Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 6

I dialed his direct line. As usual, he was happy to hear from me. I did about ten seconds of the usual long-time-no-see foreplay, and then I asked if he could run a check on EMS tech Gary Banta.

I listened as his fingers tapped away on the keyboard.

“Got him,” he said. “He’s with division two out of the Bronx. Been on the job sixteen years. Decorated twice, once for rescuing a woman and two kids from a submerged vehicle after a flash flood.”

“You got a photo ID and maybe a home address?” I said.

There was only so far I could push before Donahue did his job and pushed back.

“Zach, every keystroke I make on this computer is recorded. I didn’t have a problem with searching for a name, but I start digging deeper, and I’ve got to justify it to my boss. What are you looking at him for?”

I told Joe about the home invasions that had led to a homicide and the stolen MetroCard that had led us to Banta.

“Shit, man,” Donahue said. “This guy’s a hero. Are you positive it’s him?”

“The only thing I’m positive of is that if word gets out that NYPD is looking to question a decorated member of FDNY, this whole thing will turn into an intramural shit-show. Look, Joe, I don’t want to jam you up with your bosses, but if we don’t keep this tight …”

I let the possible consequences hang in the air unspoken.

I heard the clack of Donahue’s keyboard.

“Today is his day off, but he signed up to work the day game at Yankee Stadium,” Donahue said. “They’re playing the Red Sox, which is always a clusterfuck, so they heavy up on cops to deal with the drunks and double up on buses to cart away the bleeders.”

“When does he start?”

“A few hours before the game, so he should be out there now. Hold on. All these units have GPS.” A brief pause, and then he was back. “I’ve got three buses parked at the corner of One Hundred Sixty-First Street and River. They’re probably having coffee and shooting the shit, waiting for batting practice to start.”

“Joe, we’re on the way up to the Bronx now. I know Banta’s name is on his uniform, but anything else you could mention to help us …”

Again, I left it open-ended.

“He’s driving bus number three fourteen. I’ll shoot you a copy of his ID.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I owe you one.”

He came back fast. “No, you don’t. Good luck. And Zach, one more thing—for Banta’s sake, I hope that you’re wrong.”

“I know, Joe. And for your sake, I hope that I’m right.”

CHAPTER 69

WHY?” KYLIE SAID as we barreled along the FDR Drive toward the Willis Avenue Bridge. “Why would a public servant with a stellar track record suddenly start robbing old ladies? Gambling debts? Drug addiction? Medical expenses for his family?”

“If it were just Banta I would say any one of those could drive him to that kind of desperation,” I said. “But he’s not alone. He’s got two partners that we know of. Three EMTs can’t all be drowning in gambling debts or have kids who need kidney transplants. They’ve got to be in some serious financial shit together, and they decided that this is the only way to dig themselves out.”

We hopped on the Deegan and headed north to the Bronx.

“There are three buses at the stadium,” Kylie said. “Guaranteed that Banta is with at least one of his partners in crime. The problem is FDNY won’t have a record of who he was riding with because he pulled the robberies on his days off using a phony ambulance.”

“Don’t think about the others,” I said. “Focus on Banta. DOI will pull their cell numbers and tell us who pinged off the towers in the robbery locations. All we have to do is get Banta, and we’ll get them all.”

We got off the Deegan at Jerome Avenue, turned right on East 161st Street, and pulled up to Babe Ruth Plaza where two EMS buses were parked. Four uniformed technicians were hanging out, having coffee. None of them looked like the picture of Banta that our man at DOI had sent us.

We were in an unmarked car, but these guys could have spotted a Crown Vic Interceptor in a crowded parking lot. We could almost see their antennas go up.

“You think they made us for cops?” Kylie said, a big grin on her face.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you go over there and try to sell them some Girl Scout cookies? See if they fall for it.”

“The four of them are just staring, waiting for us to make a move,” she said. “If we both get out of the car, they’ll know we’re here on business and get spooked, and one of them will radio Gary. One cop is a lot less intimidating than two.”

“Be my guest,” I said.

“I’d do it, but Gary already has a girlfriend. Besides, you’re not nearly as intimidating as I am.”

I opened the car door, but I didn’t get out. “Laugh it up,” I said. “Like I’m telling you a story about my old pal Gary.”

“Zach, we’re running a scam here, not putting on a show. Just go, and try not to screw it up.” And then she laughed.

I laughed back and sauntered over to where the four EMTs were hanging.

“What’s up, Detective?” one of them asked. He was white. The name on his shirt said hunter. “Are we in a no-parking zone or something?”

His buddies laughed. I laughed with them and held up both hands. “Trust me,” I said, “I come in peace. I saw a couple of buses parked out here, and I thought I’d see if a friend of mine was working the game today. But I guess he’s not.”

“What’s his name?” Hunter said.

“Banta. Gary Banta.”

“Gary’s around.”

“I can’t stay long. My partner’s all antsy about getting back, but I’d love to catch him for a few minutes. I haven’t seen him in a while. I used to run into him all the time when I was at the Five Two.”

“Well, then, you know he never drinks coffee,” Hunter said. “He took a run over to the juice bar to pick up a spinach smoothie or some healthy crap like that.”

“That’s Gary,” I said. “He’s going to outlive us all.”

“What’s your name? I can raise him up on the radio for you.”

“I’m Zach. But do me a favor, don’t radio him. Do you know which juice bar? I want to see the look on his face when I surprise him.”

“It’s the one over on Gerard Ave. next to the Foodtown. There’ll be a big red and white bus in front of it with FDNY plastered across the side. You think you can find it, Detective?”

The other three laughed again. “You guys are bigger ballbusters than Gary,” I said, laughing with them.

I thanked the EMTs, walked back to the car, and got in. “Gary’s at a juice bar,” I said, pulling up Google Maps. “Go straight and make a left on Gerard. At least we get to arrest him without the four of them giving us a hard time.”

Thirty seconds later Kylie made the turn onto Gerard, and I could see the Foodtown. What I didn’t see was a juice bar. Or an FDNY ambulance.

“Shit,” I said. “I’ve been suckered.”

I was about to call Joe Donahue at DOI, but my cell rang. He’d beat me to it.

“Zach,” he said, “did you make it to the Bronx yet?”

“Yeah, but Banta’s crew sent me on a wild-goose chase. By now, I’m sure they radioed him and told him we’re coming.”

“That would explain why he left the stadium and is headed north on the Deegan doing eighty miles an hour.”

CHAPTER 70

THEY SAY THAT police work, like war, is hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. The monotony of filling out DD-5s and sifting through surveillance videos was suddenly behind us, and while the prospect of a high-speed chase produced more adrenaline than terror for me, knowing that Kylie was behind the wheel was not without its sense of dread.