Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 3

“You’ve been very helpful,” I said. “Thank you for stepping forward.”

“This meeting is just between us, right?” she said.

“You have my word.” I gave her my card. “And if you think of anything else, call me anytime.”

Lorna opened the back door.

“One more question,” Kylie said. “Did Peter ever say anything to you or your husband about a flash drive he was holding on to for Tripp?”

“No.” She pondered for a beat. “You talking about the flash drive I gave Tripp that day they shot the video?”

I motioned for her to shut the door. “What flash drive?”

“I told you Irene was taping Hunter’s phone calls and copying his email so she could take them home and study them at night. She put it all on a flash drive. And when she told Tripp the story, he asked if she still had it.”

“And she did?”

“Kept it in a music box on her dresser. She sent me upstairs to get it, and I gave it to Tripp, but I don’t know anything about him giving it to Peter.”

We thanked her again, and she left.

Kylie and I sat there not saying a word. We didn’t know exactly what Project Gutenberg was, but it was pretty clear that whatever was on that flash drive could destroy Hunter Alden’s life.

I was looking forward to finding it.

Hunter Alden pulled up Silas Blackstone’s name and contact information on his iPhone. “Idiot,” he said, staring at it. “What kind of a PI gets shot sitting in his own car in a parking lot?”

Sixteen hours after Silas’s death, Hunter was beginning to realize how much he had relied on the man. Too much. He’d never wanted to meet anyone else from SDB Investigative Services. Silas had been the go-between on everything.

He took one last look at the phone, tapped Delete Contact, and in an instant Silas Blackstone was gone. There was no time to find a replacement. Hunter Alden was on his own. He reached down and removed the .38 from his ankle holster.

His gun-loving friends enjoyed busting his balls. With a name like Hunter, how come you never hunt? Just because he had no desire to fly eight thousand miles to slaughter a rhinoceros didn’t mean he knew nothing about guns. He knew enough. Still, he kicked himself for never getting Wheeler’s phone number.

The intercom buzzed. He tucked the .38 back into the holster and looked at the closed-circuit monitor on his desk to see who was out there. “Son of a bitch!” he said.

Hunter jammed his finger on the button that released the gate, stormed to the front door, and yanked it open. “What the hell do you want?” he said.

Lonnie Martinez looked up at him with complete contempt. “I have a message from Tripp.”

Hunter returned the hateful look. “How are you even walking the streets? The cops should have locked you up.”

“For what?”

“You were part of it, and you still are,” Hunter said. “Have you seen my son since his so-called escape?”

“Yeah. We just grabbed some lunch together. He paid.” Lonnie sneered. “With your money.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know where he is now, but I can tell you where he’s going to be.” He handed Hunter a single sheet of paper.

Hunter scanned it. “What the hell is this?”

“You just read what it is. It’s an access pass to Costco.”

“What do I need it for?”

“It’s the only way you can get into the store. They run it like a club. Members only.”

“I’m not interested in joining.”

“You don’t have to. Tripp joined, and he added you to his account. Congratulations. It’s a great store. My grandmother works there.”

“Tell Tripp if he wants to meet me, he can come here,” Hunter said.

“He said you’d say that, but for some reason he feels safer meeting you in public. Costco is in East Harlem. On 117th Street, just off the FDR. Meet him at the food court. Five o’clock.” Lonnie turned and headed down the steps.

“Tell your partner not to hold his breath,” Hunter yelled.

Lonnie stopped and turned back. “He said you might say that too, and if you did, I’m supposed to give you one more message. If you’re not there by 5:01, he’s calling the Wall Street Journal. Have a nice day, and don’t forget your access pass.”

He bounded down the steps, breezed through the gate, and headed east on 81st Street.

Hunter could feel the .38 on his left ankle. For a brief moment he wanted to grab the gun and open fire on the smug Puerto Rican bastard. But Lonnie Martinez wasn’t the problem. Tripp was.

He shut the door. Why shoot the messenger?

The first few snowflakes hit the windshield as I pulled the car onto the Henry Hudson Parkway.

“Wipers,” Kylie said, running the show from the passenger seat.

“Gosh, thanks,” I said, turning them on. “I knew I should have taken driver’s ed in high school. Anything else?”

“Yeah, I know this is going to sound terrible,” Kylie said, “but I have to say it. I love this case.”

“Me too. I mean, two dead guys, serious sleep deprivation, the Alden family blocking us at every turn — what’s not to love?”

“Come on, Zach. We started out Thursday with a headless body in a million-dollar car. And then it spins out of control. A kidnapping, extortion, a second murder—”

“Stolen pearls,” I said.

“This is the kind of stuff we dreamed of when we were at the academy.”

“Remind me. Did we dream about how to solve it?”

“Oh, we’ll solve it,” she said. “I think we should start by visiting Irwin.”

Until New Year’s Day, Irwin Diamond was the smartest person in city government. He was the previous mayor’s right-hand man and a big supporter of Red. But then Muriel Sykes moved into Gracie Mansion, and Irwin went back to his first career: investment banking.

“Do you think Irwin can help us with Gutenberg?” I said.

“I don’t know, but every cop in the city is looking for Madison and Tripp. We’re the only ones who know about Gutenberg. We have to start somewhere.”

“Somewhere” was Irwin’s five-bedroom penthouse at 1 Morton Square, one of the city’s most exclusive addresses. The three of us sat down in a cozy little area in the middle of a thirty-foot expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows. On a clear day you could probably see across the Hudson, but now the horizon was nothing but a frenzy of swirling snow.

“They predict ten inches,” Irwin said, “which means no matter how Muriel Sykes handles the storm, by tomorrow at this time, four out of the five boroughs will be pissed at her. I’m so glad I’m out of politics. How can I help?”

We filled him in. He had never heard of Project Gutenberg.

“But it sounds dirty,” he said, “and the fact that the code name references the Bible makes me think it’s extra dirty. White-collar criminals love irony.”

“Is Hunter Alden a criminal?” I asked.

He peered at us over rimless glasses. “Alleged. Never convicted.”

“What can you tell us about him?”

“Do you know much about investing?”

“It’s easy,” I said. “You give your broker money, he puts it in something that doesn’t pan out the way he expected, and a year later you’re lucky if you get back a third.”

“You’re already smarter than most investors, but let me give you a little tutorial.” He stood up and went to the window. “You see these two drops of water? I’ll bet you a dollar the one on the left gets to the windowsill before the one on the right. You in?”

“Sure.”

We watched the droplets trickle down the glass. Ten seconds later, the one on the right hit the sill. Irwin reached into his wallet and gave me a dollar. “You ready for something a little riskier?”