NYPD Red 4 (2 page)

We walked past
the sandwiched remains of the limo and the searchlight truck and made our way to the red carpet, where Chuck Dryden was kneeling next to the body of Elena Travers.

Dryden, who has all the charisma of a medium security prison, looked up. His normally stoic facial expression softened when he saw Kylie, but he was still all business, no foreplay. “She took a 9mm slug to the abdomen,” he said. “She bled out.”

“Thanks,” Kylie said, giving him her practiced you're-my-favorite-crime-scene-investigator smile.

“It's my job,” he said, and returned to the work at hand, signaling that his report was over.

We entered the Ziegfeld, which was empty except for a few cops and a man sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, his head in his hands.

“Mr. Jeffers,” Kylie said softly.

He raised his head. His eyes were red, his face contorted with pain. “I told her I was sorry,” he said. “Before she died, I held her in my arms and told her I was sorry. She didn't say anything, but I know she heard me.”

Kylie knelt beside him. “We're going to find the men who did this.”

“
I
did it,” he said. “It was my fault as much as anybody else's.”

“Can we talk?” Kylie said, standing up.

Jeffers stood. He was blond, six two, with wide shoulders, a thick neck, and bulging pecs that strained against his bloody shirt.

It's possible that he'd hit the genetic jackpot, but I'm enough of a gym rat to know a steroid user when I see one. The disproportionately developed upper body, the bulging veins on his hands, and the prominent acne told the story. Craig Jeffers was a juicer.

“We were at a red light,” he said. “Two guys with guns came out of nowhere. They forced the driver to roll down the windows, and one of them pointed his gun at Elena. I'm sure she would have given him the necklace if he asked, but no—he had to dig his fingers into her chest and yank it off. The bastard drew blood. He hurt her, and she screamed. That's what set me off—the scream.”

“What do you mean, set you off?” Kylie asked.

“I snapped. I went for his gun. I know they tell you not to, but you don't think when the adrenaline kicks in like that. I had one hand on his wrist, and I was about to punch him with the other when the gun went off.”

I'd heard it before. A man, armed with nothing more than an overabundance of testosterone, decides to try his luck at hand-to-gun combat. It might work for Jackie Chan in the movies, but it failed for Craig Jeffers in real life.

“And then what?” Kylie asked.

“He fired another shot. I found out later that it hit the driver. But everything else is a blur. All I could focus on was Elena.”

“Can you describe the two men?” Kylie asked.

“They had their faces covered with green surgical masks, and they were wearing black knit caps. The one who reached in the back wasn't wearing gloves, so I could see his hands. He was white.”

“What was your relationship with Elena Travers?” I asked.

“I loved her.”

“You were also her personal trainer?”

“That's how it started, but six months ago I asked her out on a date. I never thought it would go anywhere, but it did. I couldn't believe it. Elena could have had any guy in Hollywood, but she only wanted to be with me. I was ready to spend the rest of my life with her. And now…”

He shook his head. The interview was over, but Kylie and I gave the man a few moments to reflect on his loss.

The three of us stood there in the vast open space of the Ziegfeld lobby, red carpet beneath us, crystal chandeliers glittering above, half a dozen larger-than-life-size pictures of Elena Travers assaulting our senses from every angle. Finally, Jeffers broke the silence.

“It's all my fault,” he said. “If Elena had gone with Leo like she was supposed to, she would still be alive.”

And just like that, the interview was no longer over.

“Who is Leo?” I asked.

Leo, it turned
out, was someone Kylie had met.

“I doubt if he'd remember me,” she said when we were back in the car.

“How is that possible? You're the most unforgettable cop on the force.”

“I wasn't a cop that night. It was an industry party, and I was there as Mrs. Spence Harrington. Leo was so starstruck he barely said hello to me. People like him don't waste their time talking to the
wives
of people who make movies.”

We found Bassett's number in Elena Travers's cell phone. I called him and told him we had a few questions.

“My brother and I have some questions of our own,” he said. “Can you meet us at our place?”

By the time we got there, the street was clogged with news trucks, paparazzi, and the usual assortment of homicide junkies. Two squad cars and a pair of traffic agents wearing Day-Glo yellow vests had been dispatched to the scene to help maintain sanity.

Working for Red, I get a firsthand look at how the other half lives. Of course, the Bassett brothers weren't exactly the other half. They were more like the 1 percent of the 1 percent, and their “place” was more like a palace.

