Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 3

“No you don’t. It’s my fault this got dumped on you. I’ll take the car back.” She lowered her eyes. “I’m really, really sorry, Sergeant,” said the woman, who really, really never apologizes for anything.

McGrath bought it. “Apology accepted,” he said, handing her a packet of papers. “Put it in the garage. If Alden’s there, get him to sign for it. If he’s not, leave the paperwork on the front seat, and he’ll fax me back a signed copy.”

He held up a key ring. It had a small black fob and a gold crucifix dangling from it. “Your basic smart key,” McGrath said, tapping the Maybach logo on the fob. “Just put it in your pocket, and it does the rest. I don’t think Jesus on the cross is original factory equipment, but it couldn’t hurt.” He tossed her the key ring. “Go with God.”

“I’m driving,” Kylie said as soon as we were outside. “You can follow.” She got behind the wheel.

“One car,” I said, getting in the passenger side. “We have a few things to talk about.”

The electronic ignition picked up a signal from the key ring, and she started the car with the push of a button. “You sure you don’t want to ride in the back and pour yourself a drink? Because the last thing I need is a lecture.”

“‘You can’t search the garage without a warrant’ is not a lecture.”

“What am I — a rookie?” she said, turning on the wipers. “I know the law. But now that we have permission to enter the garage, anything we see in plain sight is fair game.”

“And what’s your definition of ‘in plain sight’?” I said.

“Anything that is left out in the open, or is unconcealed,” she said, pulling the million-dollar car out onto the slushy street. “Or in the case of assholes like Hunter Alden,” she added, grinning, “anything in a drawer that I can open without a crowbar.”

Hunter Alden was used to being the most important person in the room. But sitting at a table in the food court at Costco, he was nobody. He wanted to stand up and shout, “Don’t you people know who I am? I have more money than all of you put together.”

He looked at his watch. Seven minutes had passed since Tripp left, ordering him to wait five minutes. It only proved how little his son understood him. Did Tripp actually think Hunter would try to follow him? Hunter had people for that. Had people. Blackstone was dead, and Wheeler was a ghost he’d never met.

So he’d gone with the only option he could. He had agreed to create the foundation in Marjorie’s name. He had promised to hold a press conference on Monday morning, which gave him less than forty-eight hours to find a cheaper way to silence Tripp.

He finally stood up, left the East River Plaza complex, and headed west on 117th Street. Walking through the swirling snow helped clear his head, but he hadn’t dressed for the weather, and when he reached Second Avenue, he knocked on the window of an off-duty cab that had stopped at a light.

For two hundred bucks the man was happy to go on duty and drive him to 81st Street.

The house was warm and welcoming, and since Janelle’s keys were not on the foyer table, he knew that he had it to himself. He went straight to his study.

He heard the intruder before he saw him.

“Mr. Alden, I’ve been waiting for you. I took the liberty of making myself at home.”

It was Tripp’s teacher. He was seated in an armchair, sipping a drink. His face had been burned, but Hunter had no interest in the details.

“How the hell did you get in my house?” he demanded. “Did my wife let you in?”

“I don’t believe she’s home,” Madison said. “Your son let me in.”

“Tripp is here? Where?”

“Downstairs in the garage,” Madison said.

“Don’t move,” Hunter said. He went to his desk and pushed the intercom button on his phone. “Tripp. Get your ass up here.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Madison said. “Tripp is...” A self-satisfied smile spread across his face. “Tripp is all tied up for the moment.”

Hunter sat down and crossed his left leg over the right so that his hand was inches from the .38 in his ankle holster. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you better start talking fast and explain what you’re doing here.”

“I’m here to let you know that you were right.”

“About what?”

“Everyone has his price, Mr. Alden.”

“And every generous offer has its expiration date, Mr. Madison. Yesterday I was willing to pay you twenty thousand dollars to let me know when you heard from my—”

“Shut up,” Madison snapped. “I’m not talking about the twenty thousand. I’m talking about the hundred million, Leviticus.”

Hunter froze. “You’re Cain?”

“I’m done being Cain. All I am now is your son’s teacher from Barnaby Prep, and I’m sorry to tell you that Tripp is doing poorly in economics. I understand he’s asking a billion dollars, and all he’s offering in return is a promise that he won’t blow the whistle on you. A promise? From a teenage kid who hates everything you stand for? Caveat emptor, Mr. Alden. I, on the other hand, can make you a guarantee for a lot less money.”

“I’ve heard your offer. A hundred million.”

“That was Tripp’s idea. We were going to split it fifty-fifty, but since he’s no longer my partner, I’ll happily take my fifty. But the sale ends tomorrow night at 9:01 — a minute after the Fed opens for wire transfers.”

Hunter rested his hand on the cuff of his pants. He could feel the gun on the other side of the fabric.

“Is that your plan?” Madison said. “Shoot me, run downstairs, shoot Tripp, then get rid of two bodies before your wife gets home for dinner? That’s not you, Hunter. You’re management, not labor.”

Hunter moved his hand to the arm of the chair.

“It would be arrogant of someone in my tax bracket to give business advice to someone in yours,” Madison said. “But the way I see it, you can give Tripp his billion and hope he doesn’t change his mind once he’s given it all away. Or pay me fifty million and get a lifetime guarantee. Tripp’s lifetime.”

Hunter reached over and picked up the picture of Marjorie and Tripp that had sat on his desk for fifteen years. He pondered it briefly, set it back down, and then looked up at Madison.

“I will give you twenty million dollars,” he said. “That’s my final offer. It expires in ten seconds.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Alden,” Madison said. “I accept your offer.” He stood up and reached out to shake Hunter’s hand.

“Fuck you,” Hunter said.

A smile — more like a smirk of victory — spread across Madison’s face. He withdrew his hand, took a step back, and exited the room.

Hunter sat in silence until he heard Madison leave through the front door. His eyes were still locked on the picture of Marjorie and Tripp. And then, without warning, it came. A flood of emotions that had been buried under years of cynicism and callousness welled up inside of him. Remorse. Regret. And, most of all, grief over the loss of his only child.

He stood, walked to the bar, grabbed the three-thousand-dollar bottle of Richard Hennessy, and returned to his chair.

Still staring at the picture, he tilted the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow. And another. And another, until he finally reached out to turn the photograph facedown on his desk.

But he couldn’t.

All he could do was drain the bottle dry... until the only thing he felt was numb.

“It was a dark and stormy night,” Kylie said as she navigated the Maybach uptown.

“How about knocking off the comedy and focusing on your driving?” I said.