, use your head,” he said. “You carry this thing in your pocket, and it’s like calling the cops to come find you. And I think you’ve called the cops enough for one day.”

He flung Augie Hoffman’s phone into the weeds on the far side of the parking lot. He shoved Tripp toward the Subaru. “Now move it. Get in the car.”

“I’m going. What’s the big hurry?”

Madison stole a quick look at the Audi with the open window. “No hurry. It’s dinnertime. I just want to get out of here before it gets crowded.”

Chapter 46

The fact that Kylie was planning to talk with a divorce lawyer was none of my business. And yet it was all I could think about. I wanted to know more, but that wasn’t going to happen as long as we were sitting in the office.

I looked at my watch. “It’s twenty after five,” I said. “I’m starved. What do you say we walk over to Gerri’s Diner and see if she’s got our lunch order ready?”

“Good idea,” she said. “I haven’t eaten anything since those chicken wings last night.”

I got up from my desk, and my phone rang.

“This is Patrice Chevalier,” the caller said. “I just got a call from Tripp Alden.”

I sat down and grabbed a pen. “Where is he?”

“He didn’t say where he was, but from the background noise it sounded like some kind of bar or restaurant.”

“How did Tripp know you were in New York?”

“He didn’t. He was calling Peter. When I told him my brother had been murdered, he sounded genuinely shocked. It was all he could do not to cry.”

“Did you ask him why he was calling Peter?”

It was a simple question. Patrice took too long to answer. “I... I was going to ask, but while we were talking someone snatched the phone away from him.”

“Someone?”

“All I heard was a man’s voice, and he was angry. Then we got cut off. I’m very concerned, Detective Jordan. I think Tripp is in over his head. I offered to help, but—”

“Can you check the caller ID on your cell? We can track the number.”

“Yes, I’ve done that. It’s a nine one seven number.” He gave it to me.

“Thank you, Dr. Chevalier. This is a big help.”

“Big enough for me to be kept in the loop from now on?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “As much as possible.”

I hung up and handed the phone number to Kylie. “Tripp just used this phone to call Peter.”

“Peter?” Kylie repeated.

“According to Patrice, Tripp had no idea Peter was dead. Patrice had to break the news to him. Have Matt Smith run this number.”

“I don’t need Matt,” she said. “I recognize it. It’s the phone Tripp took from Augie Hoffman. He used it to call 911. I have Matt pinging it, but so far nothing. The kid is smart enough to keep it off.”

Her phone rang. “Speak of the devil,” she said. She took the call. “Hey, Matt, Zach and I were just talking about you.”

She turned to me. “He’s got a location on Augie’s cell. Yeah, Matt, give me the address.”

“Drop everything.” I looked up. It was Cates.

“Give us a minute, Captain,” I said. “It looks like we’ve got a trace on Tripp Alden.”

“And I’ve got a body with a bullet in it. He’s in the parking lot of the Silver Moon Diner, 235-20 Hillside in Queens.”

Kylie had been listening to Matt with the phone pressed to one ear while trying to focus on Cates with the other. “Oh shit,” she said. “Matt, thanks. I’ve got to go.” She hung up.

“What’s your problem, MacDonald?” Cates said.

“Matt just tracked the cell phone Tripp Alden has been carrying. It’s in Queens. Hillside Avenue and Musket Street.”

“That’s where your body is,” Cates said.

“Then Tripp is dead,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” Cates said. “Dispatch said the victim is a white male, about forty-five years old, sitting behind the wheel of a late model Audi, license plate SDB. Looks like your old PI buddy Silas Blackstone was getting close to whoever killed Peter Chevalier.”

“Sounds like Silas got a little too close,” Kylie said, putting on her coat and heading toward the stairs.

I was right behind her. My lunch plans would have to wait.

Chapter 47

As it turned out, Kylie and I wound up at a diner after all. But instead of sitting in a cozy booth at Gerri’s, we were standing in a freezing parking lot at the Silver Moon. And instead of listening to Kylie bare her soul about her dying marriage, I got to listen to Chuck Dryden doing a postmortem on the late Silas Blackstone.

“Single nine-millimeter shot to the head,” he said, stating the obvious.

One shot was all it took. Going in, it made a relatively neat hole in the center of Blackstone’s forehead. But there’s nothing neat about exit wounds, and after working its way through bone, brain, and tissue, the bullet blew out the back of his skull, and left the inside of the Audi looking like a Crock-Pot had exploded.

“Blackstone knew the person who killed him,” Kylie said.

