Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

Cassie handed out photos taken from the video. She had described it perfectly.

Roddy said, “I have a similar-looking woman coming out of the East Harlem hotel.”

“Can you see her face?”

“No. Just long hair, nice legs, and high heels. I discounted her the first time I saw her. Once you gave us more information I zeroed in on her immediately.”

A plump forensics tech named Harry said, “I think she has a camera on a strap around her.”

I said, “How do you know?”

“Because I have one strapped around me most of the day. No one ever even notices.”

Now, with a new perspective, I saw it, too. “It does look like a camera.”

Cassie Max said, “Do you think she takes trophy photos?”

I said, “Or is it a cover?”

The meeting broke up on its own. Everyone had things they wanted to get done immediately.

I thought I might slip out of the conference room without having to talk to Alice Witcroft. I had nothing against her personally. It was just a general feeling that it was best to avoid Internal Affairs.

The tall and fit fifty-year-old woman nearly blocked the door to keep me from escaping.

She smiled as she said, “C’mon, Bennett. You really think you can evade me that easily?”

“I thought I’d try.” I matched her gaze. I’m sure many a cop had melted under those intelligent blue eyes. “What are you doing here, Alice?”

“Internal Affairs just wants to make sure one of the department’s most well-known detectives is not too close to a case.”

“I’m just helping out with a series of homicides. Technically I’m not even the lead on any one homicide investigation.”

“As I understand it, you think these murders of Canadians could be related to the death of your partner, Antrole Martens. Am I right?”

There was no sense in denying anything. But there was no reason to admit it, either. “Possibly. We really don’t have much yet.”

“Look, Mike, I get it. The public is never that outraged by the murder of a cop. They remember every shitbag shot by a cop in the middle of the night, but aside from a few headlines and a high-profile funeral, no one remembers the names of cops killed in the line of duty. Except other cops.

“No matter what you think, Internal Affairs is still staffed by cops. I don’t want to stand in your way. I just don’t want you to get in the trick bag, either.”

“Since when is Internal Affairs so worried about my job security?”

“Since the Post called you the best detective the city ever produced.”

“So it’s more of a PR issue than a desire to catch a cop killer.”

The slick IA detective said, “Why can’t it be both?”

Alex Martinez finished her conversation with both her daughters over a static-plagued cell-phone line. Her daily conversations with Gabriela and Clemency just made her miss home that much more. It didn’t help that her mother called every other day and made her feel guilty about staying so long in New York.

She sat at a computer in a café a few blocks from Times Square. She’d been making notes from articles and posts about Detective Michael Bennett on the Internet.

Normally this was the part of her job she really enjoyed, but now she was ready for some time with her daughters and her horses.

As she was reading yet another article about Bennett’s involvement in the famous case of hostages taken at the First Lady’s funeral, her phone buzzed. Only a few people had the number. For a moment, she was scared something could be wrong at home, even though she’d just spoken to the girls.

When she looked down, she recognized the number as that of her mounted police officer, Tom McLaughlin. She let the phone go to voice mail. As sweet and fun as Tom was, she had a job to do, and she wanted to do it as quickly as possible.

She still could find no photographs of or information about any of Bennett’s children. Not that she would ever hurt a child, but the kids could be a trail to the detective’s weakness. Or perhaps she could use one as bait. At this point she didn’t care, as long as she was able to finally close the contract on Bennett.

She decided to start serious surveillance, which meant she had to rent a car. The first place she watched was his office, on Broadway and 133rd Street.

Unless you knew what you were looking for, there was no way to tell that this was an official police office. There were a lot of Chevrolet Impalas and Ford Crown Victorias parked on the street around the building and under the elevated train track, but the building itself was unmarked and innocuous.

Alex was peering out her open driver’s-side window when a rap on the trunk of her car startled her. When she looked into the rearview mirror she saw a tall black woman, a traffic enforcement agent, strolling to her window.

Alex smiled and said, “I’m sorry. Do you need me to move the car?” The woman didn’t say anything but leveled a stern glare at Alex.

She said, “It’s too late. The signs posted all around here clearly say no parking or stopping.” She pulled out her ticket book and started writing.

Alex said, “I’m still in the car. I never got out. I was just stopping for a few moments to check my phone.”

“I saw you sitting here for more than six minutes. That’s six minutes of breaking the law. That’s an awfully long time to be checking your phone. I don’t care how pretty you are.” She stepped to the rear of the vehicle and noticed from the tag that it was a rental. “Where you from, young woman?”

Without hesitation Alex said, “Philly.”

“I don’t know if Philadelphia enforces the law, but here in New York we do.” She wrote something else in her ticket book, then continued to lecture Alex.

“If you don’t pay attention to the signs, you get a ticket. Just as simple as that.”

Alex didn’t like the position she had been put in and couldn’t afford to be readily identified by someone who worked for the city. Her pistol was stuffed next to the seat for tactical purposes. She always carried it there when she was driving.

She was prepared for situations like this.

The traffic enforcement agent said, “I need your license.”

Alex sighed and retrieved her wallet from her purse. She pulled out a valid Pennsylvania license in the name of Michelle Pagan and gave it to the agent.

It was legit except for the photo. It also would cost her $2,600 and was now useless. She’d have to toss it as soon as she was free of this overzealous agent. It was too bad. She had started to build this identity up nicely.

As the woman finished writing the ticket, Alex noticed Detective Michael Bennett walk out the main door of his building with another man. The man was almost as tall as Bennett and had an eighties mustache. He had to be another cop.

Alex needed to get going and felt her anxiety rise.

She was careful not to snatch the ticket from the parking attendant when she signed it. There was no sense in pushing this woman any further.

She scribbled her false name, then darted into traffic with the rental car. She could see Bennett’s Impala a few blocks up and fell into her surveillance mode again.

I wasn’t that crazy about meeting the regulator again. I understood he had a certain image and wanted to project that he was quirky and odd and that everyone could trust him, but he was nevertheless involved in the drug trade. I didn’t care if he talked about curbing violence and making everyone happy — he still lived off other people’s misery.

Sergeant Tim Marcia had once again set up a meeting. We had to find out more information, because the last lead the regulator had given us was a dead end. With Julio Laza out of the picture, I had nowhere else to look.