Patterson Array - NYPD Red

Kylie gave the boss a half smile. “Sorry,” she said. “Was it that obvious that I’m obsessed with this case and hate to let go of anything connected to it?”

“Yes, but given a choice between having a cop who is crazy possessive and one who doesn’t give a shit,” Cates said, “I’ll take the crazy one every time.”

“In that case, Captain, I have good news,” I said. “Detective MacDonald is as crazy as they come.”

Gabriel was back on the number 7 train. His backpack was empty except for the Glock, which was loaded. Maybe he should have taken a cab, but the odds of a cop stopping a blue-eyed, sandy-haired white boy to search his backpack were slim.

Plus, he liked the rattle and the rhythm of New York’s underground. He lowered his eyes to half-mast, but did not completely shut them.

I’d like to thank the members of the Academy. Best screenplay, best actor, best director-and now best picture. I’d also like to thank my amazing girlfriend, who believed in me when nobody else did. I’d tell you her name, but then I’d have to kill you.

Gabriel laughed out loud and peered through narrow slits at his fellow passengers. None of them cared or dared to look at the laughing weirdo. New Yorkers know better.

“Man, you look like shit,” he said when Mickey opened the door. The old man’s long, lanky body was stooped, his face wan, and a few wispy hairs hung from his protruding chin. “Kind of like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, only about eighty years from now.”

“Thanks. I’ve been up all night putting your stuff together,” Mickey said.

“You got the goods?”

“Mickey Peltz never disappoints.”

Mickey led Gabriel to his workbench, where the blocks of C4 were neatly stacked. There were also spools of wire, two boxes of blasting caps, four digital timers, and four remotes.

“This is all you need and more,” Mickey said.

“I’m going to need a crash course in demolition,” Gabe said.

“Easy peasy.” Mickey picked up a block of C4 and smashed it down hard on the workbench. Gabriel jumped.

“First rule. Don’t be afraid of this stuff,” he said, handing Gabriel the block of plastic. “It won’t go off by accident. You can mold it, cut it, even fire a bullet into it, and it won’t detonate. It takes a combination of extreme heat and a shock wave, which is what your blasting caps are for. You with me?”

Gabriel slammed the C4 against the top of the workbench. “With you.”

Peltz was a good teacher, and for the next forty minutes he gave Gabriel a tutorial in the art of blowing things up.

“Not as easy peasy as you think,” Gabriel said. “There’s a lot to keep track of.”

“I have a solution,” Mickey said. “Take me along with you. I’ll work dirt cheap.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just playing it safe, Mick. You’re on parole. Your PO can walk in here anytime and turn this place inside out without a warrant. You get seen carrying a duffel bag, and any cop can do a stop and search. I don’t want my go-to pyrotechnician to spend the next twenty years in prison.”

“I don’t have twenty years,” Mickey said. “I might not even have twenty months. I’ll bite down on a blasting cap before I ever go back.”

“Then why risk it?”

“Because this is what I do, and I lost my license to do it legally. I swear to God in heaven, Gabriel, these past two days have been the most fun I’ve had in years. I’m back doing what I love, and I just want to keep on doing it.”

“I can’t,” Gabriel said. “I’m sorry.”

Mickey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yeah, me too.” He opened a drawer and took out a three-ring binder.

“What’s that?”

“I was afraid you’d turn me down, but I figured even if I couldn’t be there with you, at least I could do something. So I put this together for you-no extra charge.”

He handed Gabriel the binder. The cover page said The Art of Blowing Shit Up.

Inside it was filled with hand-drawn diagrams on graph paper. Alongside each illustration, Mickey had neatly hand-lettered simple instructions. “What to Do” was in black. “What Not to Do” was in red. It was a step-by-step recap of his tutorial. At the end was an appendix-more than a hundred pages of detailed information on explosives pulled together from scientific journals, The Special Forces Demolition Training Handbook, how-to websites, blogs, and of course that must-read for every wannabe revolutionary, The Anarchist Cookbook.

“This is incredible,” Gabe said. “You did this for me?”

“No, I bought it at Bombs and Noble.” Mickey hawked up a laugh. “That’s funny, right? You can use that line in your movie. Of course I did it for you, asshole. I told you Mickey Peltz never disappoints.”

“Thanks. Let’s pack this stuff up.”

“You got about a hundred pounds here,” Mickey said. “Can you carry it?”

Gabriel pulled a retractable handle from his backpack, then rolled the bag on its in-line skate wheels. “I can pull it.”

Five minutes later, he stepped out of the lobby, leaned the bag against the side of the building, and took out his cell phone.

And then he saw it.

It turned the corner onto Skillman. Cop car.

Gabe held his cell phone to his ear and pretended to talk while he watched the car.

It’s just cruising. Looking for bad guys.

Sure enough, it drove past him, and he took a deep breath. If you only knew what’s in this bag.

Ten yards past the building, the driver hit the brake. Gabriel watched as the reverse lights came on and the cops backed up. The driver rolled down the window.

“Hey, buddy!” the cop yelled. “Stay right there.”

Gabriel froze.

Two cops got out of the car.

Gabe looked them over. One was male, young, and big. The other was male, young, and bigger.

Officer Bigger walked up to him. The other cop went inside.

“Is this 33–87 Skillman or 33–97? The building address is rubbed off.”

“I’m not really sure,” Gabe said. “I don’t live here.”

The other cop came back out.

“Danny, this is the place. The guy’s name is on the bell. Fifth floor.”

“Looks like my partner solved it,” Bigger said. “Have a good day, sir.”

“You too, officer,” Gabe said.

He watched them take the elevator, and then casually sauntered over to the patrol car. And there it was, painted in blue and white on the rear fender: 19 PCT.

No wonder these guys had trouble finding this building. They’re from the 19th Precinct-the one Jordan and MacDonald work out of. This is no random parole check. They’re not just here to rattle Mickey’s cage. They’re trying to connect him to me.

Bag full of C4 or not, there was no going home now.

He walked to the corner, crossed Skillman Avenue, and leaned against a traffic light, where he could watch Mickey’s building and still stay out of sight.

Lexi was waiting for him at home. He called her. No answer. He tried her cell. Again no answer. He texted. Nothing.

Dammit. First she kills Fitzhugh, now she’s off the grid, and to top it all off, the cops have come for Mickey.

His heart was thumping. He dialed Lexi again. This time he waited for her voice mail to pick up. As usual, the outgoing message sounded chipper, perky, and happy.

“Hi, this is Lexi. I’m making some changes in my life right now. If I don’t return your call, then you’re one of the changes. Bye.”

“Lexi, it’s me. Things are turning to shit. I’m outside Mickey’s building, and the cops showed up. I’m pretty sure they’re going to pick up Mickey. I got forty-five thousand dollars’ worth of C4 in my bag, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop them. That’s all. Oh yeah, one more thing. Where the fuck are you? ” he screamed.