Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 3

“Hell yeah,” I said.

I took a hot shower, found some dry clothes in my locker, and we got a patrol car to run us over to T-Bar Steak and Lounge on Third Avenue.

“I’ve never worked a kidnapping case,” Kylie said once we had ordered our food and had drinks in our hands. “But I’ve seen a lot of kidnapping movies. You know the difference between cinema and the real thing?”

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say popcorn.”

“I’m serious, Zach. In a film, when the family gets their kid back, there’s always all this hugging and kissing and crying, but Hunter and Janelle Alden didn’t even show up at the station to say hello. Two people were murdered. Their son escaped alive. Where was the tearful reunion?”

“Janelle wasn’t home when we were there, so she might not even know yet. And Hunter’s version of a happy ending may be hugging and kissing the money he wound up not paying the kidnapper.”

“Or it’s not a happy ending for Hunter, because whether Tripp was part of Madison’s blackmail scheme or not, he still has plenty on his old man.”

“I thought we had a deal,” I said. “No cop talk at the dinner table.”

“No problem,” she said, taking a generous swallow of her Jack and Coke. “What else can we talk about? Have you heard from Cheryl today? How about that madcap husband of mine showing up unannounced? The divorce lawyer asked for a fifteen-thousand-dollar retainer. Do you think I should—”

“You win. Let’s talk about the case.”

“Cates thinks it’s closed,” Kylie said.

“She’s right. It was a double homicide, and we nailed it. In the process, we broke up the very kidnapping we were told to stay away from.”

“And Tripp Alden was damn lucky that we didn’t listen.”

“Unfortunately, they don’t give out medals for not listening, or you’d have a closet full. Kylie, I know you. You don’t want to talk about the case. You have a theory, and you’re trying to lead me down the path so I can get there on my own, but my brain is fried, so lay it on me before I add alcohol.”

“Okay. I think Tripp Alden was right. Madison was going to kill him, and I think his life is still at risk.”

I set my drink on the table. She had my undivided attention.

“Track with me,” she said. “Madison goes to the house, and Hunter agrees to pay the ransom. His son is tied up in the van. Why doesn’t he go downstairs and give the kid some peace of mind that he’s going to be set free?”

“Because he sucks as a dad.”

“Right, so here’s a different spin on the same question. He’s just coughed up millions to save Tripp’s life. The last thing he needs is for the kid to try something stupid and get himself killed. So why didn’t Hunter go downstairs to the garage and tell Tripp to chill for twenty-four hours? He’s a smart businessman. Wouldn’t that have been the smart way to protect his investment?”

She’d led me down the path, and I hated where it was headed. “Are you saying that the kid knows too much, and Hunter wanted him dead?”

“Not only wanted him dead, but was willing to pay Madison to do it. And he’d have gotten away with it. Desperate father pays ransom, only to have the kidnapper renege on the deal and murder his son. ”

Before I could process her theory, my cell rang. It was Sergeant McGrath.

“Zach, it’s Bob.”

“If we’re on a first-name basis, you need a favor. What do you want?”

“The key to Alden’s car. They flatbedded it to the One Oh Five garage, but they can’t start it without that little fob I gave you.”

“Actually, you gave it to my partner.”

“That’s the favor. Make my life easy. You ask her for it.”

“It’s McGrath,” I said to Kylie. “Do you still have the key to the Maybach?”

She dug into her pocket and dropped it on the table.

“Got it,” I said. “And the good news is there’s not a scratch on it. Send a uniform to T-Bar at Seven Three and Three, and it’s all yours... Bob.”

I picked up the key ring. It still had Peter’s gold crucifix on it. “I think we should take this off and get it back to Patrice,” I said.

I grabbed the cross and started to slide it off the ring. It was tight, so I put a little pressure on it. Too much pressure, and it broke into two pieces.

“Klutz,” Kylie said.

“No, I think it’s supposed to come apart,” I said, holding it close to the flickering candlelight to get a better look.

The bottom leg of the cross had slid off like the sheath to a sword. Except that instead of there being a blade inside the sheath, there was a USB port.

“It’s not your average crucifix,” I said, handing it to Kylie. “This one’s also a flash drive.”

“Hallelujah,” Kylie said, holding up the cross. “And I swear to God we’re going to do this one by the book.”

“Not a hundred percent,” I said. “The book says we have to clear it with the captain and an ADA before we chase down a judge to sign a search warrant.”

“I believe that rule is flexible,” Kylie said, looking at me with a straight face. “Especially if it’s a Saturday night, it’s snowing, and you know that Cates will tear you a new one if she thinks you’re making Alden the target of a witch hunt.”

We wolfed down our dinner, returned the fob to McGrath, and made our way to West End Avenue, where Leah LaBreche, the on-call judge, was waiting for us.

“Sober as a judge” does not always apply at ten o’clock on a Saturday night, but Judge LaBreche was a new mom, so she was awake, alert, and had a few questions before she’d sign.

“A flash drive?” she said. “At this hour? Why couldn’t this wait till morning?”

Kylie launched into a rapid-fire explanation, throwing around phrases like “double homicide,” “high-profile kidnapping,” and “close friends of the new mayor,” and ending with “Our commanding officer thought it was important enough to drive through a snowstorm to get your signature.”

If Judge LaBreche had any further questions, she didn’t get to them. A baby started crying, and her focus shifted immediately.

“It’s my son Landon. He’s teething,” she said, taking the pen from Kylie.

She signed, and we left.

Lying about Cates could get us disciplined, but the search was now legal. Nothing we found could be suppressed.

“My place or yours?” Kylie asked as soon as the judge closed her door.

We had no idea what we were looking for, and we didn’t know if we’d recognize it if we found it, but we knew we wanted someplace private if we did. We decided on my apartment.

I plugged the flash drive into my computer and double-clicked on it. None of the folders were locked. “God bless Irene Gerrity,” I said. “She doesn’t believe in passwords.”

“Or she did,” Kylie said, “but somewhere along the line she realized she’d never be able to remember them.”

Irene had it all perfectly organized. Eight folders, each one labeled. I clicked on the one marked Phone Calls, and dozens of MP3 file icons popped up.

I played one.

“Mr. Joost. This is Leviticus.”

I had no idea who Joost was, but Leviticus’s voice was unmistakable. Hunter Alden. We listened to the rest of the call.

“It seems like an everyday stock deal,” Kylie said, “but based on what Irwin Diamond taught us about insider trading, I’ll bet Mr. Joost is somewhere in Switzerland, and the SEC will have no record of Leviticus or the transaction.”

We played three more, but it was like looking at the ticker tape crawling along the bottom of the screen on CNBC. All the information is right there, but I didn’t have the chops to make sense of it.