Джеймс Паттерсон: NYPD Red 3

He waited just long enough to register the look on our faces, and then he said, “But don’t worry, Detective Jordan. We’ll upgrade you to a slightly better accommodation.”

His version of “slightly better” was an eighteen-hundred-square-foot penthouse suite, the top of the line in this world-class, five-star hotel.

“Oh my God,” Cheryl said when the floor concierge escorted us to our new digs. She looked at the pricing chart on the back of the door. “And only sixty-five hundred dollars a night.”

“Happy accidents happen to the nicest people,” the concierge said.

Not for a second did I think this was an accident. I knew exactly what it was: a silent gesture of gratitude from Jason Steele, the man who owned the hotel. His wife had been murdered a few months ago, and my partner, Kylie MacDonald, and I had cracked the case.

I stood in the doorway of the suite, called my boss, Captain Cates, and explained the problem.

“It’s not a problem,” she said. “You’re there as a private citizen, not a cop.”

“But the desk clerk called me Detective Jordan. He knew I was a cop.”

“Zach, you’re one of a handful of detectives assigned to NYPD Red. You’ve made two front-page arrests in the past six months. You better get used to the fact that people are going to recognize you. Now, you called me for a ruling. Here it is. Hotels upgrade all the time. Shut up, take it, and you and Cheryl have a happy New Year.”

Boy did we ever. But now it was time to go back to reality. I got out of bed. “I’m going to take a shower,” I said.

Cheryl stretched like a cat in the summer sun, and the sheets slipped below her breasts.

“On second thought,” I said, “I’m hopping back in bed.”

She smiled. “Just hop to the shower. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Behind me, in front of me... I’m sure we can work out the best arrangement once we’re all wet and slippery,” I said.

Cheryl’s cell rang. “It’s probably my parents wishing me a happy New Year,” she said. “We played phone tag all day yesterday. I kept missing them. I’ll be right there.”

There were three bathrooms, and Cheryl and I had experimented with shower gymnastics in every one of them. I headed for our favorite.

I dimmed the lights, dialed up some slow jazz, stepped into the green granite-tiled double shower, and turned on the water. It was heaven.

Despite the fact that my job keeps me in daily contact with New York City’s wealthiest citizens, rarely do I get to live like one. I lost myself in the pulsating rhythms of the six perfect-pressure showerheads, closed my eyes, and thought about the dark-haired, caramel-skinned, drop-dead beautiful, kick-ass smart Latina I was rapidly falling in love with.

I’d met Cheryl Robinson four years ago. She was an NYPD psychologist, and I was a candidate for the department’s most elite unit. It took her three hours to evaluate me. I, on the other hand, needed only three seconds to evaluate her. I’d never seen a cop or a shrink this desirable, and if it weren’t for that gold band on her left hand, and the fact that she stood between me and the best job in the department, I would have thrown myself at her feet.

I got the job, and six months ago, shortly after her wedding ring came off forever, I got Cheryl. I’d only been in love once before. Eleven years ago I had a torrid twenty-eight-day affair with a fellow recruit at the police academy: Kylie MacDonald. But she dumped me and went back to her old boyfriend. A year after that, she married him.

Ten years later, the Department of Let’s-See-If-We-Can-Drive-Zach-Jordan-Crazy decided to test my emotional resilience and put Kylie back in my life. Not as my girlfriend, but as my partner in crime solving. And for the past six months, Kylie and I have been inseparable — except for the part where she goes home to her husband, Spence Harrington, every night.

Fifteen minutes into my bathroom reverie, Cheryl still hadn’t made an appearance, and I was starting to shrivel up in more ways than one.

I toweled off, put on a thick white terry robe, and went back to the master bedroom.

She was still on the phone.

“Be strong,” she said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell her to feel better and give her my love.”

She hung up. “Zach, I’m sorry. Family emergency.”

“Is your mother sick?” I asked.

“No. It’s Fred’s mother.”

Fred? Fred was Cheryl’s ex-husband. “That was Fred who called?”

She nodded. “He’s devastated.”

“I thought Fred was out of the picture.”

“He is. But his mother is dying. I told you I was planning to drive up to Bedford next weekend for Mildred’s birthday. It looks like she’s not going to make it till then. I’m going to run into the office, wrap up a few things, and catch a train up to Northern Westchester Hospital as soon as I can.”

She got out of bed and threw on a robe. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I’m going to shower, and it’s going to be short and solo.” She headed for the bathroom. “Oh, I almost forgot. Your cell rang while I was on the phone with Fred. I saw it was Kylie, so I picked up and told her you’d call right back.”

Kylie wanted me, which meant work. Fred wanted Cheryl, which meant I would have something to obsess about all day besides work.

I called Kylie. “Happy New Year,” I said.

“Not for everybody,” she said. “We have a headless body in Riverside Park.”

Decapitations were standard fare for Mexican drug cartels, but rare in New York — even rarer for our unit. “Are you sure it’s for Red?” I asked.

“The body is wearing a chauffeur’s uniform,” Kylie said, “and there’s a big-ass black limo in the parking lot. License plate ALDEN 2. Which means this homicide is about as Red as you can get. Where are you?”

I told her, and she said she’d pick me up outside the hotel in ten minutes.

My New Year’s euphoria was officially over.

Not too many New Yorkers know it, but Riverside Park was conceived by the same guy who designed Central Park. And while it’s not Frederick Law Olmsted’s most famous work, the four-mile strip that hugs the Hudson River from 72nd to 158th Streets is the most spectacular stretch of natural beauty and recreational possibilities in the city.

Kylie took the Henry Hudson Parkway north, swung around under the George Washington Bridge, and headed back south on the parkway until we spotted the 151st Street entrance to Riverside Park.

The parking lot was empty except for a dozen assorted police vehicles and one shiny black limo that looked as out of place as a debutante at a biker rally.

We spotted the one guy we were looking for: Chuck Dryden. Chuck is a brilliant criminalist with all the charisma of a wet bath mat. He’d been dubbed Cut And Dryden because he was all business, no small talk. His emotional content ranged from ho to hum, but I’d discovered that there was one defibrillator that could jump-start his dispassionate heart. Like a lot of men before him, he was totally smitten with Kylie. So as soon as we saw him, my partner took the reins.

“We’re in luck, Zach. It’s our favorite CSI. Happy New Year, Chuck,” Kylie said, tantalizingly putting on a pair of latex gloves as if she had something in mind other than preventing the contamination of a crime scene.

He looked down, muttered a quiet “Same to you,” and immediately went into his observations. “The victim appears to be Peter Chevalier, age fifty-five, from Cité Soleil, Haiti. American citizen since 1988, resides on East 81st Street.”

“ Appears to be?” Kylie asked.

“There was a wallet in the victim’s pocket,” Dryden said. “Normally the head shot on his license would help me get a positive ID, but as you can see, this man’s head is nowhere in sight.”