“And how did you determine that, Detective?” Dryden asked.

“If a stranger knocks on your car window, you only crack it open a few inches. This one is rolled all the way down. Plus Blackstone’s gun is still holstered, so he not only knew the killer, he probably trusted him.”

Chuck looked bemused. “Interesting theory, but I prefer more empirical evidence.”

“Then by all means get me some empirical evidence on the shooter,” she said. “Until then, I’ll just have to rely on unsubstantiated wild guesses.”

“Are you also guessing that Tripp did this?” I asked.

“A few hours ago I wouldn’t have thought Tripp would pull a stun gun on Augie Hoffman. Now I don’t know what he’s capable of. Somehow Blackstone figured out where he was, and he was staking him out. There’s a pair of binoculars on the seat. Let’s see if we can find out what he was looking at.”

We started with the woman who discovered the body. Leslie Stern had just pulled into the parking lot when she spotted the open window of Silas’s car. She took a peek inside, called 911, told the dispatcher what she’d seen, then ran to the diner to tell everyone else.

By the time the cops arrived, a throng of people had gathered, cell phones in hand, and #DeadGuyInAnAudi was trending on Twitter.

Next we talked to the manager of the diner, who was irate because it was Friday night and his parking lot was packed with looky-loos, but he couldn’t convert their curiosity into cash. NYPD had closed him down. There was no sense explaining to him that crime scene investigations trump commerce, so we showed him a picture of Silas Blackstone that we had pulled up from the DMV.

“Never saw him,” the sullen manager said.

“How about him?” I asked, showing him a photo of Tripp Alden.

He grumbled a “Yeah,” and I pressed him for details.

“He came in about four thirty. Said he was meeting someone and asked for a booth. It was early, so I gave him one by a window.”

“We’d like to talk to whoever waited on him.”

Her name was Denise, and she had the look of a veteran diner waitress who was always there to top off your coffee before you asked. But clearly Denise was more shaken than her boss. She practically cried when I showed her Tripp’s picture. “Oh God, is he the one that got shot?”

“No,” Kylie said. “What can you tell us about him?”

“He ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Pepsi. Nice kid. Said ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you.’ But that’s it. Teenage boys don’t talk it up when the waitress is old enough to be their mother.”

“Was he alone?”

“At first. Then this guy sits down. He was white, maybe thirty-five. I gave him a menu, but he said he’s not staying, so I didn’t pay much attention to him. At one point he went out. When he came back, I could see he was pissed at the kid for something. He tossed a twenty on the table, and the two of them left.”

The uniforms canvassed the crowd, and while the speculation ran from gang shooting to jealous husband, there was none of what Chuck Dryden had called empirical evidence.

He was waiting for us when we got back to the Audi. “This was under the front passenger seat,” Dryden said, holding up a laptop. “It belongs to Tripp Alden. I dusted it, but instead of tying it up in the lab, I’ll get it over to Matt Smith. I have a feeling he’ll find more on the inside than I will on the outside.”

A cell phone rang. It was Blackstone’s. I answered.

“Damn it, Silas,” Hunter Alden bellowed. “Where the hell are you?”

“Mr. Alden, this is Detective Zach Jordan. I have some bad news. Mr. Blackstone has been shot. He died instantly. I’m sorry for your loss.” I told him what had happened.

“A diner in Queens? What was he doing there?”

“It looks like he tracked down your son. Tripp had dinner here earlier.”

“Do you have him now? I’ll pick him up.”

“No, sir. A lot has happened since we spoke to you this morning.” I filled him in on Tripp’s escape from PS 114.

“So this guy had Tripp locked up,” Alden said. “The kid gets away, and instead of coming home, he takes off?”

“Yes, sir. We’re still looking for him, but he’s no longer considered a hostage. It appears he was in collusion with whoever was trying to shake you down, and your son is now a suspect in two homicides. So this time we expect a lot more cooperation. If you hear from him, I need you to contact us immediately, or you’ll be aiding and abetting—”

He hung up before I could finish.

Chapter 48

I stood there with the dead PI’s dead phone in my hand. “Son of a bitch cares even less about Blackstone than he did about Peter.”

“Some people are better than others at coping with having their valued employees murdered in parking lots,” Kylie said. “But let’s try to do something more productive than vent about Hunter Alden.”

“If you’re thinking ‘late lunch,’ it’s not going to happen. The diner’s closed.”

“No. I’m thinking ‘find Augie Hoffman’s phone.’ I just got a text from Matt. The signal he picked up before is holding. The phone is on, and it’s nearby.”

