Patterson Array - NYPD Red

“How do you know we can trust him?”

“Lex, I know him. I’ve worked with him before. He’s not going to screw us, and he can get his hands on everything we need. Think of him as part of the production team.”

“How much does he want?”

“Around thirty thousand. But only five of it’s for him. The rest is for the C4.”

“I don’t know why you’re so excited,” Lexi said. “It’s still thirty thousand more than we’ve got.”

“It’s too good to pass up,” he said. “I can get the money.”

“What are you going to do? Stick up a bank?”

“No. A production company.”

Lexi gave him the frowning-schoolmarm look that always cracked him up. Head down, lips tightly pursed, chin tucked to her chest, and her index finger drawn across the bridge of her nose so she could look at him over fake granny glasses.

“Oh, really, young man,” she said in a high-pitched but stern voice that was a cross between Bea Arthur and Lisa Simpson. “Do you actually think you can walk into Paramount, or Fox, or MGM, point a gun at them, and single-handedly walk out with a bag full of money?”

“No, ma’am,” he answered, laying on his Arkansas schoolboy accent. “’Twouldn’t be none of them big-ass studios. It’d be much smaller. And ’twouldn’t be just me by my lonesome neither. I got me a partner in crime.”

Lexi’s face changed, and she slipped out of character. She sat down on the edge of the bed, hurt, deflated. “You and Mickey?” she said, her eyes watery. “He’s your partner now?”

“No, dummy,” Gabe said. “I’m talking about me and you.”

Lexi jumped from the bed. “You and me? Really? Are you serious?”

“I told you that you’d be getting a scene to play. This is it.”

“Give me the details. Tell me everything.”

“Remember last week when I was an extra in that courtroom movie? I was Juror Number Seven. We shot it on location down on Chambers Street.”

“I remember,” she said.

“I got friendly with the line producer, Jimmy Fitzhugh. We hung out. Talked motorcycles. He’s got a Zook-a brand-new Boulevard. Great wheels. I’m thinking, since I had to get rid of the Kawasaki, maybe when this is over, I’ll get me one too.”

“Anyway…,” Lexi said.

“Anyway, they’re shooting uptown this week at Fordham University, and the production trailer is parked on West Sixty-second. Every morning Jimmy gets on his bike early so he can cruise in from Rockaway and beat the traffic.”

“Where’s the money, Gabe?”

“He keeps it in the trailer.”

She shook her head. “Not thirty thousand. They don’t keep a shitload of cash around to pay the union guys on payday anymore. Now they write checks, and a check cashing service comes in with bags of money and a couple of armed guards.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’m not still playing the dumb hillbilly schoolboy, Lexi. I’m not saying we should go up against a couple of trigger-happy rent-a-cops. Jimmy Fitzhugh has cash in his trailer, and it’s not there to pay the union guys.”

“Then what’s it for?”

“Coke.”

“Get out of here.”

“Jimmy’s boss has money up the wazoo,” Gabe said. “He also likes to party hearty, and nose candy is always on the menu. But the boss man is too high-profile to risk getting caught doing a transaction, so if a line producer wants to work for him, part of his job is to score the dope. Jimmy told me he’s been doing it three years now. Never a problem, and the big guy always gives him hazard pay.”

“Pretty sweet setup. How do we get the money?”

“Jimmy shows up at the trailer. I stick a gun to his head. And I know for sure he won’t put up a fight. It’s not his money, and if it gets stolen, I bet the boss doesn’t even report it to the cops, because they might figure out what he was using it for.”

“What do I do?”

“It’s your big break, kid,” Gabe said. “You get a speaking part. Jimmy knows me, which means he could easily recognize my voice. So I can’t say a word. You just tell him to hand over the money, then you play lookout while he fills up the bag. Once we have the cash, I pay Mickey, and I guess you know what happens after that.”

Lexi grinned. “Yeah. Kaboom.”

I got to Gerri’s Diner a few minutes after 5:00. Business was brisk, but they weren’t so busy that I couldn’t eyeball every booth, every table, and every counter stool. Cheryl wasn’t in, at, or on any of them.

“You want some breakfast, Zach?”

It was Gerri Gomperts herself. Gerri is a Force of Nature-tiny enough to fit into a twenty-gallon soup pot and tough enough to single-handedly take on a junkie who was so strung out that he tried to rob a diner around the corner from a police precinct. Turned out Gerri didn’t need a cop. She whacked him across the forehead with a hot spatula. The poor guy needed forty stitches before they could even book him.

“No thanks, Gerri,” I said. “Just a large coffee to go.”

“We’re all out of coffee to go,” she said. “We only have coffee you can drink here.”

I looked at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, Zach. I’m meddling. It’s what I do. Now go sit in that corner booth over there till that gawjus lady shrink comes out of the restroom. She just ordered breakfast.”

I sat at the booth and two minutes later the restroom door opened and the shrink stepped out. I had to agree with Gerri. Cheryl was gawjus.

“You again,” she said, sitting across from me. “I saw the mayor’s press conference last night, so I’m not surprised you didn’t get much sleep.”

“It wasn’t the mayor who woke me up at four in the morning,” I said.

“Don’t tell me your new partner is still keeping you awake.”

“No,” I said, “this time it’s her husband.”

I told her Spence’s middle-of-the-night theory, sparing no detail. “And when I finally said to him that the actual city of Los freakin’ Angeles can’t be the criminal mastermind behind these murders, and I asked him if he’s got a lead on a human suspect, guess what he says?”

She smiled. “I’m going to go with…‘That’s your job, Detective Jordan.’”

I pounded my hand on the tabletop and the silverware jumped. “That’s exactly what he said. Damn, you’re good.”

“Thanks, but that was too easy. The way you set it up, there was only one answer.”

“So what do you call that-you know, what Spence is doing?” I asked. “Is it passive-aggressive behavior?”

“I don’t think so. He sounds pretty genuine. I think he really wants to help.”

“I appreciate it,” I said, “but there are four million people in LA. Why doesn’t he call me once he’s narrowed it down?”

“The mayor made the usual promises last night about working around the clock, blah, blah, blah, and bringing about a swift conclusion to this tragedy,” she said. “Where are we really?”

“Somewhere between desperate and deep shit. We don’t even have enough on this guy to ask you to do a profile.”

“I’m sure you’ve already figured out that he’s someone on the periphery of show business who hates the business and everyone in the inner circle,” she said. “Which narrows it down to every actor, writer, and waiter in the Tri-State Area.”

“Unless Spence is right,” I said, “and he’s on loan from the LA Chamber of Commerce.”

“Can I change the subject for a minute?” she said.

“Sure.”

“How do you feel about opera?”

“Sounds like one of those trick shrink questions,” I said. “If Zach is a cop, and he likes opera, then he’s got as much chance of cracking this case as he has of finding a vegetarian pit bull.”