Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 3

Tripp’s heart was racing as he left Costco and walked through the parking lot to his van. He’d had his father on the ropes, but then he blew it.

“Never let the other guy see your cards,” his grandfather had taught him years ago. But Tripp had played a card he didn’t even have in his hand. The flash drive.

And now that Hunter knew it existed he’d be scouring the house trying to find it. Sooner or later he’d get to Peter’s room, and that would be it.

Tripp got behind the wheel of the van and dialed Patrice.

“Tripp, I’m relieved to hear from you,” Patrice said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay, but I really need that flash drive I told you about. Did you find it yet?”

“I’ve looked, and it’s nowhere to be seen, but right now I’m more concerned about you than a flash drive.”

“Don’t worry about me. I just need you to keep looking. I’m sure it’s somewhere mixed in with all of Peter’s stuff.”

“Most of which is still at your house.”

“Patrice, you’re his brother. It’s all yours now. You don’t even have to ask anyone. Just go to the house and take it. I’ll give you the key code to the garage.”

“I think you and I should sit down and talk first,” Patrice said. “Can we meet somewhere?”

Tripp felt the cold steel of a gun barrel at the back of his neck. He lifted his head slowly and looked in the rearview mirror.

Madison.

“I can’t meet right now,” Tripp said. “I’ll get back to you soon.” He hung up the phone and focused on the man in the mirror.

The hot coffee had left Madison’s face red and blotchy. There were blisters on the right side below his ear and a welt on his neck from the stun gun.

“Dude,” Tripp said, “you really ought to see a dermatologist, or nobody’s going to want to go with you to the prom.”

Madison raised the gun and brought it down hard on Tripp’s shoulder blade. The pain radiated up to his brain, but Tripp bit down hard, determined not to scream.

“I heard your desperate phone call to Peter’s brother. It sounds like you lost your proof. I knew you could never pull this off on your own.”

“Maybe not, but after you killed Peter and Silas, and locked me up on that boat, I decided it was safer to go solo. How did you find me, anyway?”

“I never bothered looking for you. I knew you’d contact your father — all I had to do was follow him. I watched the two of you from behind a couple of pallets of paper towels. I couldn’t hear anything, but from the body language it looks to me like you cut a deal with him. How much did you ask for?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tripp said. “I’ll still give you your share.”

“ You’ll give me?” Madison drove the gun down on the same shoulder blade.

This time Tripp let out a yelp. “What was that for? I told you you’ll get your money — all ten million.”

“And how much do you get?” Madison said, readying the gun to come down again.

“The whole billion,” Tripp said, grabbing on to his battered shoulder. “Every penny he made from Gutenberg.”

Madison laughed. “And why would he give you a billion if he turned me down for a fraction of that?”

“Because he’ll pay whatever it takes to keep me quiet!” Tripp yelled, spinning around to face Madison. “And he’s not giving it to me. I’m starting a foundation in my mother’s name. Once I do that, he knows I’ll never say a word about Gutenberg. It would disgrace her memory.”

“Was your mom an idealist, Tripp? Is that who you take after? Because clearly you didn’t inherit your father’s killer instincts for business. Ideals don’t mean jack shit to him when there’s money on the table. Let’s go for a ride.”

Tripp turned around and put the key in the ignition. “Where are we going?” he said.

Madison leaned forward. “East 81st Street. I’m going to make a deal with the devil.”

“Why? I told you — he agreed to pay. You’ll screw up the whole deal.”

“You don’t get it, do you, Tripp? Dealing is what Hunter Alden lives for. And do you know what he likes best?” Madison whispered, his warm breath in Tripp’s ear.

“What?” Tripp said, starting the engine.

“Getting what he wants from the lowest bidder.”

The temperature was just on the cusp of freezing, so the roads were covered with what forecasters call a wintry mix, which is a euphemism for the unholy mess of snow, sleet, and icy rain that can cripple the city.

I inched the car along Third Avenue past the usual logjam in front of Bloomingdale’s, where half a dozen overly optimistic shoppers craned their necks, looking for cabs. I saw daylight at 60th Street and picked up speed.

“Do you think we have a shot at getting a search warrant?” Kylie asked.

“You already know the answer to that one, which is why you didn’t ask Irwin Diamond,” I said. “And don’t bother asking Cates again. She gave us a flat-out no yesterday.”

“That was different. We were talking about tossing Alden’s entire house, looking for a severed head. Now all we want is a tiny little peek inside the garage, where Peter’s room is. How long could it take us to find the flash drive?”

“It wouldn’t matter if we found Peter’s head on Alden’s dining room table,” I said. “We don’t have cause to search. All we have is a doddering old woman talking about what might be a white-collar crime.”

I made a left onto 67th Street. There’s a fire station next to the precinct, so parking on our block is at a premium, even for cops. But there in front of the One Nine was a familiar vehicle taking up twenty feet of NYPD’s valuable real estate.

“Looks like Hunter Alden is finally getting his car back,” I said.

“Perfect,” Kylie said.

I had no clue what she meant, but then I realized she wasn’t talking to me. She had that look in her eyes that cartoonists use when one of their characters has a really bad idea. And I knew my partner well enough to know what Kylie’s bad idea was.

“I’m going inside,” she said, getting out of the car. “Can you bring me back some coffee from Gerri’s?”

“No,” I said, following her up the stairs and through the precinct door. “They deliver.”

She headed straight for Sergeant McGrath at the front desk.

“And where have you been, Detective MacDonald?” he said.

“Fighting crime, and doing a damn fine job of it,” she said, shaking the snow out of her hair. “Why do you ask?”

He leaned forward and looked down at her. “Did you get a call this morning from the One Oh Five garage about a crime scene vehicle that was ready to be released to its owner, a Mr. Hunter Alden?”

Kylie looked at me and shrugged. “I did.”

“Then why didn’t you call Mr. Alden and tell him?” McGrath said.

“The truth?”

“That would be refreshing.”

“I didn’t call Alden because he’s a dick,” she said. “Also, I had a dentist’s appointment, but mainly because he’s done everything he can to obstruct a double homicide investigation, so I figured I’d let him stew.”

“The problem, Detective, is that instead of stewing, Alden got on my case. I have enough to do around here dealing with regular folks without having to play Country Club Cop like the two of you.”

“For the record,” Kylie said, “my partner, Detective Straight Arrow, didn’t know that the car was ready to be picked up.”

“Not picked up,” McGrath said. “Delivered. In my twenty-two years I’ve never released anything from the chain of evidence without the owner coming in and signing for it. But it seems your Mr. Alden is exempt from the rules. So now I have to send two of my officers to take it back.”