Patterson Array: NYPD Red

“Clearly we’re not going back to the office,” Kylie said.

“Cates called. There was a shooting at Silvercup Studios.”

“Oh my God. Spence is there.”

When I first saw Spence Harrington’s picture on Kylie’s cell phone back at the academy, he was a struggling television writer and her ex-boyfriend. Ten years later he’s an executive producer with a hit cop show that he shoots right here in New York.

I wish I could tell you I hate his guts, but Spence is a decent guy. Kylie had dumped him back then because she had a career in law enforcement, and he had a daily coke habit. But Spence wasn’t about to give her up that easily. Without saying a word, he entered rehab. Twenty-eight days later, he showed up, detoxed and desperate, and asked Kylie to give him one last chance. She did, and the transformation was remarkable. A year later they were married.

As soon as I told Kylie there was a shooting at Silvercup, she went from tough cop to anxious wife.

“Sorry, sorry,” I said. “The vic is Ian Stewart. I didn’t realize Spence was working at Silvercup.”

“He’s developing a new series,” she said as the tension drained from her face. “It’s another cop show, and a damn good one. He’s screening the pilot for the Hollywood glitterati on Wednesday night. It’s all part of the joys-of-shooting-in-New-York attitude the mayor is trying to hawk.”

“The mayor is in deep doo-doo,” I said. “The joys of shooting in New York just took on a new meaning.”

She pulled out her cell phone and hit the speed dial. “Hey, babe, it’s me. Are you okay?”

I didn’t have to be a detective to know who babe was.

Kylie turned to me. “Spence is fine.”

I nodded. “Say hello for me.”

“Zach says ‘hi.’ Did you know there was a shooting at the studio?” Pause. “Then why didn’t you call me so I wouldn’t worry about you?” Longer pause. “Oh, I didn’t check my email. Next time, call. Zach won’t mind.”

“I won’t mind what?” I said.

“Spence didn’t call because it’s my first day on the job, and he didn’t want to bother us.”

“No bother, Spence!” I called out.

“Zach and I are in the car,” she said. “We’re on the bridge. Are you ready for this? We caught the Ian Stewart shooting.”

There was a long pause while Spence did the talking.

“Good advice,” Kylie responded. “Thanks. I love you too.” She hung up.

“What kind of good advice did Spence give you?” I asked.

“He said the buzz is all over the lot that the shooting was an accident, but he doesn’t buy it.”

“Why not?”

“He said assholes like Ian Stewart don’t get shot by accident.”

Before becoming the center of film production in New York City, Silvercup Studios was a bakery. I’m not kidding. Until the early 1980s Silvercup White was one of those spongy, marshmallow-soft sandwich breads made mostly of flour, water, and air that was a staple of my parents’ generation.

But as one newspaper punster said back then, someone finally realized there was more dough in making movies than in making bread. Was there ever, because thirty years later, Silvercup is now the largest film and television production facility in the Northeast.

The only remnant of its past glory is the ageless Silvercup sign that still dominates the skyline as you cross the bridge into Queens. All they did was change the word “Bread” to “Studios.”

I turned right off the exit ramp and cruised past the storage facilities, auto repair shops, and the rest of the industrial ugliness that defines Long Island City. Three squad cars from the 108th were already parked in front of the sprawling complex on 22nd Street, and one of the uniforms waved me through the front gate.

Bob Reitzfeld was waiting in the parking lot. Bob is a former NYPD lieutenant who likes to tell people that the only thing he ever failed at was doing nothing. He retired on a full pension, tried golf, tennis, and fishing, hated them all, and within three months signed on as a security guard at Silvercup for fifteen bucks an hour. Two years later he worked his way up to the top spot.

I got out of the car, and he shook my hand. “Zach, I’m glad you’re here. We’re in short supply of people for the mayor to crap on.”

“I’m sure he’s not happy,” I said.

“Understatement. This is Day One of Hollywood on the Hudson week. He’s screaming that he’s going to change the name to Homicide on the Hudson,” Reitzfeld said.

“Do you know for sure that it’s a homicide?” I asked.

“The only thing I know for sure is that we’re on the East River, not the Hudson, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to correct His Honor when he’s on the warpath.”

Kylie got out of the car. Reitzfeld did a quick double take. Then his cop brain instantly put the pieces together. “I heard Omar was on the DL. Don’t tell me this is your new sidekick.”

“You guys know each other?” I said.

“I only know this young lady as Mrs. Spence Harrington, but I’ve heard a lot about Detective Kylie MacDonald,” he said. “So, how do you like NYPD Red?”

“It’s my first day,” she said, “but I’m keeping busy.”

“Brace yourself for a baptism of fire. The body is at Studio X. It’s a two-minute walk. I’ll give you the highlights.” He turned and headed toward the Forty-third Avenue side of the main lot. Kylie and I flanked him.

“The vic is Ian Stewart. Everything you read in the tabs that says he’s a total asshole is true. He’s pushing sixty, should be getting ready for the grandpa roles, but he still thinks he’s leading-man sexy. Can’t keep his dick in its holster-straddles any young thing that comes along-and rumor has it he’s not necessarily gender-specific. He’s been banging Devon Whitaker, his young costar, which pissed off Edie Coburn, his other costar, who also happens to be his latest wife. Edie threw a hissy this morning, locked herself in her trailer, and shut down production for a couple of hours. The director finally pried her loose with his crowbar, and when I say crowbar, I think you get my drift.”

“Who’s the director?” Kylie asked.

“Some whiz kid out of Germany, name of Henry Muhlenberg, nickname The Mule, which-and again, this is rumor-is not so much about him being stubborn as it is an anatomical reference. Since he was banging the victim’s wife just a few hours ago, he’s an automatic person of interest, but he’s a powderhead, so you won’t get much out of him till his nose is clean.”

“What can you tell us about the shooting?” I said.

“The armorer on the set is an old pro-Dave West. He’s been handling prop guns for twenty years. He gave Edie a nine-millimeter SIG Pro that was supposed to be loaded with blanks. She took two shots at Whitaker, no problem. Two more at Stewart and, as if by magic, she gets to kill the whoring, cheating bastard she’s married to and still claim that she didn’t know the gun was loaded.”

“Do you think she did?” Kylie said.

“No. She was hiding out in her trailer all morning. Besides, there’s no amount of money that would convince a guy like Dave West to put real bullets in the gun. I think someone on the set got ahold of it and switched mags.”

“How is that possible?” I said.

“It’s not, if Dave’s doing his job by the book,” Reitzfeld said. “But his wife’s been sick and his head’s not always in his job. Last month I caught him leaving a gun cabinet open, and I tore him a new one. He swore it would never happen again, but like I said, his wife’s sick and his focus isn’t where it should be.”

We stopped in front of the elephant doors at Studio X. “It’s all my fault,” Reitzfeld said. “If I’d kept a tighter watch on Dave, this wouldn’t have happened.”