Джеймс Паттерсон: NYPD Red 3

“For what?”

“Beats the heck out of me, but according to her, the guy I sent did an excellent job. Problem solved.”

“Didn’t that seem a little strange to you?” Kylie asked.

Norcia looked down at us from his desk on high. “Detective, do you have any idea how many calls I juggle a day? So, no, I don’t think it’s particularly strange if some wacky old broad calls to thank me for sending an imaginary cop to arrest a couple of imaginary terrorists.”

“On the other hand,” he added with a shit-eating grin that is rare among front desk sergeants, “two NYPD Red detectives investigating said imaginary crime — now that is pretty goddamn bizarre.”

One of the life skills that Kylie has never seemed to master is the ability to not gloat. Humility has never been her strong suit, and she took her most recent triumph as yet another opportunity to remind me that she finished first in our class at the academy, while I came in sixth.

We drove back to 136th Street and rang Mrs. Gittleman’s bell. She was not exactly the little old white-haired lady I had pictured. I’d gotten the “old” part right: she was somewhere north of eighty. But her hair was more of a high-octane orange, and she was dressed, bejeweled, and made up as if she was expecting company. Apparently she was: us.

She blocked the doorway while she inspected our IDs. “Jordan and MacDonald,” she said. “You’re new to the precinct. Are you here for a follow-up on yesterday’s incident?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kylie said, running with it. “We just need to clear up a few facts.”

“Come in,” she said, opening the door. “Careful. It’s a little messy.”

Messy was putting it mildly. The apartment was a pack rat’s paradise. It was like she had started decorating sixty years ago and never got around to stopping. Every inch of wall space was covered with framed artwork, many pieces of which she told us she had painted herself. Three sofas were crammed into the tiny living room, one a launching pad for her abundant pillow collection, another a catchall for assorted leaflets, flyers, and brochures. The third one had a cat curled up in the corner.

“Sit there,” Gittleman said. “She’s deaf. You won’t bother her.”

Kylie sat. I stood. Gittleman sat on the edge of a cluttered coffee table. As promised, she was all business. No coffee, no cookies. “So, was I right?” she asked. “Were they terrorists?”

“It’s an ongoing investigation,” Kylie said, “so we can’t say much just now. But we’re trying to wrap it up. If it’s not too much trouble, could you take us through what you saw?”

She cleared her throat. “It was three thirty. I see two boys with a movie camera. One is tall; he’s white. The other is darker — I’m not saying Arab, but who knows? They’re filming the building next door, pointing their camera at Mrs. Glantz’s window. Some people would say ‘Not my business,’ but I’m a firm believer in ‘If you see something, say something.’ Let me tell you, this was definitely something. So I called Steve—”

“Steve?” Kylie said.

“Sergeant Norcia. I thought you work for him. Anyway, I don’t bother with 911. I called Steve direct at the precinct, and he sends over an undercover cop.”

“How did you know the cop was undercover?”

“Oh please. With that red wig and the fake red beard? Of course he was undercover. Anyway, he walks over to the white boy, handcuffs him, no questions asked.”

We had pulled up Tripp Alden’s driver’s license photo from the DMV. I showed it to her.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” she said. “As I was saying, the cop put the cuffs on him, and then, out of the blue, the other one — the Arab kid — he comes at him with a box cutter. Cut him — you could see the blood soaking into the sleeve on his jacket.”

“What kind of jacket?” I asked.

“One of those hooded sweatshirts they all wear. It was gray with navy-blue trim, and it said Yankees in blue on the front. Anyway, the cop pulls out his stun gun, and zap — the boy goes down. Then he takes the white kid to the paddy wagon, comes back, and drags off the other one.”

“Did you notice which paddy wagon he was driving?” Kylie asked.

“A blue van, unmarked. Anyway, he opens the back doors and tosses the two of them in. And then — get this — he had to tie the doors shut with one of those stretchy cords. I’m not going to tell you how to run the police department, but if you’re going to put prisoners in there, you’d think the city could spend a few bucks on a lock that works.” She paused. “So is there a reward?”

Kylie looked at me, but before either of us could answer, Gittleman fielded her own question. “Don’t worry. I’ll check with Steve.”

His New Year’s resolutions officially on hold, Hunter Alden opened a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue to help him think.

Peter’s head was a problem. It was too late to turn it over to the cops. Oh, I’m sorry, Detectives. This morning, when you told me my driver was decapitated, I completely forgot to mention that I found his head in my son’s camera case last night. But I’m sure there’s no need for you to talk to Tripp. He’s busy with schoolwork.

Hunter’s only choice was to keep it hidden until the cops stopped coming around. Blackstone had suggested the twenty-cubic-foot chest freezer in the basement, so Peter was currently resting peacefully under a hundred pounds of Kobe beef Wagyu steaks, Canadian lobster tails, and premium pulled pork.

Hunter sat down at his desk, poured a splash of the Scotch into his coffee, and stared at the cell phone that the murderer had sent the night before. Then his gaze shifted to the piece of paper he had removed from Peter Chevalier’s lips.

There’s money to be made.

The five words haunted Hunter. He closed his eyes and drifted back fourteen years to Grace Bay, a strip of beach on Providenciales in the Turks and Caicos Islands.

He’d been flown to Turks by private jet, whisked through customs and immigration, driven to a hotel that was closed for its annual September upgrades, and escorted to a conference room.

The man inside was not dressed for the islands. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, the official uniform of the Swiss lawyer. He stood. “Samuel Joost,” he said crisply.

There is only one way that large sums of money can change hands between two people who don’t trust each other. A third party — one beyond reproach — has to be brought in. Joost was a senior partner in a Zurich law firm that had been acting as go-between for wealthy clients and Swiss banks since the 1930s.

He opened a leather attaché and took out a small calculator, an assortment of pens, and a thick binder marked Project Gutenberg. If he had a personality, he had failed to bring it with him.

Documents were signed, funds were moved, and every detail of his involvement was spelled out and agreed upon. Joost assigned him a code name: Leviticus.

Within minutes of Joost’s departure, a second man arrived. He was a tall, gaunt, androgynous presence with slicked-back shoulder-length blond hair.

“There’s money to be made,” he said in a measured, conspiratorial whisper. “You know the risks, the rewards, and the consequences of violating any of the rules. Do you have any questions?”

“Who else is along for the ride?”

“The identities of the other participants are as closely guarded as your own. This is not a social club. Secrecy is paramount to the success or failure of this operation.”

Hunter laughed. “Secrecy and a shitload of money.”

“Mr. Alden,” the nameless blond man said. “In my world, billionaires are as common as fig trees. Do not think you have been invited to this meeting because of your assets. You have been handpicked because of your ideology.”