Patterson Array - NYPD Red

Ten minutes later, the cops came out. Mickey was with them. No cuffs.

He’s not under arrest. They’re just bringing him in for questioning. I know Mickey. He’ll play dumb-won’t say a word.

But then his parole officer will show up and give him an ultimatum. Tell me what you know, and I won’t charge you with violating your parole. But if you clam up and I find out you were with Benoit, you’ll be back in Ray Brook in time for dinner.

Mickey would panic. He’d rather die than go back, and if the PO pushes him to the wall, he’ll give me up in a heartbeat.

ALT. SCENE: EXT. FRANK E. CAMPBELL FUNERAL CHAPEL, MADISON AVENUE AND 81ST STREET-DAY

Pandemonia Passionata looks so pretty in her little black mourning dress as she waits patiently behind the police barricade at Ian Stewart’s memorial service. The mourners file slowly out of the chapel, but she ignores the little fish. She’s here for the Big One. This is Pandemonia’s moment. Redemption time.

Lexi wanted to scream.

Her calves were on fire, her toes were crushed, and every muscle in her lower back was in knots.

She hadn’t worn heels in years, and these four-inch, half-a-size-too-small black thrift-shop pumps were killing her. But she had no choice. Not only did they complete her disguise as a soulful Upper East Side mourner, but they gave her the added height that she needed to see the front of the funeral chapel.

As it turned out, her line of vision was perfect. The police had set up metal crowd-control barricades on the sidewalk just to the right of the funeral home entrance. And the crowd was much thinner than she expected-fewer than thirty fans-so she found a spot right in front.

She’d been standing there for ninety minutes, and she couldn’t even begin to count how many times Gabe had called or texted. She was dying to answer, but she couldn’t. She’d have to wait till the scene was over. Too bad he wasn’t open-minded enough to log onto TMZ so he could find out about these things right away. But just as well. She’d rather tell him herself over a couple of beers and maybe a nice foot massage. He’d be so crazy happy, he’d forget that whole stupid mess that happened in Jimmy Fitzhugh’s trailer.

The double doors to the funeral parlor swung open, and the uniformed doorman hooked them into place. The funeral director came out first, walking backward, hands gently guiding the highly polished mahogany coffin.

Lexi tensed. Almost on cue, her cell phone vibrated and she flinched. It was Gabriel trying to reach her for the trillionth time. No way she could pick up. She opened her purse, took out a tissue, and dabbed her eyes. She left the purse open and stood in solemn tearful tribute to the departed as he rolled toward the waiting hearse.

A few mourners exited the chapel behind the coffin. But they were nobodies. Like it said in the script-little fish.

And then the old Jewish guy stepped out. Shelley Trager. Edie Coburn was to his left, dressed to the eyeballs in her designer grieving widow’s finery. Bullshit. She hated Ian Stewart as much as anybody did. To Trager’s right was the young director, Muhlenberg. Lexi had seen his early indie work and thought, Damn, this guy is good, but he’d been making crap ever since he stepped up to the big leagues.

The trio stopped in the doorway, just out of line with the angle she needed for the perfect shot.

She reached into her purse, put her hand on the grip of Gabriel’s gun, and waited.

And then the cop showed up. The pretty one she had seen on TV. MacDonald. Right behind her was her husband, the TV producer. She knew them both on sight. Google images had hundreds of pictures of the happy couple.

She had planned on shooting only Trager. But now there were five of them. Oh my God, can you imagine if I killed them all? Gabriel would be over the moon. That would more than make up for screwing up the robbery.

The lady cop and her husband caught up with Trager in the doorway. Lexi had no idea what they were talking about. Logistics, maybe. Like who’s going in which car.

The conversation lasted only a few seconds, and then Trager stepped out onto Madison Avenue. The others followed. Five of them, side by side, headed her way. She didn’t even know how many bullets were in the gun, but she’d bet there had to be at least five.

And action, she said to herself.

Pandemonia Passionata pulled the Walther PPK out of her purse and opened fire.

The subway was out of the question. Not with a bag full of C4. The bomb-sniffing dogs would have him for lunch.

And now that the cops had seen him, even a taxi was risky. Every yellow cab in the city had a decal posted on its rear window: THIS VEHICLE IS EQUIPPED WITH CAMERA SECURITY. YOU WILL BE PHOTOGRAPHED.

The hell I will, Gabriel decided.

It took him ten minutes to flag down a gypsy cab.

There was no meter, and the driver quoted a price back into lower Manhattan. “Fifty bucks.”

Gabe opened the door, shoved his backpack in, and flopped onto the grease-stained, duct-taped rear seat.

Any other time and he would have haggled with the guy. Fifty bucks? For what? To ride in a hot, filthy death trap that stinks of pine freshener and whatever disgusting Middle Eastern camel shit you’re chewing on? Fifty bucks so I can listen to you rant nonstop on your cell phone with the rest of your goddamn terrorist network? I’ll give you thirty-five, and you’re lucky I’m not a suicide bomber, or I’d blow your ass to Mecca and back.

It could have been a good scene. But not today. Today he had more important things to do.

He gave up on leaving messages for Lexi. Wherever she was, she obviously didn’t want him to know. He’d deal with her later. First he had to deal with Mickey Peltz. He dialed Mickey’s cell.

“Hello.”

He couldn’t believe it. Mickey picked up.

“Mick, where are you?”

“Manhattan. Cops picked me up and brought me to the 19th, put me in an interrogation room, and told me to wait for these two detectives.”

“Jordan and MacDonald?”

Mickey let out a low whistle. “Man, you’re good.”

“It was easy. Those are the same two who are looking for me.”

“Well, don’t worry about me saying anything. I’m not under arrest. They just want to talk to me, and trust me, I’m not talking.”

“Did they call your parole officer yet?”

“They made me call him from the loft. That’s the deal. He’s supposed to be in the room when they question me, but he’s in Sing Sing at a hearing till one o’clock. So now I’m just sitting here with my thumb up my ass till he shows up.”

“Mickey, I can’t hear you,” Gabe said. “Bad cell connection.”

“I said I’m just sitting here waiting for my parole-”

Gabe hung up.

Mickey was an idiot. He’d be oh so cool and cavalier with the cops, but the PO would crush him in no time. Gabe was already writing the scene in his head.

INT. 19TH PRECINCT-NEW YORK CITY-DAYMickey Peltz is sitting in the interrogation room with DETECTIVES JORDAN and MACDONALD. His PO walks in.

PO

Hello, Mickey. You ready to play ball with me?

MICKEY

Sure, coach. Always.

PO

Football or baseball?

MICKEY

What do you mean?

PO

With football, you’re going back to prison for six to twelve. With baseball, it’ll be two to four.

MICKEY

Go back? Why? I didn’t do nothing.

PO

I hear you’ve been associating with a wanted criminal. A mass murderer. Gabriel Benoit.