Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 3

“We have an idea of what went down, but nothing we could take to the DA to charge anyone,” Kylie said. “Not now and probably not ever.”

“In that case, I’ll focus on the fact that we have tragically lost one of the giants who drive the financial engine of the city of New York, a pillar of the community, and a loving husband and father,” she said. “I’ll just leave out the fact that everyone hated the bastard’s guts.”

She opened the door. “Thank you for coming, Detectives. Grandma Muriel has to get back to her party.”

“Madam Mayor,” Kylie said. “One more question. In private.”

Sykes shut the door. “Go ahead.”

“We have a witness who says Hunter made a lot of money on some egregious insider trading,” Kylie said. “She’s suffering from Alzheimer’s, but she claims there’s a flash drive floating around somewhere that might have hard evidence.”

“What’s the question?” Sykes said.

“What if she’s right, and what would we do if we found it?”

“Why the hell would you look? Hunter was a scumbag. I’d be surprised if he weren’t involved in insider trading. But he’s dead. Anything you found would only hurt Hutch Alden, and while you may be unqualified to give political advice, you’re smart enough to know that politicians don’t bite the hand that feeds them. They kiss ass.”

There was a knock on the door, and Sykes opened it.

“I’m coming,” she said to the two boys who were standing outside.

She turned back to us. “Let’s just hope that if that flash drive really does exist, nobody ever gets their hands on it.”

She and the kids headed down the stairs and left Kylie and me standing in the doorway.

“I’m still not sure what to do,” Kylie said.

“We don’t have to do anything today,” I said. “Let’s both sleep on it.”

Kylie looked at me with a devilish grin.

I smiled back. “Separate apartments,” I said.

I didn’t sleep well. As much as I would have liked to expose Hunter Alden to the world, I knew in my heart that Tripp could do more good with the family fortune if I kept quiet. But I wasn’t sure I could convince Kylie.

So when I walked into Gerri’s Diner on Monday morning, all I wanted was a cup of coffee, a bowl of oatmeal, and a quiet place to sit and think. But that doesn’t happen when everything you’ve been involved in over the past few days explodes across every media outlet in the city.

Prep school teacher kidnaps student, cop drives million-dollar car into the boat pond, decapitated billionaire’s body left under the icon of prosperity — it all makes for spellbinding journalism.

As soon as I stepped through the door, a dozen cops shouted my name, stood up and applauded, or came over to shake my hand.

Gerri handed me the Times, the News, and the Post, and escorted me to a booth in the rear. “You may be a jerk in your personal life,” she said, “but you are one hell of a good cop.”

I scanned the papers, and five minutes later Kylie walked into the same reception. But as soon as the applause died down, somebody with a sound effects app on his phone tapped a button, and we heard the screeching of brakes and a loud crash. Cop humor.

Kylie sat down across from me. “What’s new in the papers?” she said.

“Apparently, we’re not the only heroes,” I said. “Hutch Alden really knows how to spin the facts to the family’s advantage.”

I slid the Post across the table and pointed to a headline on page three. “‘Billionaire Gives Life to Save Son.’ Read all about it.”

She read the first paragraph and shoved it aside. “Why would you show me this? It only makes me want to crucify the bastard even more.”

“Because I know you. Your mind is already made up. Where did you net out?”

She dug into her pocket and put the flash drive on the table. “I’ll go with the majority. We can’t show this to anyone.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I was hoping that the mayor’s little ‘bite the hand that feeds them’ speech would change your mind.”

“Oh, I didn’t buy that crap,” Kylie said. “Spence is the one who changed my mind.”

“You discussed this with Spence?”

“Relax. I didn’t give him any of the details. Just the big picture. We had dinner last night. He may be an addict, but he’s clean right now, and I’ve always trusted his moral compass.”

“What did he say that convinced you?”

“He said, ‘If you’re going to turn Hunter Alden over to the Feds, then you may as well turn me in to NYPD. I was buying drugs illegally for months. You knew about it, and you were willing to look the other way. But a crime is a crime, Kylie. Arrest me.’ Then he held up his hands so I could cuff him.”

I laughed out loud. “What did you do?”

“I stuck him with my salad fork and called him an asshole.”

“But you didn’t arrest him.”

“No, I’m too busy trying to rehabilitate him.”

“Wow. You’re an even bigger hypocrite than I realized.”

“Zach, ever since we discovered what was on that flash drive, I wanted to bring Hunter Alden to justice. Even after he was dead, I was still obsessed with making him pay for what he did. But to quote my recovering addict husband, ‘Justice doesn’t necessarily make the world a better place. Compassion always does.’”

I picked up the flash drive. “We may not be showing this to anyone, but we still have to hold on to it, just to make sure Tripp holds up his end of the bargain.”

“I know the perfect hiding place,” Kylie said. “No one will ever find it, and we can get to it anytime we want.”

A half hour later we were at the property clerk’s office. I filled out the paperwork, he tagged and bagged the crucifix — flash drive, and the only evidence of Hunter Alden’s crime against humanity left our hands and made the first step in a chain of custody that would transport it to its final resting place, a sprawling warehouse in Long Island City, where it would be stored for decades.

“Any regrets?” I asked Kylie.

“Not about this, but I wish you had never showed me that article in the Post about Hunter Alden. It pisses me off that the son of a bitch is going to get a hero’s funeral.”

“Just his body,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure his head will rot in a pauper’s grave in Haiti for all eternity.”

They say police work is hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. The week after we wrapped up the Alden case was the most boring of my career.

And the most depressing.

I remember laughing at breakfast Monday morning when Kylie made the crack about sticking Spence with her salad fork, but it was now Friday afternoon, and I hadn’t cracked a smile since.

Nothing felt good. For starters, when the storm hit the city, the Department of Sanitation hooked up plows to all its trucks, and for the next five days snow removal trumped garbage collection.

Within hours, the fresh coat of pristine white flakes turned into gray grunge, and by the time the trucks went back to normal service, the sidewalks were thick with slush, and the curbs were lined with more than fifty thousand tons of ripe garbage. And because it was early January, there were also more than a hundred thousand dried-up Christmas trees waiting to be recycled.

New York is a tough town, but once again, Mother Nature had kicked our ass.

Wednesday was Hunter Alden’s funeral, and I slipped quietly into the back row of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church. One by one, people of power and influence, all of whom I’m sure were in some way beholden to Hutch, took the podium to praise Hunter’s wisdom, his business acumen, and of course his greatest sacrifice: laying down his life to save his son.