Джеймс Паттерсон: NYPD Red 3

For Gerri and Victor Gomperts, who helped me find what I was looking for.

Every December 31, Hunter Hutchinson Alden Jr. made the same two New Year’s resolutions.

1. Be worth X dollars by the end of next year.

2. Quit drinking.

This year’s goal was five billion, and considering the fact that his current net worth was 4.86 billion, getting there was a slam dunk. But forty-five minutes and three glasses of Pellegrino into his father’s New Year’s Day party, he knew that number two was doomed to failure. Again.

He crammed himself into the corner of a blue calfskin Himmel settee at the east end of the Great Room so he could avoid eye contact with the swarm of well-heeled narcissists who were strutting around Hutch Alden’s Fifth Avenue triplex, flaunting their glorious Christmas-in-Saint-Barts tans.

It was the same crowd every year — the A-list of the Rich and Shallow — and Hunter was there for only one reason. He was duty-bound to charm the hell out of his old man’s guests.

But not yet. Right now he was too pissed to be charming.

He glared at his iPhone, willing it to vibrate, beep, chirp, or in any way show some sign of life. One of them would call eventually, and he was willing to bet it wouldn’t be his son. The kid wouldn’t have the balls to man up, so he’d pass the buck to Peter, who would apologize profusely and blame himself for Tripp’s bad behavior.

The first note of his ringtone erupted from the phone, and he hit the green Accept button the instant it blossomed onto the screen. “Where the hell are you?” he growled, not even knowing if he was dealing with Tripp or Peter.

“Is that any way to talk to a lady?” a sexy female voice drawled.

“Sorry. I was expecting a call from the most irresponsible eighteen-year-old on the planet. Or at least from the driver I sent hours ago to bail him out of trouble.”

“I’m none of those, but I’m blonde, I’m hot, and you seem to be extremely agitated. Perhaps I can do something to calm you down.”

“I’m sure you could.”

“Are you available?”

“Technically I’m married, but I’m not a fanatic about it.”

“Good,” the blonde said. “Ditch her. You’re exactly the kind of man I’ve been looking for.”

“What kind is that?”

“A lifelong challenge.”

“But worth the effort,” he said. “Where can I find you?”

“The same place Romeo found Juliet.”

Hunter looked up at the sweeping balcony on the west side of the room. There was his wife, Janelle, waving. “Stay where you are, Romeo.”

Hunter hung up and watched as the former Miss Alabama sashayed down the marble staircase and breezed across the room, a natural-born ambassador, greeting guests on the fly, a flurry of blonde hair and pink silk.

Pink was Janelle’s color. She wore it often in honor of her sister Chelsea, who survived breast cancer at the age of twenty-six, only to die at thirty when the Twin Towers fell.

Hunter met Janelle a year later — September 11, 2002. He was one of the thousands of mourners who filed into the gaping hole at Ground Zero to remember the dead. And there, in the middle of the sea of somber gray and funereal black, was this golden-haired, angel-faced vision in pink.

She was the polar opposite of his late wife. Marjorie had been Yankee-bred, Harvard Business School — trained, and Wall Street ruthless. Janelle was heart of Dixie to the core and had never taken a business course in her life, yet she had raised millions for charity simply by using her abundant charm.

She sat down on the settee and rested a hand on Hunter’s knee. “I’m going home. Early day tomorrow.”

“I’ll go with you. We haven’t had sex all year.”

“Not so fast, cowboy. You’re wanted up top,” she said, pointing toward the balcony. “Hutch has someone he wants you to shake hands with.”

“He’s got a house full of people he wants me to shake hands with.”

“But only one is the new mayor of New York, which is why she’s having a drink with Hutch in his private sanctuary while the rest of them are forced to wander aimlessly around the castle. I’ll see you at home.”

“How are you getting there? Peter is still off the grid.”

“I’m sure he’s busy fixing Tripp’s car.”

“He’s not a damn mechanic, Janelle. He’s our driver. I specifically told him to leave Tripp’s car where it is and just bring the kid home. Not keeping in touch is Tripp’s MO. Now he’s got Peter doing it.”

“Sweetie, Tripp did keep in touch,” Janelle said. “He texted to say he needed help; you sent help, end of story. Now stop micromanaging and don’t worry about me. Hutch already arranged for Findley to drive me home. Now why don’t you practice what you preach?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Be a good boy and don’t disappoint your father. He expects you to go upstairs and make nice to our new mayor. Do it.” She gave him a quick kiss and headed for the door.

Hunter stood up and took a deep breath. The room smelled of money: publishing money, cosmetics money, and, of course, money money — the kind that comes from making canny investments when the rest of the world is betting the other way. He downed his fourth glass of imported water, turned on his handcrafted smile, and glided into the clowder of fat cats.

“Hunter!” It was Damon Parker, the despicable TV journalist who once described Hutch Alden as a folksy Warren Buffett who had tragically spawned a son as ruthless as Rupert Murdoch.

Parker advanced on him, all smiles, hand outstretched, but Hunter bounded up the stairs to hallowed ground — Hutch’s five-million-dollar command center, where none could go unless summoned.

“There you are,” his father said, striding toward him next to Muriel Sykes, the tall, athletic-looking woman whose face had been on page one of every newspaper in New York that morning. “Say hello to our guest of honor.”

“Madam Mayor,” Hunter said. “I’d shake your hand, but you don’t have a free one.”

It was Hutch’s standing tradition at his New Year’s parties to provide his guests with a taste of old New York, and the mayor had a half-eaten hot dog in one hand and a chocolate egg cream in the other.

She turned one cheek, and Hunter planted a kiss. “Happy New Year, and happy new administration,” he said. “How’s it going so far?”

“Crazy day, but I’ll give you the highlights. This morning the president called to wish me well, and tonight your father treated me to the single best New York hot dog I’ve ever had in my life.”

“That’s my dad,” Hunter said. “True to his roots.”

“I hate to eat and run,” Sykes said, “but they’ve spent the entire day moving me into Gracie Mansion, and I’m dying to kick off my shoes and stretch out in my new digs. Happy New Year.”

“You’ve been checking your phone all night,” Hutch said as soon as Sykes was out of earshot. “What’s so important?”

“It’s Tripp. He had car trouble — up in Harlem, of all places. Peter went to rescue him, and I haven’t heard from either of them in hours.”

“Relax. Harlem is Peter’s stomping grounds. He’s probably showing Tripp a good time. Those Haitian boys sure know how to party... if you catch my drift.”

“ Haitian boys? Yes, Dad, I catch your extremely politically incorrect drift.”

“What are you talking about? I’m as politically correct as they come. Hell, I just spent a small fortune helping that goddamn broad get elected mayor.”