Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 3

“How soon can we talk to Mr. Madison?” I asked.

“Immediately. I’ll send for a runner to escort you to his class.” He jotted a phone number on a piece of paper. “This is my personal cell,” he said. “Whatever I can do to help.”

We thanked him, gave him our numbers, and waited for the runner.

“You making any sense of this?” I asked Kylie.

“I totally figured it out,” she said. “Tripp sent a text to say his car was at Riverside Park, but the car turned out to be on 136th Street. Alden told us Tripp was in school, but Tripp isn’t here. Gittleman said some guy in a red wig and a phony red beard cuffed Tripp and hauled him off in a van, but Alden swears he heard from Tripp last night, and all’s right with the world.”

“That about sums it up,” I said. “So what did you figure out?”

She cocked her head to one side and grinned. “Elementary, my dear Jordan. Clearly, somebody is lying their ass off.”

In the post-Columbine landscape, classroom doors have to be tough enough to deter an intruder. But because the maniac with a gun is often a student, school officials always have to be able to look inside. The doors at Barnaby Prep were all solid oak with thick two-by-two glass inserts at eye level.

Our runner, Jeffrey, was a tall, gangly kid with age-appropriate acne and braces. He walked us up to the third floor, stopped in front of room 314, and pointed through the glass. “That’s him,” he said, laughing. “That’s Mr. Madison.”

We peered inside. A man wearing black jeans and a navy turtleneck was standing on top of the teacher’s desk, his arms raised high. He had a Barbie doll in one hand and pounded his chest with the other. Every kid in the room watched with rapt attention.

“Film class,” Jeffrey said. “They’re studying King Kong. ”

Kylie threw him a look. “Really, kid? I was going to go with Bambi. ”

Madison jumped up and down on the desk, swatting at imaginary airplanes. Suddenly he jerked backward in pain, mortally wounded. He slunk down, gently set Barbie on the desk, and slumped slowly to the floor.

“It was beauty killed the beast,” Jeffrey the ever-helpful tour guide said. “I took the class last year.”

The kids applauded. Madison stood up, ran his fingers through his hair, then looked our way. I beckoned with one finger. He smiled, said something to his students, and came out.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” he said. “Ryan Madison. Are you prospective parents?”

“NYPD. We’d like to talk,” I said, “but we can wait till your class is over.”

“Hell, no,” he said. “This is a perfect chance to sneak a smoke. You’re not the tobacco police, are you?” He laughed. “Let’s go up to the roof. It’s cold as hell up there, but it’s legal.”

Jeffrey took off, and we followed Madison up three more flights of stairs. He was in his midthirties, full of energy, and loaded with attitude.

“Sorry about the cigs,” he said, lighting up. “I watched too much film noir as a kid. How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for Tripp Alden,” I said.

“He’s not here today.”

“We know. The headmaster thought you might be able to help us find him.”

“Oh, of course. This is about Peter Chevalier’s murder, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. We’d like to talk to Tripp as soon as possible.”

“I’m not sure if he even knows about it,” he said, turning his head and blowing smoke into the freezing January air. “Wait a minute — that’s stupid. He must know about it by now. Hell, everybody in school does. But he didn’t seem to know about Peter’s death last night. At least he didn’t say anything.”

“You spoke to him last night?” Kylie said.

“Texted.”

“What time?”

Madison dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out his cell. “It was 12:07.”

“Tripp Alden sent you a text after midnight,” I said. It was half statement, half question. “What did he say?”

He read the text to us: “Lonnie and I are headed upstate for a few more interviews. Sorry to blow off class tomorrow and Friday. Back Saturday. Can we book the editing room over the weekend?”

Madison showed us the text, then put the phone back in his pocket. “Today’s our first day after the Christmas break,” he said. “Can you believe they started us back up on a Thursday? Tripp and Lonnie aren’t the only kids cutting school today and tomorrow. So I wrote back, ‘Don’t sweat it,’ and I booked the editing suite for them. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“What interviews was he referring to?” Kylie asked.

“He’s making a film about his grandfather. The old man has family in Rochester. Tripp and Lonnie have gone up there a few times to interview some of his cousins.”

“Do you know any of their names?”

Madison had one of those boyish grins that I’m sure endeared him to his students. He tried it out on Kylie. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say some of them are probably named Alden, but I have no idea.”

She did not grin back.

“Sorry if that sounded snarky, Detective,” he said, going from boyish to sheepish. “My job is to give these kids guidance on mise-en-scène, but I’m not involved in production.”

“How would they get upstate?” I asked.

“Tripp has a car — a Prius.”

“Thank you,” I said, giving him my card. “If you hear from either one of them, have them call this number.”

“Hey, why wait? I’ll text Tripp. I’ll bet he and Lonnie would love to hang with you guys.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “I’m freezing. Let’s get inside.”

We reentered the building and walked back down to the third floor.

“Why do you think Tripp and Lonnie would want to hang out with us?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Those two are crime film junkies. They’ve staged a bank robbery, a carjacking — all that cool stuff you guys do in real life.”

Kylie blurted out the obvious next question before I could. “Did they ever stage a kidnapping?”

“Not that I know of,” Madison said, “but that’s a cool idea. They’re pretty good at staging these crime scenes. The irony is that they do it all guerrilla-style. No permits, so technically, they’re breaking the law every time they shoot. Are we good for now? I’ve got to get back. Now that I’ve got their attention with the monkeyshines, I want to get into the good stuff, like the film’s blatant undertones of racism during a period of increasing racial and social tension in America. You’re welcome to sit in. Don’t worry: I won’t blow your cover.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I think we’ll pass.” My cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. “That’s our boss. Now I’m sure we’ll pass.”

Madison went back inside the classroom, and I took the call from Cates. “Yes, Captain,” I said.

“I just heard from Mayor Sykes,” she said.

Red had been held in very high esteem by the previous administration, and we were all hoping that the new mayor would be just as supportive. “That’s a good sign,” I said. “I think she’s going to be your new best friend.”

“ Our new best friend,” Cates said. “She wants a rundown on the murder of Alden’s driver. She’ll be here in fifteen minutes. You be here in fourteen.”

“He was cute,” Kylie said as she sped downtown on Central Park West.

Kylie is a world-class ballbuster, and I knew she was going to retaliate for my crack about feisty women hogging all the glory. This was her first attempt.

“He was okay,” I said.

“Okay? Zach, he was hot. I’d go out with him.”