Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 3

“I’m playing with the house’s money, so go for it.”

He looked at his watch. “I’ll bet you fifty dollars that in the next ten minutes my neighbor’s cat will jump down onto my terrace, scratch at the door, wait for me to bring him a saucer of milk, drink it, and leave. You in?”

“Hell, no,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Irwin, I don’t know if you and the cat are running some kind of scam together, but I do know that you’re too smart to make a crazy bet like that unless you know something that I don’t.”

“Reliable information is how I make money,” he said, “but the difference between me and Alden is that my information comes from meticulous research. He taps phones, hacks email, plants bugs, bribes corporate executives, and gives kickbacks to government officials.”

“So he’s a crook. But what did Irene mean when she said they made money in the wake of all that suffering?”

“I don’t know, but I could give you a hypothetical. Let’s say there’s a new diet pill that lets you eat all you want and still lose weight. The FDA approves it, and the smart money says the drug company’s stock will go up. But Hunter Alden bets millions that it will go down.”

“Why?”

“Because he found out that the drug company rigged their clinical trials. But he doesn’t blow the whistle. The pill hits the market, hundreds of people who took it die, and the stock goes in the toilet.”

“And Hunter makes a lot of money in the wake of a lot of suffering,” I said.

“But wouldn’t the SEC check all the drug company’s stock transactions and realize he had insider information?” Kylie said.

“His name would never show up. He’d do it all through phone calls to a Swiss lawyer and wire transfers to an offshore bank,” Irwin said.

“I think now we know what’s on that missing flash drive,” Kylie said.

I stood up and walked to the window. “Maybe I should have taken your bet. It looks like that cat doesn’t want to come out in the snow.”

“Oh, my neighbor doesn’t have a cat,” Irwin said. “I just wanted to show you the power of information, even when it’s a lie.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t know if any of this will help us crack the case, but it helps me understand why the 99 percent hate the 1 percent.”

Irwin laughed. “Don’t hate us too much. Just remember that without the 1 percent, NYPD Red would just be NYPD Blue.”

The taxi skidded across Third Avenue, barely missing the M101 bus. Hunter banged on the partition. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

The driver laughed. “Sorry. Not so much snow in Bangladesh.”

“Well, maybe you should think about going back where you—” Hunter’s phone rang. “Hello,” he barked.

“Mr. Alden, this is Sergeant McGrath at the Nineteenth Precinct. Your car’s been released. You can send someone to pick it up anytime.”

“Send someone? No, Sergeant. You hauled it away, you bring it back. Just use the garage door opener in the car, then exit through the side door of the garage. Can you handle that, or do I have to call the police commissioner?”

“No, sir. I’ll find someone to drop it off at your house.”

“Just make sure they know what they’re driving. That car costs more money than ten cops make in a year. I don’t want to see any dings or dents.”

“Yes, sir,” McGrath said.

The cab stopped at the 117th Street entrance to the East River Plaza, and Hunter entered the massive retail complex for the first and, he hoped, only time in his life.

He followed the signs to Costco, and produced the official access document for a cheery greeter at the front entrance.

“Where’s the food court?” he said.

She pointed, and Hunter headed toward it. Tripp was sitting at a table off to the side, a slice of pizza and a soft drink in front of him.

“Stand up,” Hunter ordered.

“In case you forgot, I’m running this meeting,” Tripp said. “Sit down.”

“Not until I make sure you’re not wired. Stand up.”

“Wired? You must think everyone is as sick as you.” Tripp stood, and for the second time that day he let himself be frisked.

“What do you want?” Hunter said when they both sat down.

“You’re a negotiator. I thought we’d negotiate.”

“Okay, here’s my final offer,” Hunter said. “You’re not getting a penny, and I’m completely restructuring my estate so that when I die, you wind up with nothing.”

“ When you die?” Tripp said. “You’re going to prison. Once the world knows what you did, I doubt if you’ll live through the first night. And even if they put you in solitary, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the guards kills you.”

“You don’t have the proof to send me to prison.”

“Don’t I? How about every single phone call you made to your Swiss lawyer, Mr. Joost? I listened to them. At first I thought you were making some crazy high-flying, high-risk investments, but you sounded so cocksure of yourself — it’s like you knew in advance what would happen. Turns out you did.”

“Overconfidence is not a crime,” Hunter said.

“There’s more. It took me weeks of searching through your archives, but I finally found the mother lode — the meeting in Turks and Caicos. You actually taped it. Dumb move, Leviticus. And then you kept the tape. Even dumber. But I understand why you did it. You hate to lose. Even more, you hate when somebody else wins. That tape was your insurance. You figured if you got caught, you could use it to bargain with. If Homeland could track down the guy who set up the Gutenberg deal, you might be able to avoid the death penalty.”

Hunter laughed. “I don’t know what you think you found,” Hunter said, “but I’ll be sure to look for this so-called mother lode myself as soon as I get home. This meeting is over.” He stood up.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Tripp said. “Do you think you can just run home and erase the evidence? I’ve got it all, Dad. The phone calls to the lawyer, the meeting in Turks and Caicos — they’re all on one flash drive.”

“Which you and your partner, Mr. Cain, intend to share with the world, whether I pay you or not.”

“There is no more Mr. Cain,” Tripp said. “He’s been out of the loop for a while. And I’ve changed my mind about going public.”

Hunter sat back down. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning that as much as I want to punish you, I love my grandfather too much to destroy his name, his legacy, and everything he ever worked for. I’m willing to keep the secret a secret. But it will cost you.”

“How much?”

Tripp pounded his fist on the table. “How much do you think, asshole? You knew exactly what was going to happen. But you didn’t warn anyone. You stood by and let it happen. How much?” he said, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. “A billion fucking dollars. Every cent you made cashing in on everyone else’s misery.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Oh no, Dad. I’m damaged, but I’m not crazy. Monday morning I want you to create a foundation in Mom’s name. And then, in a magnanimous philanthropic gesture, you will fund the Marjorie Alden Foundation with a billion dollars in memory of your late wife, and you will appoint your son chairman of the board.”

“And what’s your grand plan, Mr. Chairman?”

“I’ll use the money to repair the damage you’ve done.”

“I bet you will. And what happens to me?”

“You? You’ll be a hero. Your picture will be on every front page in America. The benevolent Hunter Alden, a kind and generous global humanitarian. And only I will know what a vile and despicable scumbag you really are.”