Джеймс Паттерсон: NYPD Red 4

She finally turned away. “Shelley, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know he’s mad at me because I wouldn’t take him back into the apartment, but...”

“I kicked him out too. He’s mad at both of us, and he’s sending us a message.”

Kylie shook her head. “What kind of message is this?”

Shelley didn’t answer.

Whatever the message was, there was no nuance to it.

“I’m invoking the DWI rule,” I said as Kylie and I walked back to the parking lot.

A faint smile crept across her face. When she gets riled up, Kylie drives like a NASCAR champion, so we have an agreement: no Driving While Infuriated.

“Come on, Zach,” she said. “I haven’t wrecked a car since way back in...”

“January,” I said. “You’re almost ready to get your three-month chip.”

The smile turned into a grin, and she tossed me the keys.

It was only a fifteen-minute drive from the studio to Lynn Lyon’s apartment on West End Avenue, and Kylie talked non-stop. The topics ranged from the Elena Travers case to the hospital robberies, and finally to how my new living arrangement with Cheryl was working out. The only thing Kylie didn’t talk about was the elephant in the car: her drug addict husband.

But I’m sure that was what she was thinking about. By now she had dismissed the advice she had gotten from the counselor at the rehab. Kylie was an action junkie, and, while Spence may not have hit rock bottom yet, after seeing the destruction he’d left at Silvercup, she was no longer capable of doing nothing.

We pulled into a parking lot at Lincoln Towers — eight high-end buildings spread across twenty landscaped acres in the middle of Manhattan’s trendy Upper West Side. Not exactly where I’d expect to find someone selling stolen medical equipment on the black market.

The head shot Hutchings showed us of Lynn Lyon hadn’t done her justice. She opened the door wearing jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a sauce-spattered apron. Even with no makeup and her hair caught up in a blue bandanna, I got that rush men get when they’re suddenly face-to-face with a naturally beautiful woman.

We ID’d ourselves and told her we had some questions to ask her.

“I’m right in the middle of something,” she said. “Can you come back later?”

“No, ma’am,” Kylie said. “It can’t wait.”

“Neither can my risotto,” she said. “We’ll have to talk in the kitchen.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m a food blogger, and I’m working on my next post,” she said, leading us into a cluttered kitchen, where I picked up the earthy smell of mushrooms.

“My take on porcini-asparagus risotto,” she said, picking up a wooden spoon and stirring a shallow pot. “What’s this about?”

“There’s been a robbery at Mercy Hospital,” I said.

“Well, that’s hardly a big surprise,” she said. “I warned them.” With all the poise of a TV chef, she turned to the oven and took out a loaf of fresh-baked bread, set it on the counter, and picked up a camera.

“What do you mean you warned them?” I said.

“Some of these volunteers will leave the gift shop and run off to grab a cup of coffee,” she said, clicking off a few photos of the bread. “Instead of locking the place up, they hang a sign that says ‘Back in five minutes.’ They’re too trusting. It was bound to happen.”

“It wasn’t the gift shop, Ms. Lyon,” Kylie said. “They stole six new dialysis machines.”

“Six... I don’t understand,” she said, ladling broth from a stockpot onto the risotto. “I work in the gift shop, but... Oh my God — I was in with the new dialysis machines last week.”

“Taking pictures,” Kylie said, gesturing at the camera.

Most people — guilty or innocent — would respond with indignation: “Are you calling me a thief?” Not Lyon. She put the hand that wasn’t stirring the risotto to her mouth. Her eyes watered up, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “This is so embarrassing,” she said.

“What were you doing in a restricted area?” Kylie asked, all bad-cop body language and tone of voice.

“It didn’t say Restricted, and the door wasn’t locked. I have a friend who is a dialysis nurse upstate. I was telling her about this new equipment Mercy bought, and she asked me to send her a picture, so I did. That’s all. It was harmless. I can’t believe you’re accusing me of stealing.”

“Nobody is accusing you of anything,” Kylie said. “I’m just asking a few routine questions.”

“If you knew me, you wouldn’t ask things like that. I don’t steal. Cooking and volunteer work are my passions. My soul needs redemption, and I get that from both.”

The tears were gone now. “I have a few questions of my own,” she said. “How am I supposed to get six dialysis machines out of the hospital? And what would I do with them if I had them? It’s not just embarrassing; it’s insane. Unless you’re planning to arrest me, please leave.”

We left.

“You bought her act?” Kylie said once we were back in the car.

“How do you know it was an act? You hit her with some circumstantial evidence, and she had a plausible explanation.”

“Oh please: pretty lady, at home in the kitchen, turns on the waterworks. Guys fall for it all the time.”

“So all of a sudden I’m a guy? I thought I was a cop.”

“I’m a cop too, and the first thing I thought of was, if I were going to send someone to case a hospital, I’d send someone who could fly under the radar. She fits the bill.”

“Well, right now we have nothing to go on,” I said.

“So why don’t you humor me? Let’s look at the other hospitals that were hit and see if Lynn Lyon volunteered at any of them.”

Kylie and I have similar instincts, and we’re usually in sync when we question someone. I was pretty sure I was right on this one, but this time her anger at Spence spilled over, and she took it out on Lyon.

“Fine with me,” I said. “You want to call the other hospitals?”

“Absolutely. Police work is my passion, Zach, and my soul could use a little redeeming,” she said. “Also, I try to never miss out on an opportunity to prove I’m smarter than you.”

Until last night, the most expensive thing in Teddy Ryder’s tiny two-room apartment on the Lower East Side was a JVC TV he bought for two hundred bucks on Overstock.com. It was now outshined by the emerald and diamond necklace sitting on his coffee table.

Teddy hadn’t slept since the robbery. The guns had just been there to make a point. Nobody was supposed to get killed. His partner, Raymond Davis, had pulled the trigger, but he swore up and down that it wasn’t his fault. He blamed it all on the guy in the back of the limo who had grabbed for the gun. Then Raymond had stretched out on the bed and slept like a brick till seven that morning.

Now Raymond was out trying to renegotiate the deal with Jeremy.

“Fifty thousand is bullshit,” Raymond had said once they’d watched the news and found out the necklace was worth eight million. “We’re upping the price to half a mil.”

It was late afternoon by the time Raymond finally got back from his meeting with Jeremy. One look at his face, and Teddy could tell that the negotiations had gone down the toilet.

“Jeremy is an asshole,” Raymond said.

“How much did you get?” Teddy asked.

“More than the original deal, but less than I was hoping for.”

“How much?”

“Ninety thou.”

“Apiece?”

“No. Ninety for the whole enchilada.”

“Is he crazy?” Teddy said. “We’re not asking for cigarette and beer money. We need enough so we can disappear.”