Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 3

But on this frigid Sunday morning, NYPD had cordoned off the seven-thousand-pound symbol of capitalism, and the only one snapping pictures was Chuck Dryden.

“Four bodies in four days,” Kylie said when we got there.

“But only two heads,” Dr. Cut And Dryden said, clicking off a few more shots of what remained of Hunter Alden. “If this keeps up, we’re going to need a new category in the crime stats.”

We knew him well enough to know he wasn’t joking.

“TOD was between ten p.m. and two a.m.,” Dryden reported. “Like the previous victim, he was decapitated postmortem, but Chevalier was jumped in a parking lot, and his head was hacked off with a rope saw. Alden was taken someplace where the killer wouldn’t be rushed, and the head was removed with surgical precision.”

I made a mental list of people who had motive and surgical skills. One name was all I could come up with.

“Have you recovered the head?” Kylie asked.

“No. The victim’s wallet was still in his pocket, cash intact. I confirmed his ID with prints. But you located the last one. I’m sure you’ll do it again.”

I wasn’t so sure.

The snow had stopped, and because commerce is a priority in our city, the roads in the financial district were plowed and ready for the opening bell Monday morning. We walked down Broadway, found a Starbucks, and solved Alden’s murder before our coffee was ready.

“Patrice killed him,” Kylie said.

“Unless there was an eyewitness, or he left damning forensic evidence, we’ll never prove it,” I said. “Let’s bring him in and question him.”

“Or at least shake his hand,” Kylie said. “Although I doubt if he’s still in this country.”

“He’s not going anywhere till the airports open. Let’s find him.”

We couldn’t. Patrice didn’t answer his phone, and his hotel said he had checked out the day before. There was only one other way to track him down.

We went back to Hunter Alden’s house. Tripp answered the door.

“My mom and my grandfather are at the funeral home making arrangements,” he said.

“Then we’ll talk to you,” I said.

He shrugged. “Let’s go to my room,” he said.

We followed him up to the third floor. It was a typical rich teenager’s room. Just as unkempt and disorganized as you’d expect, only a hell of a lot bigger. We sat down in a cluster of director’s chairs.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” I said.

“I’m not,” Tripp said. “He was a really bad dude. Take my word for it.”

“We’re not here to judge the victim,” I said. “We’re here to catch his killer.”

“I hope you’re not going to ask me if he had any enemies.”

“The first thing we have to do is fill out our report on how you wound up at the precinct safe and sound last night. Dr. Chevalier brought you in, and we’d like to ask him a few questions. Do you know where we can find him?”

“He’s on his way back to Haiti.”

“The airports are closed,” I said. “All flights are grounded till noon.”

“Commercial flights, yeah, but private aircraft have been flying out of Westchester since dawn,” Tripp said. “I let Patrice use the family jet so he could take Peter’s body back home.”

So much for questioning anyone with surgical skills.

“Peter’s funeral is Thursday,” he said. “Patrice asked me to do the eulogy. I can go, can’t I? I mean my lawyer said not to worry about the stun gun thing.”

“Augie Hoffman isn’t pressing charges, and after all you’ve been through the DA’s office won’t pursue it either,” I said. “You can definitely go to Peter’s funeral. And we’re sorry for your loss — we know how much he meant to you.”

“Thanks. At least I still have Patrice. After graduation I’m going down to Haiti and live with him.”

“What about college?”

“You think any of the film schools I applied to are going to take me once they find out that my letter of recommendation came from a homicidal maniac?”

“Hell yeah,” Kylie said. “They might even want to make a movie out of it.”

“I’ve got a better movie idea,” he said. “Teenager suddenly inherits billions of dollars and starts giving it away.”

“Is that your plan?” I said.

“The only plan I have is to not be anything like my father. He dedicated his life to making money, and he didn’t care who got hurt along the way. Now that it’s mine, I’m going to try to use it to make up for the damage he did.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Kylie said.

She forced a smile, but I could see by the look in her eyes that Tripp Alden had completely ruined her day.

“Now what do we do?” Kylie said as soon as we were back in the car.

“I don’t know, but the best I can come up with is we think long and hard about turning that flash drive over to the Feds.”

“Zach, do you have any idea how many cops I know who died on that day?”

“We all lost someone, Kylie, but crucifying Hunter Alden won’t bring any of them back.”

“So are we just supposed to keep our mouths shut? Not only did the man fail to prevent one of the most heinous crimes in the history of the world: he profited from it.”

“What do you want to do? Prosecute him from the neck down?”

“He made over a billion dollars in blood money.”

“You know that, I know that, and Tripp knows it. He’s ready to start making reparations. The only thing we can do is blow the whistle, and if we do, I guarantee you the government will freeze every nickel Hunter Alden ever made. Tripp Alden won’t have enough money to buy a cup of coffee.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Kylie, I am in uncharted waters. I don’t even know if what we found on the flash drive is admissible evidence. We got the warrant without authorization, and the search wasn’t connected to the case we were investigating. How long do you think it would take the Warlock to have it suppressed?”

“So we send it off to the Feds anonymously,” she said. “I don’t care if we get credit. Our job is to report a crime when we see it.”

“It sounds like you suddenly decided to go by the book. You must have read it sometime after you lied your ass off to Judge LaBreche.”

My phone rang. Cates.

“Mayor Sykes is looking for you,” she said. “Drop what you’re doing and meet her at Gracie Mansion.”

“Do you know what it’s about?”

“She didn’t say, but the son of her biggest contributor was murdered five days into her term, so I’m guessing it’s not a medal-pinning ceremony.”

Mayor Sykes was downstairs when we got there, surrounded by at least a dozen happy, hyper kids who were running around, having the time of their young lives.

“It’s not usually this crazy,” Sykes said, “but it’s my first Sunday in my new home, so I invited the whole family over for a mansion-warming party.”

We followed her upstairs to her office. She closed the door, but she didn’t sit down. It was going to be a short meeting.

“Thank you for solving a double homicide and for getting Tripp Alden out of it alive,” she said. “Now I need to know how to deal with this Hunter Alden fiasco.”

“Madam Mayor,” I said, “there are a lot of people better qualified to give you political advice than we are.”

“But you’re the only two people I trust to tell me if NYPD has a shot at catching Hunter’s killer. I have a press conference tomorrow, and I don’t want to stand up there promising something you don’t think we can deliver.”

For the past six years, Muriel Sykes had been U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York — the same job Rudy Giuliani held before he was elected mayor. Nobody knew the realities and the limitations of the criminal justice system better than she did.