We pulled together a dozen uniforms and gave them all latex gloves. “Listen up, everybody,” Kylie said. “We’re looking for a cell phone. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a ringtone. If it’s on vibrate, it’s a lot harder to pick up, but not impossible. Half of you start along the Hillside Avenue perimeter, and the other half position yourselves in those weeds.”

The cops spread out, and Kylie and I joined the group lined up in a patch of frost-covered vegetation at the far end of the lot. “Okay,” she yelled, holding up her cell, “I’m activating my high-tech phone finder.”

She dialed Augie’s number. Five seconds passed. Then I heard music. I hear the train a-comin’. It’s rollin’ round the bend. Johnny Cash. “Folsom Prison Blues.” I knew I liked Augie Hoffman.

A cop fifteen feet away yelled out, “Got it.” He bent down, picked up the phone, and walked it over to me.

Kylie and I got back in the car, and she turned up the heater.

Augie had an ancient flip phone with no password protection. I pulled up the Recent Calls screen. “There’s a slew of incoming from Florida,” I said, “but the last four are outgoing. The first is to 911 at 2:09 p.m., which matches the time 911 dispatched units to the school. A minute later he dialed 411 — information.”

“Makes sense,” Kylie said. “It’s not his phone. He wouldn’t have his usual contacts. Who’d he call after information?”

“It’s a two-one-two number, so it’s Manhattan. He talked for two minutes, then the phone went silent for about three hours. The final call was at 5:17. I recognize the number. It’s the one he made to Patrice.”

“Hit redial on the two-one-two number,” Kylie said.

“No. It’s fifteen digits, which means Tripp dialed the ten-digit number first, got a recording, then responded to the voice prompts. You can’t duplicate that with auto redial. You have to punch it in the same way he did. Take out your phone, put it on speaker, and dial this number.”

I read off ten digits, and she dialed her iPhone. A machine answered.

“Thank you for calling Barnaby Prep. If you know your party’s extension, please dial it now. To access the school directory, dial nine.”

“Nine is the next number Tripp dialed,” I said. “Do it.”

She did, and another prompt came on. “Please enter the first four letters of your party’s last name.”

“Six, two, three, four,” I said.

She entered the numbers.

The extension rang, and voice mail answered. “Hello, this is Ryan Madison. I’m not in my office right now, but leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.”

Kylie hung up. “Madison? For a guy who says he doesn’t want to get involved...”

“He didn’t call Tripp,” I said. “Tripp called him.”

“Why?”

Before I could come up with an intelligent answer, she hit the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. “I’m an idiot,” she said. She lowered her head and began hitting the keys on her iPhone.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“If I were standing up, I’d be kicking myself.” She tapped away furiously, then she stopped and held the screen up for me to see.

“The waitress,” she said.

She bolted from the car, ran back to the diner, and pushed open the front door. I was right behind her.

“Denise,” she yelled.

Four waitresses were sitting at a table having coffee, most likely wondering if they’d get back to work that night.

Denise looked up. “Yes?”

Kylie shoved her phone in front of her. “Do you recognize this man?”

Denise took a quick look. “That’s him,” she said, giving Kylie back the phone. “That’s the one who left the diner with the kid.”

“Are you sure?” Kylie said, trying to give the waitress the phone back. “Look again. Take your time.”

“Honey, I don’t have to take my time. I know faces.”

“Please. It’s important.”

It wasn’t important to Denise. Whatever good will we might have established with her was long gone. She stood up and took the phone back reluctantly.

Kylie had gone to the Barnaby Prep website, drilled down to the faculty bios, and pulled up a picture of Ryan Madison. Denise stared at it.

“Okay, one more time,” she said, exasperated. “This is the guy I told you about before. He sat down with the kid. He didn’t want to order. Then he went outside for a cig — oh my God. He didn’t go for a smoke. He killed that man in the parking lot. No wonder you’re making such a big — oh my God.” She took another look at Madison. “That’s definitely him. That’s the guy you’re looking for.”

“You’re sure,” Kylie said.

“Honey,” Denise said, not able to take her eyes off the prep school teacher’s smiling face, “I have never been so sure of anything in my life.”

Chapter 49

Tripp was curled up in the front seat of the Subaru, pretending to sleep.

Peter was dead. Murdered. Wednesday night after they had staged the kidnapping. He wanted to scream at Madison, “Why did you kill him? What happened to ‘Nobody gets hurt’? What happened to ‘Your father deserves this, so it’s a victimless crime’?”

