Patterson Array - NYPD Red

Under normal circumstances, a bunch of New Yorkers might begrudgingly get out of the way if a cop yelled “Coming through, coming through!” But tonight, the circumstances were far from normal. As soon as the Molotov cocktail hit, people stampeded for safety. To make matters worse, they didn’t all agree on which direction was safe. It was every man for himself, and they pushed, shoved, and elbowed frantically, not caring if the person they bowled over was a pregnant woman or a cop chasing a lunatic.

Several of our uniforms broke through the crowd and made their way toward 51st Street.

“He doesn’t have a prayer,” Brainard said.

Then our screen went purple.

“Shit-he tossed a smoke bomb,” Brainard said.

The smoke screen wouldn’t win any special effects awards, but it worked.

Brainard pulled back to a wide shot.

“There he is,” I said.

Tie-Dye was heading for the maze of food carts that had taken over the south side of 51st Street.

“Sir, we’ve got a bird’s-eye view, but our guys at street level can’t see two feet in front of them.”

“But they can look up,” I said, keying the mic.

“Suspect is in the row of food carts on Five One,” I said. “He’s between a yellow-and-blue Sabrett hot dog umbrella and a red-and-white that says ‘Falafel.’”

The smoke was settling quickly, and I could see several of our uniforms aggressively pushing their way through the mob toward the target umbrellas.

The cop in the lead was ten feet away when it happened.

A motorcycle came roaring out from between the two carts and headed east on 51st Street.

“Damn,” Brainard said. “This guy is good.”

“Not as good as we are. We got him now. Command to all units,” I said into the mic. “I need a total lockdown on all vehicular traffic, Forty-second to Fifty-seventh Streets. Ninth Avenue to Third. Suspect is on a bright green Kawasaki Ninja rice rocket.”

The man on the motorcycle made a rubber-burning right turn and headed the wrong way on Sixth Avenue. The Ninja was at full throttle and was making a beeline for the flaming limo.

“Look at that crazy bastard,” Brainard said. “Where the hell is he going?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “The entire grid is locked up tight. It’s impossible for him to get away.”

And then, right before my very eyes, the son of a bitch did the impossible.

Standing there on the scaffold with the Molotov in his hand, Gabriel the director gave a last-minute pep talk to Gabriel the star.

“This is the money shot. You only get one take, but you can do it. You’ve done it a thousand times.”

Gabriel the actor rolled his eyes. A thousand? He’d gotten it right only six times. Six out of thirty-two. Tossing a flaming bottle onto a moving car isn’t as easy as people think. Lexi had rehearsed him, but without the fire. And instead of a car, they had used a shopping cart they took from the parking lot at Pathmark.

He thought he could use some more practice, but she said, “No, you never want to over-rehearse.”

They had made the napalm at home. It was ridiculously easy. Just mix gasoline with Styrofoam and put it in a glass bottle.

Lexi, of course, had to complicate it.

“Add some vodka,” she said.

“What’ll that do?”

“Probably nothing. It’s just a little cinematic symbolism. Brad Schuck-vodka-get it?”

What the hell. He added a shot of Stoli.

And now it was showtime. The Hummer came rolling up Sixth Avenue.

“And action,” the director called out.

As soon as the bottle left his hand, he knew that the thirty-third time was the charm. Perfect throw, perfect arc, perfect landing.

The explosion was louder, brighter, and more spectacular than he expected. He only wished he had time to stay and enjoy Brad Schuck’s final performance, but he’d see it all on video tonight.

Scrambling down the scaffold, The Chameleon morphed from bland blue to brightly colored tie-dye, and bolted for the Kawasaki.

The smoke bomb was Lexi’s idea. They had argued about the color. He thought red smoke would stick it to the NYPD Red cops. But she reminded him that there’s also NYPD blue.

“Red plus blue equals purple,” she said. “Perfect way to stick it to them both.”

Never argue Lexi logic. It didn’t matter. He was just glad she came up with the idea, because as it turned out the smoke saved his ass.

The Chameleon knew all the great movie motorcycle scenes-Schwarzenegger on the Harley Fat Boy in Terminator 2, McQueen on the Triumph TR6 in The Great Escape, and now yours truly on the Kawasaki Ninja.

He jumped on the cow, pinned the throttle, and peeled out. Most of the cops had moved to the inside of the barricade to try to control the freaked-out civilians, so it was clear sailing as he tore down Sixth Avenue.

He didn’t have much time. It was only a matter of seconds before they locked up Midtown, river to river.

At 48th Street he stood up, took his weight off the front wheel, and headed for the one place they wouldn’t think to seal off.

Underground.

He pointed the bike at the entrance to the D train and barreled down the stairs.

Most subway stations would be a dead end, but the Rockefeller family had been thoughtful enough to build a twenty-acre concourse underneath their vast complex of skyscrapers. Lined with shops, restaurants, and art galleries, it connected all the office buildings from Fifth Avenue to Sixth, from 48th Street to 51st.

It was a magnet for tourists, a year-round temperature-controlled transportation hub for commuters, and of course an ingenious escape route for a man on a motorcycle trying to outwit the police.

There were no cops down here. Just wide-eyed sightseers who smiled when they saw the Kawasaki cruising slowly along the marble corridors, and jaded New Yorkers who clearly didn’t give a shit.

INT. UNDERGROUND CONCOURSE AT ROCKEFELLER CENTER-NIGHT

The Chameleon pulls the bike into a blind corner behind Value Drugs and covers it with a tarp. They’ll find it eventually, but there’s no way to trace it back to him. The plates are stolen, and the ID numbers have been acid-washed off.

Next stop: the men’s room at Starbucks. He emerges two minutes later, a shaggy-haired college kid wearing Harry Potter glasses and a T-shirt that says SAVE THE PLANET. IT’S THE ONLY ONE WITH BEER.

He walks to the subway entrance, swipes his MetroCard, and steps out onto the platform just as a downtown D train pulls in. It’s crowded and he squeezes in with the rest of the straphangers-just another New Yorker headed home after a busy day.

It all went smoothly except for the train. It wasn’t pulling in when he got to the station. It never is. He walked casually toward the far end of the platform checking out his fellow travelers.

And then he saw her.

Hilary Swank.

Not the real Hilary. It was a poster for her latest film.

He walked up to it.

“Hey, Hilary,” he said. “Remember me? The jerk at the bar? Not anymore, baby.”

Not. Any. More.

The command center was crammed to capacity, including Kylie, Cates, the commissioner, the mayor, and Irwin Diamond, the deputy mayor in charge of damage control.

“I invite half of Hollywood to visit the fine film production facilities of New York City,” His Honor said, “and on Day One we’ve got two dead and another one circling the drain? How is that possible?”

Like Reitzfeld had said earlier at Silvercup, shit floats up. The commissioner fielded the question. “This guy is good, sir. He’s a master of disguise, he knows how to blend in, he’s planned every killing, including his exit strategy, and he’s got balls the size of Brooklyn. We had a hundred cops looking for him, and he sweet-talked his way right into the middle of them, and rode out on a Kawasaki.”