Patterson Array: NYPD Red

“Understood,” Kylie and I responded in unison.

“That said, I can’t deny what you’ve done. You brought down a serial killer who was on the verge of blowing up a boatload of innocent people.”

“We had help from someone on the boat,” Kylie said. “Charles Connor.”

“Mr. Connor is brave and articulate,” Cates said. “And if I know anything about public relations, somewhere in the next news cycle, he’ll be standing on the steps of city hall, where the mayor will award him the Bronze Medallion for exceptional citizenship. But don’t kid yourselves; Connor would be dead if you two hadn’t showed up. You’re heroes. You did the unit proud, and I’m sure when Detective Shanks gets back he’ll understand why I’m making the two of you a permanent team.”

“Us?” Kylie said. “Permanent?”

“As permanent as things can get in this department,” Cates said. “I myself am always looking over my shoulder to see who’s after my job. It’s a lot easier if one of the contenders works right here, where I can keep an eye on her. Congratulations, Detectives. Dismissed.”

We walked out of the office, and Kylie gave me a high five. “Did you hear what she said, Zach? We’re a permanent team.”

“As long as you don’t piss her off again,” I said, feeling a twinge of remorse over Omar’s impending reassignment.

“Me? You’re the one who blew off her phone call. Shape up, partner.” She punched me in the shoulder again, laughing this time. “Is this cool, or what?”

Her face radiated with joy and triumph. The beautiful, confident, unpredictable young cadet I fell in love with the first day of academy was now a beautiful, confident, unpredictable NYPD Red badass supercop-my partner.

And I was still in love with her.

“Yeah, it’s cool,” I said.

Kylie and I spent all of Thursday and Friday buried in paperwork and psych evaluations. Having killed one person with her service revolver and blown another one to bits with her Taser, Kylie got to spend a lot more quality time than I did with Cheryl Robinson, but I was looking forward to a different kind of quality time on the weekend.

“Are you still game for the opera on Saturday?” she asked me when I ran into her at the office.

“Sure. What does one wear to the Met anyway?”

“Black tie, top hat, and maybe you could bring along a pair of those opera glasses on a stick like Mrs. Thurston Howell III had on Gilligan’s Island, ” she said.

“You don’t know anything about the dress code either, do you?”

She shrugged. “I’ll just wear what I wear to the office. I’m planning an evening of Giuseppe Verdi and Chinese food. Why don’t you meet me at Shun Lee Cafe on Sixty-fifth across from Lincoln Center at seven o’clock.”

“I’ll be there,” I said. Let the post-Fred renaissance begin.

Saturday afternoon, I went to Kylie’s apartment to visit Spence. Both Laight Street and Washington were lined with double-parked vans and trucks.

“Emergency repairs,” Spence said. He was in a wheelchair, and his broken nose was taped, but all things considered he seemed pretty chipper. “The real renovation doesn’t start till the insurance guys figure out who pays for what.”

“Do you think the insurance guys will pay for a new flat-screen TV for your upstairs neighbor?” I said.

“If they don’t, it’s on me,” Kylie said. “Along with a new bedroom wall and dinner for Dino and Coralei at the restaurant of their choice.”

“Zach, do you mind if I pick your brain?” It was Shelley Trager. He had been sitting there, uncharacteristically quiet. No doubt he was still in some pain after breaking his ribs.

“There’s not much left of it,” I said, “but sure.”

“With Benoit dead, nobody owns the rights to his story, which means that anybody can take it and adapt it. Spence here wants to turn it into a movie.”

“It’s a natural,” Spence said. “We could get Kevin Spacey as Benoit. Nobody does crazy like Kevin.”

“I flat out refuse to do it,” Trager said. “Benoit always planned for someone to turn his script into a film, and if we do it, then he wins. What do you think?”

“It all depends on who plays me in the movie,” I said.

“I’m serious,” Trager said.

“Shelley, I’m not a producer, but I can tell you this-if you make the movie, a lot of people will go to see it.”

He shrugged. “True.”

“But I definitely will not be one of them.”

He smiled. “Me either. Thanks.”

I decided that gray pants, blue blazer, tattersall shirt, and a yellow tie were as opera-worthy as anything I had in my closet. I took the number 1 train to Lincoln Center and walked to the restaurant.

Cheryl was waiting. She was wearing a sleeveless black dress that showed off her flawless caramel skin with a V-neckline that provided just enough cleavage to drive a man crazy.

“You look amazing,” I said.

“Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself,” she said.

“But you lied,” I said. “That is definitely not what you usually wear to work. If you did, you’d have a lot more cops showing up for counseling.”

Shun Lee Cafe is perfect for pretheater dinner. Pretty young waitresses push rolling carts of bite-size dim sum in steamer baskets from table to table. The customers pick out a few to share, and then the cart moves on, magically reappearing just when you’re ready for your next course.

“The seafood dumplings with chives are to die for,” Cheryl said, holding one in a pair of chopsticks and passing it across the table. She popped it into my mouth, and I had to lean over to keep the juices from dribbling down my chin and onto my tie.

“That older couple over there is staring and smiling at us,” she said. “I think they think we’re adorable.”

“We are,” I said.

When the check came, I reached for it. Cheryl put her hand on mine. “I’ve got it,” she said.

“You got the opera tickets,” I said.

“I didn’t pay for them. They were a gift.”

“Even so, I’m old-fashioned,” I said. “Guys pay for dinner.”

“My father’s a guy. He’s paying.”

“I thought daddies stopped paying for their daughters’ dates right after senior prom.”

“He bet me a hundred bucks you’d never show up for the opera,” she said. “He lost, so he can pay.”

“Your father bet I wouldn’t show? How did that even happen? Do you always discuss your dating plans with your parents?”

“When you called me Tuesday night, I was having dinner with my father,” she said.

“You said you were with a cop.”

“Daddy was a cop. Didn’t you know that?”

I shook my head.

“Anyway, he’s very old school. Doesn’t think a cop could listen to a woman screaming without jumping onstage and arresting someone. I told him you were much more enlightened, and it cost him a hundred bucks.”

I took my hand off the check. “Thank him for dinner and tell him I’m sorry I let him down.”

La Traviata had been nothing short of mesmerizing.

“Did you really like it?” Cheryl said as we left the opera house.

“Are you kidding? It was the classic love story. Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy finds girl. Girl dies of consumption in the third act. It doesn’t get any more romantic than that.”

She took my arm, and we walked through the plaza and stopped in front of the Revson Fountain, one of the city’s most recognizable landmarks.

“Turn around,” she said.

I turned, and I was facing the opera house. It was like a cathedral with its crystal chandeliers lighting up the Chagall murals on the inside and the five soaring floor-to-ceiling arched windows on the outside. The fountain was putting on its own show with multicolored lighting effects and a perfectly choreographed water ballet.