But he couldn’t say anything. He’d made enough mistakes. Trusting Madison was the dumbest thing he’d ever done in his life. The best thing to do now was to act normal until he could figure out how to get away.

It took them an hour to get into the city, and then they crept down Park Avenue in Friday night traffic, heading for the Holland Tunnel.

Tripp decided it was time to open his eyes. “Where are we?” he said.

“Somewhere in the middle of the rat race,” Madison said. “I can’t believe people do this every day.”

“I’ll turn on 1010 WINS and get a traffic report,” Tripp said, reaching for the radio dial.

Madison smacked his hand away. “Don’t,” he said. “They’re just going to tell me that traffic sucks, which I already know. I drive better without the radio.”

“Okay, man,” Tripp said. “No traffic report.” And no news stations.

It was another forty-five minutes before Madison drove into the parking lot of the Liberty Harbor Marina in Jersey City.

“Recognize that beast?” he said as he pulled the Subaru alongside a blue 1998 Dodge Caravan.

“Is that the piece of shit you had us in?” Tripp said.

“Don’t knock it,” Madison said. “I got it on Craigslist. Eight hundred bucks — as is. Plus the guy threw in a bungee cord to keep the back doors from flying open.”

“It would have helped if he threw in some shocks. It rides like a tank. Especially when you’re lying on the cold floor.”

“Oh, you poor spoiled rich kid. Next time I’ll kidnap you in a Maybach.”

Just the mention of the Maybach conjured up Peter. The cheeseburger roiled in Tripp’s stomach, and he felt like puking.

They walked down to the slip where Madison’s aging twenty-two-foot cabin cruiser was docked. “Too many people are looking for you,” he said as they boarded, “so until I tell you otherwise, this is your new home sweet home. A few ground rules: no contact with the outside world.”

“How could I? You took my cell phone. Can I at least have it back so I can play some games?”

“I took out the SIM card so they can’t track it. So no games, no email, no texts, no phone.”

“Can I have my wallet back?”

“You don’t need it,” Madison said. “You’re not going shopping. You’re not going anywhere.”

“So it sounds like now I really am a hostage,” Tripp said, faking a smile.

Madison didn’t smile back. “Don’t be cute. We’re in this together. But you’re running scared, and I’m trying to keep you from blowing this up in our faces. Here’s the deal. There’s no TV, no radio—”

“And no heat,” Tripp yelled, folding his arms and hugging his parka to his body. “Can’t we go to a hotel? It’s freezing on this tub, and I’m not exactly dressed for yachting.”

“Tough shit, Richie Rich. You try checking into a hotel, and you’ll be on a dozen security cameras before you get to your room. This boat was plan B. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t screwed up plan A, so stop bitching and get to bed. We’ve got three more lousy days, then the partnership is dissolved, and you can take your ninety million and spread it around like Johnny Fucking Appleseed.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll tell you what I won’t be doing,” Madison said. “I won’t be at Barnaby Prep kissing fat rich asses for a lousy forty-eight thousand a year. You got the top bunk. Lights out in five.”

Chapter 50

When you work high-profile cases, getting a search warrant is easy, even on a Friday night, and by eight thirty Kylie and I were heading downtown to see what we could dig up on Ryan Madison.

He lived in a four-story prewar building on the corner of East 4th Street and Avenue D in Alphabet City, about a half mile from where Tripp and Lonnie had been locked up.

The apartment fit the single-guy-living-alone pattern we’d seen before. Cluttered, but habitable. There were the predictable movie posters on the walls, shelves full of film books, and DVDs scattered everywhere. Adding to the ambiance, the entire place smelled like the bottom of an ashtray.

There was nothing in the living room to connect Madison to the crimes, but the bathroom was much more promising. There on the sink was a can of Bactine antiseptic spray, a roll of gauze, and another of adhesive tape. The wastebasket contained half a dozen long strips of bloodied gauze bandages.

“He was either shaving drunk,” Kylie said, “or some kid came at him with a box cutter.”

We headed straight for the kitchen trash can. Kylie popped the top, and we didn’t have to look too hard to find what we were searching for. A gray Yankees hoodie with blue trim. The left sleeve was slashed and thick with dried blood.

“Note to self,” I said. “Send lovely thank-you card to Fannie Gittleman at 530 West 136th Street.”

We checked the bedroom. There was a pile of clothes on the floor.

“Head to toe all black,” I said, “which matches the outfit Lonnie told us the kidnapper wore.”

Kylie laughed. “Zach, this is New York. All black isn’t exactly damning evidence. It’s a fashion statement.”

