Patterson Array: NYPD Red

“Don’t be a racist,” Lexi said. “It’s not nice. They’re called Asian.”

“I thought Asians were supposed to be smart. This guy was an idiot. He asked me questions like ‘Did you go anywhere near the prop table?’ It’s the same as saying ‘Did you put real bullets in the gun so it would kill Ian Stewart?’ Of course I’m going to say no. I think he took one look at me and decided I wasn’t even worth the trouble. Like, you’re not good enough to be the killer. You’re just some extra who sits in the background and mumbles walla-walla-walla all day long for two hundred and twenty-five bucks. You know what, Lex, he’s the goddamn racist.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Tonight you’ll show them who the real star is. You’re gonna rock. I got your wardrobe and your makeup all ready.”

“Thanks.”

“Gabe…”

He knew by the way she said his name what was coming next.

“No,” he said. “Out of the question. Not this scene. It’s too dangerous. You can’t come with me.”

“Please,” she said. “It’s no fun sitting around wondering what’s going to happen.”

“You can watch it on TV,” he said. “Just turn on the E! channel and you’ll see it all.”

“But I want to see it with you.”

“Put the DVR on and record it,” he said. “When I get home, we can watch it together.”

She lowered her head and sulked. “Not as much fun.”

He dipped his finger into her champagne glass, scooped out a small dollop of cold creamy chocolate, and rubbed it gently against her left nipple. He leaned into her and slowly, tantalizingly, ran his tongue around her breast until he finally arrived at the sweet chocolate center. He sucked it off and she squirmed.

“I promise you’ll get to do a scene, but this one is too chancy,” he said.

“You promise I’ll get one?”

“I swear.”

She kissed him. “You want dinner when you come home?”

“I’ll bring back pizza,” he said. “All you have to do is wash out those champagne glasses.”

“For what?”

“Champagne,” he said, kissing her other breast. “Tonight, we’ll be drinking champagne.”

Kylie and I were in our office on the third floor. And when I say “our office,” I mean the flat gray, high-ceilinged half a football field, filled with two long rows of institutional desks, very few partitions, and even less privacy.

Being a cop has its perks, but luxurious accommodations have never been one of them.

“The captain has me on the inside, you on the outside,” Kylie said. “Are you okay about splitting up?”

For a second I thought she was kidding, but she wasn’t. We were partners, and for Kylie that meant working as close to each other as possible.

“It makes sense,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”

“I can’t believe this is my first day at NYPD Red, and I’m going to work in an evening gown,” she said.

“Let’s not tell Omar,” I said. “I wouldn’t want him to get jealous.”

“You realize I’m going to have to explain to Spence that I’m wearing a wire,” she said. “I can’t just talk into thin air.”

“Actually, he’ll be good cover for you,” I said. “You can talk to the Command Center, but it’ll look like the two of you are just having a normal conv-”

I heard her heels click-clacking on the tile floor, and then I saw her walking toward my desk. Cheryl Robinson. She saw me see her, and she smiled-second time today, that killer smile that lights up a room, even one as drab as this.

“Hi, Zach,” Cheryl said. “This must be your new partner, Detective MacDonald.”

She reached out, and the two women shook hands. I don’t know why I felt uncomfortable, but I tried not to let it show.

“Cheryl Robinson, department psychologist.”

“Kylie MacDonald, NYPD Red probie. I hope you’re not here to pick my brain, because it’s on serious overload, plus I have to get home and make sure the gown I’m wearing tonight covers my ankle holster.”

“I’m guessing you’re working the crowd at Radio City,” Cheryl said.

“The in crowd,” Kylie said. “It was part of my plan for the evening anyway-one of the joys of being the wife of a TV producer. Now I’m getting paid to do it, and if we’re lucky, Zach and I will catch our first madman together. Win-win. It’s nice to meet you, Cheryl, but I’ve got to run home and suit up.”

“Break a leg,” Cheryl said.

We watched Kylie leave. “In case you hadn’t noticed,” I said, “she loves being a cop.”

Cheryl just nodded.

“Come on, Doc, if you’re going to make a house call, give me a little more than a head nod.”

“I’m off duty,” she said. “I just stopped by to see you personally.”

“Oh…well, here I am.” Still uncomfortable. Still not sure why.

“When we had coffee this morning, we were both looking at a tough day. I did pretty well with mine. And you helped. I just wanted to say thanks for the advice.”

“It was good advice. I wish I’d thought of it myself.”

“I know I’m the one who said it, but you’re the one who helped me hear it. So thanks.”

“Any time.”

“I really did stop by just to say thank you,” Cheryl said, “but as long as I’m here, how’s the new-partner dynamic going?”

“We had two homicides in less than eight hours, so even if I wanted to dwell on the past, I don’t have the time.”

“I guess there’s an upside to everything,” Cheryl said. “Maybe that means you’ll get a good night’s sleep.”

“We’re on high alert tonight,” I said. “The way things are shaping up, I’m not sure if I’ll get any sleep.”

“In that case,” she said, turning on the million-dollar smile, “I’ll see you at the diner in the morning.”

NYPD has dozens of command posts on wheels. The one parked on the corner of 50th Street and Sixth Avenue is the biggest, baddest one in the fleet. It’s a joint product of American, British, and Israeli ingenuity-a two-million-dollar, forty-eight-foot-long rolling nerve center affectionately known as Copzilla.

“Hard to believe we need all this hardware to catch one guy,” Captain Cates said.

“If it is one guy,” I said.

Cates had changed from her civvies to her dress blues and stopped by before heading out to spend the rest of the night within screaming distance of the mayor, who wanted to be-quote- kept in the goddamned loop every goddamned step of the goddamned way.

“I just spoke to Mandy Sowter at the Public Information Office,” Cates said. “Ian Stewart led the evening news. Mainstream media is still calling it a ‘tragic incident that’s under investigation,’ but the tabloids are hitting hard on the Jealous Wife Shoots Cheating Husband in Front of Hundreds of Witnesses angle.”

“Technically, they’re both right,” I said.

“Sid Roth’s autopsy isn’t public yet, so most people haven’t connected his death with Stewart’s. But the bloggers have picked up on TMZ’s poison story, and now the social networks are buzzing with serial-killer rumors. You’d think that the threat of a murderer on the loose would keep people as far from the red carpet event as possible, but look at that mob out there.”

“Die-hard fans,” I said. “If their favorite celebrity is going to get gunned down, they don’t want to miss it.”

“Even if a couple of stray bullets come their way?” Cates said.

“Like I said, die…hard…fans.”

Cates left, and I sat down at the console with Jerry Brainard, a civilian dispatcher who knew every inch of Copzilla’s hundreds of miles of microfiber.