Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

That was the mark of a true friend.

Sergeant Marcia said, “Synthetics are a part of the drug trade I don’t have a lot to do with. All my experience is with heroin and cocaine. I can predict what those users and dealers will act like. The synthetic drugs like ecstasy attract a new kind of seller and affect all users differently. I knew the Canadians were heavily involved in that market, but they tend to stay under the radar, and we haven’t made any serious arrests.

“It’s just semantics when we’re talking about drugs. People are going to use them whether they’re in the form of prescription pills or black tar heroin. Sometimes I feel like we should just legalize all drugs and take the consequences.”

“What kind of consequences?”

“A surge in overdose deaths. A much higher percentage of the population that doesn’t contribute anything to society. A bunch of drug dealers looking for a different crime they can commit because the government has taken over their jobs. Who could tell what would happen? I don’t even like to think about it.”

Listening to the narcotics sergeant, I remembered an old-timer in Vice talking about how the Dutch handled some of their crime problems. He had said, “The Dutch had a problem with prostitution, so they legalized it. Then they had a problem with drugs, so they legalized them. Let’s hope they never have a problem with homicide.”

Alex reached a few conclusions after her first day following Michael Bennett. The detective was as busy as any man who ever lived. Between work and a huge family, Alex wondered when the man slept. She would probably not use her stiletto unless she could catch him by surprise, because he was tough and in shape. A gun would be the safest avenue.

That was why she was meeting with these two Dominicans at a White Castle off Webster Avenue in the Bronx. She would’ve preferred a busy Starbucks in Midtown, but she understood what they were doing. They wanted to meet her on their turf.

Alex sipped a coffee while the men worked their way through a plate piled high with tiny hamburgers. They spoke in Spanish, but in this neighborhood, that wasn’t any shield against someone listening in. Their Dominican accents were a little difficult for Alex to understand, but she had explained who the target was and where they might intercept him. Then she said, “I want just the two of you involved. The fewer the better.”

The older, pudgier man, with tattoos running up and down his arms, said, “We’ll need a driver. My cousin Julio will do it. But...”

Alex was losing her patience. “What? What’s wrong now?”

The man said, “A cop is a big deal. We took the job before, but now it’s going to be a second cop. There’s heat building.”

“You told me your crew was the toughest in the city. That any one of your men would die rather than be dishonored and not finish a job. I’ve already paid you a lot of cash up front.”

The man interrupted her. “And we have three men dead because of it.”

“That’s not my issue. That’s why I hired you as contractors.”

“What about Cesar, who was killed in the hospital? Did you do that so he wouldn’t talk?”

Alex had lost her cool. She snapped, “Give me back the money.”

“What? I don’t have it just lying around.”

“If you’re not going to give it back, do your job. Do what I tell you or I’ll make sure no one ever hires you or any of your crew again. Is that what you want?”

The younger man started to say something, a vein on his forehead popping out. But the man with the tattoos put a hand on his chest.

“We’ll do it. And we’ll expect you to come up with the rest of the cash quickly when it’s done. Then we’ll be square. At least as far as money is concerned.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We have some questions we’d like answered. After we get paid.”

“Once I close out my contracts and you’ve done what you’ve been paid to do, I’ll talk with you all you want.”

The man picked up a tiny hamburger and popped it into his mouth. He washed it down with a big gulp of soda. Then he looked at Alex and said, “You’ll have me, Laszlo here, and my cousin Julio whenever you need us.”

Alex eyed Laszlo. He was the surly, emotional type that made this job miserable sometimes. She hoped his older friend could keep him in line.

After meeting with the Dominicans, Alex used the entire afternoon to gather more information on Bennett. By following him to meet his grandfather — who, she learned, was a priest — she had the opportunity to photograph the churches in the neighborhood where Bennett lived and his grandfather worked. She loved the architecture of churches and relished the opportunity to mix pleasure with business.

Late in the afternoon, when she was tired of waiting for Bennett to emerge, Alex strolled into Central Park. She eyed a cop on horseback who was checking her out, then was distracted by a group of tourists riding horses with a guide. Horses right in Central Park!

Clemency and Gabriela could ride better than any of these adults, Alex thought. She knelt down and snapped half a dozen quick photos of the group with the sun casting wild beams of light through the trees. It was a wonderful sight.

Then she heard a man’s voice say, “Are you a spy conducting surveillance or just a fan of horses?”

The voice startled her, and she turned quickly, rising to her feet. She stared for a moment. It was the policeman sitting atop his bay horse, more than sixteen hands tall. The horse’s placid eyes took her in.

Alex said, “Excuse me?”

“I said, are you a spy or just into horses?”

“Both.” She hated to lie.

It was hard for a man not to look sexy on top of a horse, but this policeman also had broad shoulders and a square jaw. He looked like a recruiting poster. He gave her a smile, showing his perfect white teeth.

Alex felt herself flush slightly. She liked the way his eyes stayed on her face. It showed a good upbringing.

She stepped closer to him and ran her hand along the horse’s graceful neck. “What’s his name?”

“Traveller.”

“Just like Robert E. Lee’s horse.”

The cop stared at her, then said, “That’s exactly right. Almost no one gets that.”

“I bet the horse people do.”

“The horse people and the Civil War nuts.”

On impulse, she said, “How do I rent a horse here?”

“You know how to ride?”

“I’ve been around horses my entire life.”

The cop said, “What do racehorses eat?”

Alex smiled. “That’s the oldest joke around. Fast food.”

“Okay, that’s one. What goes in the horse’s mouth?”

“The bit.” She tried to look insulted, but this guy was too adorable.

The cop said, “Finally, the most important question. Will you go out with me?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Let’s see how the ride goes.”

“Fair enough.”

Suddenly not only Alex’s day but also her whole trip started to look brighter.

The cop’s name was Tom McLaughlin, but his friends called him T-Mac. He’d been raised in Quantico, Virginia, where his father was stationed in the Marines. That’s where he developed his love of horseback riding.

Alex couldn’t remember the last time she actually enjoyed herself this much on an assignment. Time flew while they rode through the park.

Alex said, “Is it hard to get an assignment in the NYPD horse unit?”

“It’s called the Mounted Unit. And you’d be shocked how many cops want to get in. There’s only about fifty-five horses now. We go all over the city for PR and sometimes crowd control. We also patrol the park. I love it, except I never get weekends off.”