I opened the closet door. “Okay, then, how fashionable is a couple of boxes of surveillance and security equipment from Cheaters Spy Shop? What does Vogue say about that?”

“Let’s find this creep,” Kylie said.

Thirty-five thousand cops have a better chance than two, so we called the precinct and had them issue a BOLO. Then we called the lab and sent for some techs to tag and bag everything we thought we’d need in court.

The only thing we couldn’t figure out was Tripp Alden’s role in the murders.

“Is he a victim, an accomplice, or did he mastermind the whole operation?” Kylie said.

“Scratch that last one,” I said. “Whatever this kid did wrong, I can’t believe he planned or had anything to do with Peter’s murder. And based on what we heard at the Silver Moon, he might not even know about Silas getting killed.”

“He’s guilty of something.”

“We’re all guilty of something,” I said. “But I still can’t wrap my head around his motive. There’s got to be an easier way to get money from your billionaire father than to stage a kidnapping and ask for ransom.”

“At this point, I’m not sure I can wrap my head around anything,” Kylie said. “It’s ten p.m., and I haven’t eaten all day. Detectives shouldn’t try detecting when they’re running on fumes.”

“In that case, can I buy you some lunch?”

“Sure. Someplace quiet.”

“It’s Friday night in New York. Anyplace worth going to will be jammed with supercool people dressed in black.” And then, without thinking about it, I said, “How about my place? That’s quiet.”

She was as surprised to hear me say it as I was.

“Where have I heard that line before? The first time I ever went up to your place, all you had was half a bottle of cheap vodka, leftover pizza, and the new Radiohead album. Real class.”

“Hey, give me a little credit here. I’ve come a long way since the academy. I’ve got some chilled Stoli, we can order a fresh pizza, and I’m sure I can download whatever hip sounds you kids are into these days.”

“You’re on,” she said. “But same ground rules as last night. We’ve put in a fifteen-hour day, and the weekend is going to be even more intense. I have to give my brain a rest. No shop talk. Let’s just keep it personal.”

I shrugged. “Okay with me.”

It was better than okay. For the past ten hours I’d been dying to know if Kylie was going to dump Spence and jump back into the dating pool. It doesn’t get more personal than that.

Chapter 51

By 11:00 p.m., Kylie was sitting barefoot on my sofa, legs tucked under her, slice of pizza in one hand, tilting a bottle of Blue Moon to her lips with the other.

Discussing the case was off the table, so we slid comfortably into rehashing our days at the academy, laughing about the pranks we had played, and carefully avoiding any reference to our emotional baggage.

But for me, it was in the air, and the old feelings crept back quickly. Probably because I’d never totally been able to shake them.

Kylie was on her second beer when I got around to the subject that had been gnawing at me all day.

“I know Spence has put you through the wringer with his drug problem, but divorce — that’s pretty drastic.”

“Nothing is drastic yet,” she said. “I told you, I’m just testing the waters. I want to understand my options.”

“You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do,” I said. It was meant to be supportive. Or, at best, noncommittal. But Kylie responded like it was judgmental.

“Hey,” she snapped, “I love Spence, but if he can’t kick it, I’m not sticking around. That was the deal I made with him when we got married ten years ago, and it’s the same deal today. Do I sound like a coldhearted bitch?”

“No, not at all,” I said, making sure she knew whose side I was on. “You sound like a woman who’s already given Spence a second chance. He blew it. And now he’s blowing his third.”

“Exactly. Three strikes. I’m a cop, Zach. I can’t be married to a drug addict.”

“Whatever you do, I got your back.”

I heard a key in the front door, and my stomach dropped. Timing is everything, and mine was disastrous.

The door opened. It was Cheryl. “Well, hello. I thought I heard voices.”

“You did. It was us,” I said, hoping I didn’t look as guilty as I sounded. “I thought you were spending the night in Westchester.”

“Mildred passed.”

“I’m so sorry,” Kylie said.

“Me too.” I stood up and gave Cheryl a half-assed hug.

“At this point it was a blessing. Fred is with Mildred’s sister and some of his cousins, so I thought I’d come home and go back for the wake on Tuesday. I came to your apartment because I wanted to make up for blowing off dinner last night. But if you guys are working, I’ll go to my place.”

“No, no — working is the one thing we’re definitely not doing,” Kylie said. “That’s been the pact two nights in a row. Strictly social. Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Cheryl said, reaching for a slice of pizza.

“Can I get you a beer?” I said, heading toward the fridge.

