Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 6

Last night, all we knew about the woman using the MetroCard was that she was wearing scrubs. The obvious conclusion was that she was a hospital worker, but since all three robberies involved in-home caretakers, she also might have been on her way to or from a private nursing job.

This morning she was wearing the same lavender scrubs and was catching a train about a hundred feet from the entrance of one of New York’s major hospitals.

“She’s catching the train at Seventy-Seventh and Lex,” Kylie said. “What do you bet she works at Lenox Hill? She’s probably a nurse or a tech pulling a night shift.”

“I know their head of security,” I said. “Let me track him down. I bet he can search the employee database and ID her.”

“Screw the head of security,” Kylie said. “We don’t have to ID her. We know what she looks like, and I’ll bet you twenty bucks I know where she’s going.”

“The Sixty-First Street Woodside station in Queens,” I said.

“Right. Which means she has to take the six train to Grand Central, walk over to the Flushing line, and catch the seven train to Queens. Even if every train was waiting for her when she got to the platform, it would still take her at least twenty-five minutes to get there. More, if we’re lucky. Let’s go.”

She bolted out the door. I followed. Not because it was the way I would have handled it, but because my partner is a heat-seeking missile, and when she’s on a mission, I know enough to either back her 100 percent or get the hell out of her way. And I’ve never done anything but back her.

“How long do you think it’ll take us to get to Woodside?” I yelled, following her down the stairs.

“With you behind the wheel, Grandma? About an hour and a half. With me driving, we could stop for coffee, and we’d still be there in plenty of time to collar Blondie.”

CHAPTER 67

THANK YOU,” KYLIE said as I buckled up and braced myself for the ride.

“For what?”

“I know how you think. If it were up to you, you’d radio ahead for backup.”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“Would you like to know what thought crossed my mind? Erin got credit for taking down Dodd, Brooklyn is throwing a steak dinner to celebrate closing the Veronica Gibbs homicide, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a bunch of Queens marines steal our collar.”

“You’re welcome,” Kylie said.

She made a hard right onto Second Avenue, which was just on the cusp of rush hour but still moving. There’s a traffic cop on most corners in the low Sixties. One by one, the cops spotted our flashing lights and waved us onto the Ed Koch Bridge.

“We’ve practically got eyes on her now,” Kylie said when we got to Queensboro Plaza on the other side of the East River.

It was an overstatement. We were directly under the elevated tracks where the number 7 train to Flushing ran. But there was no train in sight.

Kylie weaved in and out of the traffic along Queens Boulevard, then followed the tracks when they jogged to the left on Roosevelt Avenue.

We had just passed the Fifty-Second Street station when we saw the train about a quarter of a mile in the distance. Kylie hit the gas, ran a few reds, and skidded to a stop just as a train from Manhattan pulled into the Woodside station.

We jumped out of the car and ran up the stairs, our eyes darting left, right, and center as the early-morning commuters spilled onto the platform and headed for the exits.

Our suspect wasn’t there.

“NYPD runs faster than the MTA,” Kylie said, looking at her watch. “I guarantee she’ll be on the next one.”

Seven minutes later another train rumbled into the station. We stood in the middle of the platform and flashed our shields at the conductor.

“You can let them out of the forward cars, but don’t open the back half,” I said.

The doors slid open in the first five cars, and about thirty people got off.

“You see your man?” the conductor asked as we watched the passengers head toward the exit.

“Our man is a woman,” I said. “Turn the rest of them loose, and keep it parked till I give you the green light.”

The remaining doors opened, and I immediately spotted our lady in lavender getting off. I released the train, and Kylie and I followed her through the turnstiles.

“Ma’am,” Kylie said.

The woman turned around.

“NYPD,” Kylie said, holding up her ID. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“About the MetroCard you’re using. Where did you get it?”

She looked confused. “Where does anybody get a MetroCard? I bought it from the machine.”

“Ma’am, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking where you got the MetroCard you used last night at this station and then again this morning at Seventy-Seventh and Lexington Avenue.”

I watched her eyes. The panic set in as the answer came to her. She knew exactly where she’d gotten the card, and she wasn’t eager to tell us.

“I don’t remember,” she said. “Is that a crime?”

Kylie was stone-faced. “Let me see some identification, please.”

The woman’s hands trembled as she dug into her purse and pulled out a driver’s license that ID’d her as Catherine Leicester.

“This picture looks like it was taken a few years ago, Catherine,” Kylie said, looking at the license. “The one I’ve got of you is more recent.”

Kylie produced one of the screenshots Transit had sent us and held it close to Leicester’s face. “Now, where did you get the MetroCard?”

Being accosted by two cops who shove a time-stamped mug shot of you in your face can be intimidating. And if you’re a basic law-abiding citizen, like Catherine Leicester turned out to be, it can be downright terrifying.

She blurted out the truth. “I didn’t do anything wrong. My boyfriend gave it to me.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gary. Gary Banta. Is he in trouble?”

Kylie pressed hard. “Where is Gary right now?”

Leicester was shaking now. “He’s at work.”

“Where? Where does he work?”

“He’s FDNY.”

“So he’s a firefighter? What engine company?” Kylie demanded.

“No,” Leicester said.

“No what?”

“Gary’s not a firefighter. He’s an EMT.”

CHAPTER 68

WE TOOK CATHERINE LEICESTER’S phone, drove her to the station, and arrested her for possession of stolen property. It was a bullshit charge. Her real crime was being Gary Banta’s girlfriend, but we needed a legal excuse to lock her up so she didn’t tip him off that we were looking for him.

Since Banta worked for the fire department, logic might dictate that we ask for their help in tracking him down. But the FDNY is a tight-knit organization, and we knew from experience that if we reached out to them, they would immediately circle the wagons to protect their own.

So we called the DOI. All governments have their share of crooks, and in New York City, the job of weeding out the bad apples falls to the Department of Investigation. The name is deceptively innocuous. In reality, it’s an all-powerful agency with the authority to investigate any city department, elected official, or employee.

There were six NYPD detectives working at the DOI. Any one of them could have helped us track down Banta, but when you’re investigating a uniformed member of the FDNY, you want a detective who will ask very few questions. That was Joe Donahue.

Five years ago Joe had been shot in the line of duty. At least a dozen detectives were assigned to look for the shooter, but I’m the one who collared him. I remember the day I walked into Joe’s hospital room and gave him the good news. He never said, I owe you one . He didn’t have to. The gratitude was in his eyes, and the bond was formed. After Joe recovered, the PC offered him a safe spot at DOI, and he grabbed it.