Patterson Array - NYPD Red

But real police work is nothing like TV. The computer picked out twenty-three possibles. Eleven extras, including two women, three crew members, and nine from the control group, including Leonardo DiCaprio.

“This whole facial recognition thing isn’t nearly as foolproof as people might think,” Smith said.

“Even so,” Kylie said, “let’s go pay Leo a visit and see if he has an alibi.”

I finally got to sleep at 2:00.

At 4:15, my cell phone rang. I hit the light and looked at the caller ID. It was Kylie.

“This better be good, K-Mac,” I said.

“This isn’t K-Mac,” the voice on the other end said. “It’s Spence. I guess with a name like Spence Harrington, I can’t have a cool street name like K-Mac. Maybe Spennington.”

“Is Kylie okay?” I said.

“Yeah, she’s exhausted and I hated to wake her. Me, I’m a night owl. This is when I do my best thinking. I found your number in her cell, so I figured I’d give you a ring while it’s still fresh in my mind. Maybe kick it around. Just you and me, guy to guy.”

I was half-awake now, but I still had no idea what he was talking about. “Okay, what is it?” I said.

“You know I’m not a cop, right?”

I grunted in the affirmative.

“But I make a damn good living producing cop shows on TV,” he said, “and I have an idea I want to bounce off you.”

“An idea for a TV show?”

“God, no, Zach. About these murders. You should have invited me into that powwow with the mayor. I might have come up with it earlier, but I was outside with the rest of the civilians.”

“Spence, I’m sorry you had to stay outside, but-”

“Don’t worry about it. Kylie explained. Anyway, you want to hear my theory?”

Did I have a choice?

“Sure,” I said.

“Now, I’m just pitching,” he said, “but listen to this. New York is trying to attract LA production money. They invite all these Hollywood wheeler-dealers to fly in, and suddenly they’re being bumped off. Who benefits from these murders?”

I was working on two hours sleep. Even if there were an intelligent answer, I wouldn’t have come up with it.

“I give up, Spence. Who benefits?”

“The City of Angels. Los freakin’ Angeles, California.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” I said.

“Making movies and TV shows is LA’s bread and butter,” he said. “They don’t want to lose a crumb of it to New York, so they’re trying to prove that New York is not a safe town for moviemakers. And listen to this-it’s working already. Shelley Trager is having a blowout party on his yacht Wednesday. It’s the premiere screening of my new TV show, and let me tell you it’s the must-have invite of the whole week. As of tonight, six people canceled. They said they had to fly back to LA. They’re full of shit. They’re afraid of New York, and they’re running back home to Mama. I know it sounds far-fetched, but all great plots have these kinds of quirky hooks to them. Look at Lost -it was off-the-wall crazy, but it ran six seasons. Like I said, I’m just tossing out an idea here. What do you think?”

“Spence, I don’t think a city-even one with a good motive-could be behind these killings,” I said. “Some person has to be behind it all. Have you narrowed it down to a human suspect?”

“No. That’s your job. You and K-Mac,” he said. “The obvious places to start are the California Film Commission, the LA Chamber of Commerce-hell, it might go all the way up to city hall.”

“That’s an intriguing thought, Spence,” I said. For a TV show, maybe. But hard to believe in real life that the mayor of Los Angeles would put a contract out on three people in New York.

I thanked him, promised I’d talk to Kylie about it in the morning, and hung up. Thirty minutes later, I was still wide awake. Maybe because I was running all the events of the past twenty-four hours through my shit sorter. Maybe because I was trying to make sense of Spennington’s phone call.

Or maybe because I knew Cheryl Robinson was probably already at the diner on her second cup of coffee.

ALT. SCENE: INT. MICKEY PELTZ’S LOFT-LONG ISLAND CITY-NIGHT

The Chameleon enters. He seems genuinely happy to see MICKEY. They talk about the old days, about prison life, and finally Peltz gets to the point. He never says blackmail. He calls it “hush money”-a little something to help him get back on his feet. The Chameleon says he can pay part now and have the rest in a day. He reaches into his pocket for the money, pulls out a gun, and shoots Mickey between the eyes.

EXT. MICKEY PELTZ’S LOFT-LONG ISLAND CITY-NIGHT

The Chameleon is across the street from Mickey’s building. Suddenly the dark, quiet street lights up as the explosion blows out the windows, destroying the loft, and cremating everything in it.

“ARE YOU SURE he’ll have something you can use to blow the place up?” Lexi had asked when they finished.

Gabe shrugged. “He just got out of prison. He may not even have a quart of milk in the fridge.”

“Maybe you should just shoot him the second he opens the door.”

“No,” Gabe said. “I have to make sure he didn’t tell anyone. Mickey’s a nonstop talker. That’s how I met him. We were shooting some piece-of-crap terrorist-on-an-airplane movie. I was a passenger and Mickey had to blow off the cockpit doors. I asked if I could watch him set up, and before you know it, Mick is giving me a short course in special effects. I figured this guy is a gold mine of tech stuff I can use one day, and I struck up a friendship. By the time he went off to prison, I kind of liked the old guy. It’ll be nice to catch up with him.”

“Catch up. Find out what he knows. Then kill him,” Lexi said.

“Looks like you’ve been reading the script.”

Gabe took the number 7 train to Flushing, got off at 33rd Street, and walked to Skillman Avenue. He was glad he had a gun. A guy could get rolled in a neighborhood like this.

Nothing had changed since he had last been here. He wondered how Mickey managed to keep the place the whole time he was in jail. He’d have to ask him during the nice-to-see-you-again part of the conversation.

He rang the bell and identified himself over the intercom. Mickey buzzed him in.

The ground floor reeked of garbage and piss. He waited for Mickey to send the elevator down, then rode it up to the fifth floor, patting the compact Walther PPK tucked into the pocket of his windbreaker.

The door to the elevator opened directly into the loft, and Gabe walked in.

“Hey, I’m over here at my workbench,” Mickey called out from the opposite end of the space, forty feet away.

Gabe crossed the length of the room. Peltz was sitting on a wooden stool. He had aged at least ten years in the past four. His shoulders were stooped, and his hair and skin were both ashy gray.

“One thing’s for sure. You didn’t get too much sun,” Gabe said.

“Grab a seat,” Mickey said. “This is cool. You really got to see this.”

There was only one place to sit-a threadbare old armchair-and Gabe lowered himself into it and sat back. “What’s so cool that I got to see?”

“This,” Mickey said, holding up a chrome cylinder about the size of a penlight. “It’s a pressure-release trigger. Watch what happens when I click it.” He pressed the silver button at the top of the cylinder and held it in place with his thumb.

“Nothing,” Gabe said. “Nothing happened.”

“Exactly. But guess what happens when I lift my thumb off the button?”

Gabe didn’t have to guess. He knew. He started to stand.

“Don’t move,” Mickey said. “The seat cushion is lined with C4. The instant I release this button, your ass will be blown to kingdom come.”