“Please,” she said. “And hurry.”

I brought her back a beer from the kitchen. She took a long swallow and exhaled slowly. “I can tell you right now that one won’t be enough,” she said. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

“Same for us,” I said. “Why don’t I pop downstairs and make a quick beer run?”

I dashed out of the apartment before they could answer. I didn’t even bother with a jacket.

I replayed the scene in my head, trying to picture what Cheryl saw when she opened the door. Oh look, there’s Zach on his sofa, all nice and cozy, sipping beers with his ex-girlfriend, totally confident that his current girlfriend is out of town comforting her dying friend.

Not a pretty picture. Even so, there was one brief moment when I had a shot at redemption. It was when Cheryl said, “If you guys are working, I’ll go to my place.”

And then Kylie nailed the coffin shut.

Hell, no, we’re not working. We’re just having fun. That’s been the deal two nights in a row. What? He didn’t tell you about the trip down memory lane we took last night? It was magical. Just Kylie and Zach — the same asshole who bitched and moaned about you spending any time with Fred.

I bought two more six-packs at the bodega, but deep down inside I knew that no amount of alcohol was going to salvage my evening.

It was the first thing I’d been right about all night.

Chapter 52

“Time to poke the bear,” Madison said, zipping up his jacket.

Tripp was under a blanket staring at the ceiling. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve learned from your father’s mistakes. Handle all your business transactions in private. I’m going out. You’re not.”

He grabbed a clean burner phone and padlocked the cabin door.

It was a clear, crisp night, and the moon lit the way to the Subaru. There was no sense warming it up. This would be a short call. He lit a cigarette and dialed Hunter Alden’s number.

Ten seconds into the conversation, it was clear that Hunter’s legendary negotiating skills were impaired by exhaustion, booze, and rage.

He flew into a tirade. “You should have taken the five million I offered last night. Now that I know my shit-for-brains son is in on it, you get nothing.”

“News flash, Hunter. Tripp is not just in on it. The whole thing was his idea.”

“Bullshit. He’s already got a half-a-billion-dollar trust fund and a shitload more down the road. Why would a kid like that need another hundred million?”

“To punish you, Hunter. And to make reparations to your victims.”

“Reparations? Is that his ingenious blackmail scheme? Give me your money, and I won’t tell your secrets? But once I get the money, I’ll give it away, and it will be on the front page of every newspaper on the planet.”

“What can I say? The kid’s an idealist.”

“Well he can shove his ideals up his ass. I don’t have any victims, and you’re not getting any money. Fuck you and Tripp. You can kill him for all I care.”

“I’d be happy to accommodate you,” Madison said. “But it will cost you a hundred million dollars.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet? I thought surely by now you would have grasped the finer points of my brilliant business model.”

“Illuminate me, asshole.”

“Tripp knows everything. As soon as you pay the ransom, he’ll go straight to Homeland Security, tell them what a bad daddy he has, and put you behind bars for the rest of your life. I didn’t kidnap Tripp so I could send him home once you pay the money. I’m only planning to let Tripp go if you don’t pay me.”

Hunter inhaled sharply, audibly.

“Aha... that sounds like a gasp of enlightenment. It’s quite simple, Hunter. If you fail to see the wisdom of my business proposition, I’ll cut my losses, turn your son loose, and within a few hours, men with buzz cuts and badges will appear at your front door. Need I go on?”

Hunter didn’t say a word.

“Your silence is heartening. It means you’re finally processing the upside of my proposal. Shall I text you the number of my account in the Caymans?”

“These things take time,” Hunter said.

“I come from humble beginnings, but I’ve familiarized myself with a few of the basic rules of international banking. It’s now almost midnight on Friday. The Fed reopens for immediate, final, irrevocable wire transfers at nine p.m. on Sunday. That gives you forty-five hours to contemplate your future, my future... and of course Tripp’s future.”

“Spell it out for me,” Hunter said. “Exactly what am I buying?”

“Total silence. As soon as the wire transfer clears, Tripp and I will take off on a little sea voyage, and you’ll never hear from either of us again. Good night, Leviticus.”

He hung up and walked back to the dock. Silver beams of moonlight streaked the Hudson, and looking east, he could see the tip of Manhattan. The heart of the financial district. The Street. Home of the robber barons.

He tossed the cell phone into the water and watched it sink without a ripple. Then he extended his arm, stuck up his middle finger, and yelled into the cold, quiet night.

“My name is Ryan Madison, and you can all kiss my hundred-million-dollar ass.”