Patterson Array: NYPD Red

Henry Muhlenberg took a deep breath. He was finally back in control. Thirty feet away, looking elegant in a vintage Casablanca black shawl-collar tuxedo, The Chameleon had the same thought.

“Speed.”

The clapboard snapped shut, and the assistant director called out, “Background action.”

The Chameleon and ninety-nine other wedding guests slid into character, chatting, laughing, drinking, all without making a sound.

“And action,” Muhlenberg called.

The bride and groom, Devon Whitaker and Ian Stewart, stepped onto the dance floor, and the assembled guests stopped pretending to talk and pretended to be enthralled as the happy couple began to dance.

The band pretended to play. The music would be added to the sound track in postproduction. Ian and Devon twirled around the room.

“Dancing, dancing, dancing,” Muhlenberg called out, waiting for the couple to hit their marks. “And now!”

Edie Coburn stepped into the scene wearing a pair of wide-legged, high-waisted Katharine Hepburn trousers and a loose-fitting chocolate brown silk blouse.

“Well, well, well!” she screamed, pointing a nine-millimeter SIG Pro at the couple. “The former Mrs. Minetti finally gets to meet the current Mrs. Minetti.”

The crowd reacted with appropriate horror. Muhlenberg looked at the video monitor on the close-up camera. Edie Coburn was calm and cold on the outside, but seething with rage on the inside. Hardly a stretch for her to play the jealous ex-wife, Muhlenberg thought, but still, she was brilliant.

Ian turned to her, his eyes filled more with anger than fear. “Put the gun down, Carla. If this is another one of your stupid melodramatic-”

Edie fired at the bride. Once. Twice. Blood stained the lace front of the wedding gown, and Devon collapsed to the floor. Ian let out a wail and charged toward Edie. She fired again. Blood spread across his white shirt. He staggered, and she fired again. Arterial spray spurted across the dance floor, and Ian fell down hard.

It was a spectacular film death, and Henry had it covered with four cameras. “And cut!” he yelled. “Brilliant.”

The assistant director helped the bloodied bride to her feet. “Ian, you need help?” he asked.

Ian Stewart didn’t answer. He gasped for air and let out a groan that turned into a full-throated wet gurgle as blood gushed from his windpipe and onto the parquet floor.

The special effects guy was the first to figure it out. The blood squibs on the wedding gown had exploded right on cue, but the blood pouring out of Ian Stewart was very real.

“Live fire!” he shouted as he barreled his way onto the set, grabbed Edie Coburn’s arm, and wrestled the gun from her hand.

Henry Muhlenberg was right behind him. He dropped to the floor and lifted the actor’s head. The blood had slowed to a trickle. Ian’s face was contorted, mouth agape, eyes wide open, seeing nothing.

“Get a doctor!” Muhlenberg screamed, knowing it was futile.

The extras were on their feet, some stunned, some crying, some shoving their way to the front to get a better look.

The Chameleon stood in their midst, motionless, just another horrified face blending in with the crowd.

Kylie and I entered the lobby of the Regency Hotel, and three men pounced on us. The general manager, the executive chef, and some guy from corporate. The manager informed us that one of their guests had suffered a heart attack, and Mr. Corporate said they were there to help in any way they possibly could.

In another era, the lead detective would have squared off with them and said, “Bullshit-you want the cops and the dead guy out of your dining room as soon as possible so you can get on with lunch and pretend this never happened.”

Today’s NYPD is different. We practice CPR-Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect. I thanked them for their help, exchanged business cards, and politely asked for their indulgence while my partner and I took a look at the deceased.

“We have a defibrillator on hand,” the manager said, like this was a dry run for the insurance investigation. “But it appears to be one of those sudden but deadly coronaries. There was no time to save him.”

The corporate guy, who was probably the vice president in charge of covering shit up, said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a heavy smoker.” Then he assured us that all the resources of the hotel were at our disposal to help resolve this tragedy in a timely fashion.

Short of tossing the body on a baggage cart and tucking it out of sight behind the bell desk, I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what resources he had in mind.

I have no idea how they describe the Regency dining room in their brochures, but I’d call it Old Money Posh. Thick carpeting, heavy drapes, silky fabric on the walls, and upholstered chairs, all in various shades of gold.

In stark contrast to all those golden hues was a brownish red puddle and the splayed body of a man who was definitely not flying back to LA first-class.

“His name is Sidney Roth, Bel Air, California, age fifty-three.”

It was Chuck Dryden, a crime scene investigator with a keen eye, remarkable instincts, and zero personality. With Chuck, there’s never any of the usual how’s-it-going cop banter. They call him Cut And Dryden because he gets straight to the point, without any mirth, without any chin-wagging.

I introduced him to Kylie, which I’m sure was a total waste of six seconds of his time.

“What’s the COD?” I said. “The hotel brass are pushing heart attack, but I’m sure they’ll be happy with any God-given untimely death that indemnifies them.”

“Heart attack victims don’t usually crap their pants,” Dryden said. “I think he was poisoned, but we won’t know for sure till we do an autopsy and a tox screen.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Chuck nodded and went back to work.

“Did you hear that?” Kylie said. “He said poison.”

“He said he thinks it was poison.”

“I hope he’s right,” she said. “I’ve never worked a poison homicide before.”

“In that case, can I give you a little free advice?”

“Sure.”

“A lot of people are watching us. Try not to look quite so happy about it.”

Nothing clears a crowded restaurant like a bleeding corpse. We were told that someone yelled “Call 911!” when Roth hit the floor. After that, everybody yelled out “Check!”

By the time the two uniformed first responders showed up, most of the witnesses had left the building. Luckily, this was the Regency and not a Starbucks, and Philippe, the very buttoned-up and genuinely helpful maitre d’, assured us he could refer to his seating chart and reconstruct the entire population of the dining room from the minute it opened to the minute Roth died.

“Mr. Roth was at table twelve with four others,” Philippe said. “Two of them are still here.”

He pointed to two men in their early thirties sitting at a table in the corner, a silver carafe and two coffee cups between them.

I looked up, and one of the men grinned and started waving.

“He seems to be taking Roth’s death rather well,” I said to Kylie. “What the hell is he waving at?”

“Me,” she said. “I know him. He’s a friend of Spence’s.”

We walked over, and the man stood up. “Kylie,” he said. “I knew you were a cop, but what are the odds?”

“This is my partner, Detective Zach Jordan,” she said. “Zach, this is Harold Scott.”

“My friends call me Scotty,” he said, shaking my hand.

He introduced us to the other man. “This is Randy Pisane. We were having breakfast with Sid Roth when he died.”

“Thanks for staying,” I said. “Can you tell us what happened?”