Джеймс Паттерсон: NYPD Red 3

“So we’re either going to Barnaby Prep to talk to Tripp, or we’re headed up to Harlem to check out Grandpa’s old neighborhood.”

She smiled. “Both. But we can catch Tripp when school lets out. First let’s hit 530 West 136th Street and see if anyone saw him wandering around with a camera yesterday.”

We had the park all to ourselves, so Kylie drove with complete disregard for red lights, the twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit, and the patches of ice on the roadway.

“And don’t forget,” I said, “if we survive this trip, we have to call Chuck Dryden and get Alden’s Mybock back to him in a big hurry. From what I gather, the poor guy is lost without it.”

“Absolutely,” she said, hurtling around the curves of East Drive. “Getting Alden’s precious mobile office back to him is at the top of my list — right after we find the person who killed Alden’s driver.”

Kylie barreled through to the north end of the park, took 110th Street to Broadway, and made the turn onto 136th Street in a record-breaking eight minutes. Then she slowed down to a crawl and headed east toward Amsterdam Avenue.

“Keep an eye out for one of those useless hybrids. Blue, maybe green.”

Halfway up the block, I spotted it. “Green Prius,” I said, pointing to a car that was directly in front of number 530. We ran the plates. The car was registered to Alden Investments.

We got out and tried the doors. They were locked.

“Jimmy it,” Kylie said.

“It’s in a valid parking space, and we have no reason to think it was involved in a crime,” I said. “Or did the NYPD recently drop that whole grounds-for-breaking-into-a-legally-parked-car thing?”

“Why would Tripp text his father and say he’s broken down in Riverside Park if his car is here?” Kylie said.

“I’m just guessing,” I said, “but one possibility is, if you’re planning to slice through someone’s spinal column with a rope saw, you figure if you do it in the middle of 136th Street on New Year’s Day, you’re going to draw a crowd. The park, on the other hand, is deserted. No witnesses.”

“You like Tripp for killing Chevalier?” Kylie asked.

“No, but he has to at least be on our list. And if he didn’t do it, then somebody used Tripp’s phone, sent the text, and lured Peter to the park.”

“Somebody like who?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s ask around.”

“Who are we supposed to ask? It’s freezing out here. The street isn’t exactly teeming with witnesses.”

“Let’s go find the widow in the window.”

She looked at me. “Who?”

Kylie and I have two histories. The first is as lovers, and even though it lasted only a month, I’m sure I bared my soul to her, told her my best-kept secrets. The second history is as partners, but that relationship is so new that there are still a few things I haven’t shared with her.

“The widow in the window,” I repeated. “Lots of neighborhoods have one. She’s a white-haired old lady who usually lives on the first floor facing front. Her kids are grown and gone, her husband is dead, and her life is about sitting by the window and taking it all in. These days she may have a cell phone in her hand so that when she sees something interesting she can spread the news to anyone on her speed dial who might remotely give a rat’s ass. Maybe they didn’t have people like that where you grew up, but trust me, in this part of the city, in neighborhoods like this, there’s one on every block. They see everything.”

“That is the dumbest theory I ever heard,” Kylie said.

“Maybe, but right now it’s the only one we’ve got. Humor me. Let’s walk around and look for her.”

We did. We covered the entire block from Broadway to Amsterdam, but there were no widows looking out of any windows.

“Maybe her shift starts later in the day,” Kylie said. “Or maybe she has a second job as the widow in the rocking chair watching daytime TV. Or wait, here’s a thought: maybe it’s just the dumbest theory any cop ever came up with.”

“Fine,” I said. “You have a better idea?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s my sergeant-at-the-front-desk theory. Come on — get back in the car. Humor me.”

Most NYPD cops don’t get to spend much time outside the clearly defined boundaries of their precincts. One of the best things about my job is that Red has no borders, so I get to soak up the entire multicultural, geographically diversified melting pot called New York City.

The Sugar Hill section of Harlem is one of our grandest, most overlooked neighborhoods. It got its name back in the 1920s, when wealthy African Americans moved there to live the sweet life during the Harlem Renaissance.

We headed uptown and drove past stately row houses that had been homes to many of the leading black writers, musicians, athletes, and political leaders of the twentieth century. It’s so spectacular that not only has it been designated a municipal historic district by the Landmarks Preservation Commission, but Kylie actually slowed down so we could take it all in.

The 30th Precinct is on West 151st Street, a tree-lined block just east of Convent Garden. We entered the building and ID’d ourselves to the front desk sergeant. One look and you knew he was a seasoned pro. Close-cropped silver hair, rugged jaw, piercing eyes, and even sitting down he had the bearing of someone who’d served his country in the military.

“Steve Norcia,” he said. “What brings you to the Three Oh, Detectives?”

“We’re looking for a civilian,” Kylie said. “Probably an older woman who calls the precinct on a regular basis, maybe with noise complaints, double-parked cars she sees from her window, people who don’t pick up after their dogs—”

Sergeant Norcia interrupted. “Say no more, Detective. I know the type. What they really want is a cop to drive by so they can talk, maybe offer him a cup of coffee and some cookies. We’ve got a bunch of regulars. We call it the Lonely Hearts Club. You looking for anyone in particular, or should I just tell you who makes the best chocolate chip?”

“I can narrow it down for you,” Kylie said. “She’d have called yesterday — possibly complaining about a kid with a movie camera. Maybe she said he was a Peeping Tom or wanted to know if he had a permit.”

“I know exactly who you’re talking about. I took the call myself,” Norcia said, and went to his computer. “Just give me a minute.”

“Take your time, Sergeant,” Kylie said. “This is a lot easier than going door-to-door.” She grinned at me. “Or window to window.”

“Bingo,” Norcia said in much less than a minute. “I knew it was her.”

“Who?” Kylie said, taking out a pen and pad.

“Fannie Gittleman. Lives at 530 West 136th, apartment 2A. She called yesterday at 3:35 p.m. Except it wasn’t one of those lonely-widow-with-free-baked-goods calls I was talking about. Gittleman is a bit of a troublemaker — a community activist. Always ready to drag the cops in if it’ll help whatever cause she’s harping on that day. Yesterday she reported seeing two terrorists filming the building next door. She was pretty sure they were plotting to blow it up.”

“Terrorists?” Kylie said. “Who’d you send to answer the call?”

“Detective, it was January first. Nine guys phoned in sick. It’s our annual epidemic of post — New Year’s Eve Brown Bottle Flu. Hell, I can’t blame them. I did the same thing when I was their age.”

“So you didn’t send anyone?”

“I would have — eventually.” He grinned. “Handling these old ladies is a balancing act. You start jumping too fast, and they’ll call you ten times a day. I was shorthanded, so it wasn’t at the top of my list. I would have sent out the first available RMP, but Gittleman called back ten minutes later to thank me.”