Джеймс Паттерсон: NYPD Red 4

“I’d be happy to,” Cates said. “Do you think you can snag me the perps who killed Elena Travers?”

“We’d be happy to,” Kylie said.

Cates ignored the wisecrack and looked at me. “You’ve got Betancourt and Torres,” she said, waving us out of her office without another word.

Five minutes later, we were sitting down to brief our backup.

Before they came to Red, Detectives Jenny Betancourt and Wanda Torres had more collars than any team in Brooklyn South. Betancourt is a pit bull when it comes to details, and Torres — well, she’s just a pit bull. Kylie and I had worked with them before, and we liked them — partly because they were new and eager to make their bones, and partly because they reminded us of us. They bickered constantly, like an old married couple.

“I agree with Kylie,” Betancourt said after we briefed them. “Lyon spent her formative years watching a lot of people die because of substandard medical care. That’s enough to give her a motive.”

“Bullshit,” Torres said. “I spent my formative years in the South Bronx. Five kids in my grade school died of asthma. Asthma , for God’s sake. How’s that for shoddy medical care? People who grow up in poverty steal steaks from the supermarket, TV sets, maybe — not medical equipment.”

I told them to hash it out on their own, reminded them how critical the case was to the mayor’s husband, and turned them loose.

“What are your plans for the night?” Kylie asked me as soon as Betancourt and Torres left.

“Cheryl and I are going out for Italian food,” I said. “How about you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s been a long day. I think I’ll go home, take a bubble bath, order up some dinner, open up a bottle of wine, and watch anything with Mark Wahlberg in it.”

“Sounds like a restful night,” I said.

“That’s my plan,” she said. “Rest up.”

She was lying through her teeth. I had no idea what her plan was, but I knew one thing for sure: a bubble bath, a bottle of wine, and a Mark Wahlberg movie had nothing to do with it.

I got home at 6:52, eight minutes under the deadline. Cheryl was in the kitchen, spreading a pungent buttery mix on both sides of a split loaf of ciabatta.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“I’m making garlic bread.”

“My keen detective instincts picked up on that,” I said. “But I thought we were going out to dinner.”

“Who said anything about going out? I asked you how you felt about Italian food. You said ‘Fantastico,’ so that’s what I’m making. There’s a lasagna in the oven. It’ll be ready about seven thirty.”

“This is amazing,” I said.

“It’s not amazing,” she said. “It’s called dinner. Normal couples do it every night.”

I came around behind her, cupped her breasts in my hands, and let my lips and tongue nibble the back of her neck. “And what do normal couples do if they have thirty-five minutes to kill before their lasagna is ready?”

“Keep your pants on, Detective Horndog,” she said, wriggling away. “At least until after dinner. For now, why don’t you open a bottle of wine and turn on the TV? It doesn’t get any more normal than that.”

I put my badge, my gun, and my cell phone down on the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the dining area, pulled a bottle of Gabbiano Chianti from the wine rack, and poured two glasses.

I found the TV remote, flipped on Jeopardy! , and sat down on the sofa. Five minutes later, Cheryl joined me, and the two of us spent the next half hour vying to see who was the fastest at coming up with the right answer. It was a lopsided contest. She trounced me.

It was pure, unadulterated domestic boredom, and I loved it.

“Loser does the dishes,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.

I turned off the TV and went to the bathroom to wash up. I was looking in the mirror when my eye caught the pink bathrobe hanging next to my white one on the back of the door. Cheryl was not the first woman I had lived with. But this was the first time in my life that I wasn’t having second thoughts.

By the time I got back, the overhead lights in the dining area were dimmed, two flickering candles lit the room, and dinner was on the table: a steaming pan of lasagna, a salad bowl filled with greens and cherry tomatoes, and a basket of garlic bread.

“Are you sure this is normal?” I said. “Because it looks pretty fantastico to me.”

Cheryl was standing next to the breakfast bar. “Don’t sit down,” she said. She had my cell phone in her hand. “It rang while you were in the bathroom.”

“Whoever it is, tell them I’m eating dinner. I’ll call back.”

“It’s your partner,” Cheryl said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “She needs a cop.”

I took the phone. “Kylie, unless someone has a gun to your head, it’ll have to wait.”

“Zach, I’m at a gas station up in Harlem.”

“Doing what?”

“I tracked down one of Spence’s dealers.”

“Why? After everything the counselors at the rehab told you, why the hell would you — never mind, I know why you do the crazy shit you do. What I don’t know is why you’d go up there on your own without any backup.”

“Because I thought I could handle it on my own.”

“But you can’t.” I looked at Cheryl and mouthed the words “I’m sorry.” I turned back to the phone. “Okay, just tell me what’s going on.”

“The dealer’s name is Baby D. I confronted him and told him I was looking for my husband. He said he hasn’t seen Spence in months, but he’s lying. I know because he’s wearing Spence’s new watch.”

“You can’t bust him for that, Kylie.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jordan!” she yelled. “Are you going to give me a lecture on all the things I can’t do? I thought you said you’d help. Forget it.”

She hung up.

I stood there, seething.

“What’s going on?” Cheryl said.

“Same old, same old. She’s in over her head, she’s out of control, and she needs help.”

“Did you tell her to call for backup?”

“She can’t. It’s not police business. It’s her own crazy shit. I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said, tilting my head at Cheryl, hoping she’d pick up the baton.

“Don’t give me that puppy-dog look,” she said. “You know exactly what you’re going to do. You’re just hoping I’m the one who tells you to do it. Well, it’s not going to happen.”

Of course it wasn’t. I pressed the Recent Calls button on my phone and tapped the top one.

Kylie picked up on the first ring. “What?” she demanded.

“I told you this morning that I’d help, and I meant it.”

“Fine. Then get your ass up to the BP station on 129th and Park as fast as you can.”

“Give me twenty minutes,” I said, looking straight at Cheryl. “In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “And, Zach?”

“What?”

“Bring cash.”

I hung up the phone.

Cheryl walked over to the table, blew out the candles, then turned on the lights.

I grabbed my gun and badge from the counter, threw on my jacket, and went out the door.

Neither of us had said a word, which, in hindsight, was probably the smartest thing we could have done.

I managed to flag a taxi as soon as I stepped out of my apartment building. The bad news was that it turned out to be a Prius — a great little car for the environment, with the emphasis on little. There was no time to look for another cab, so I jammed my six-foot frame into a backseat designed for five-footers, and we headed uptown.