Back when New York was in its industrial heyday, lower Manhattan was peppered with loft buildings intended for commercial or manufacturing use but off-limits for residential. In the early eighties, the law changed, and the smart money gobbled up the cold, bleak, rat-infested buildings for next to nothing.

The Bassetts got in early and transformed a six-story warehouse on West 21st Street into two spectacular triplex apartments. Leo occupied the lower half of the building, and Kylie and I took the elevator to the third floor.

The door opened into a vast room with vaulted ceilings, massive windows, and museum-quality furniture. The two men who were waiting for us looked nothing like brothers.

One was big and burly, with a smoky-gray beard and icy blue eyes. He was wearing faded jeans and a nondescript T-shirt. “Max Bassett,” he said.

The other was short, with soft, doughy features and ink-black hair that could only have come from a bottle. His outfit, a red smoking jacket over deep-purple silk pajamas, looked like it was right out of Hugh Hefner's closet.

“I'm Leo,” he said. “Thank you for coming. We are devastated, and there's no real information on television. Please tell us what happened.”

We sat down, and I gave them the highlights.

“I don't understand,” Leo said. “We've been robbed before. Jewel thieves almost never get violent. Why did they have to shoot her?”

“You're not listening,” Max said. “They shot her because her idiot boyfriend grabbed for the gun.”

Leo lashed out. “So you're saying it's all my fault?”

Max came right back at him. “Jesus, Leo, how the hell did you manage to make this about you?”

“Because
I
was the one who was supposed to go with her. If someone stuck a gun in my face, I'd have said, ‘Take the necklace, take my wallet, take what you want—just don't hurt us.' But I didn't go, and now she's dead.”

“Why
didn't
you go?” I asked.

“It was a stupid accident,” Leo said. “I was—”

“More like a stupid decision,” Max said. “He didn't go because he got
cocktail sauce
on his jacket. Elena didn't care. She asked him to go anyway. But he said no.”

Leo stood up. “Thank you, Max. Because I didn't feel bad enough as it is.” He turned to me. “I'm not feeling well. If you have any more questions for me, I'll be happy to talk to you in the morning. Alone.”

He didn't wait for an answer. He just turned and walked out of the room.

“There you have it, Detectives,” Max said. “My brother's MO. Grand entrances and even grander exits. He's a total drama queen even when the drama isn't about him. This is a terrible tragedy. How can I help you find the people who killed Elena?”

“Can you describe the necklace?” I said.

“Seeing as I designed it, yes. There are twenty emeralds—absolutely superbly matched stones, four carats apiece. Each one is surrounded by a cluster of round and pear-shaped diamonds. They're tiny, five points each, but the effect was dazzling. She looked gorgeous.”

“Who knew she'd be wearing the necklace?” I asked.

Max shook his head. “Everybody. It was one of Leo's misguided publicity initiatives.”

“It sounds like you don't see eye to eye with your brother,” Kylie said.

“Not remotely. Maybe once upon a time you could trot Marilyn Monroe or Elizabeth Taylor down the red carpet wearing an eight-million-dollar necklace and hope that the stunt would cast some kind of magic halo effect over the brand. But not anymore. I told Leo he was still living in the second half of the twentieth century. The hype would be all about Elena, and no one would even remember she was wearing an original Max Bassett. Well, I was wrong. Now everyone will remember me as the man who designed the necklace Elena Travers died for.”

“Mr. Bassett, whoever took the necklace is going to try to sell it,” Kylie said. “We need to get pictures and laser inscriptions to the JSA and the FBI as soon as possible.”

“Our publicist, Sonia Chen, will have it for you within the hour,” he said. “I'm impressed. Most cops aren't familiar with the Jewelers' Security Alliance.”

“We've had a bit more experience in this area than most cops,” Kylie said. What she didn't say was that when you're assigned to Red, stolen jewelry is as common as shoplifting.

Under normal circumstances,
getting home five hours after my shift ended wouldn't be a problem, but for the past twenty-four days my life had been anything but normal. Cheryl and I were living together.

Or at least we were trying to, but I was doing a lousy job of holding up my end of the living arrangement. This was the fifth night I'd come home late since she'd moved in, plus I'd been called into work two out of the past three weekends.

I'd met Dr. Cheryl Robinson about four years ago. I was on the short list of candidates for NYPD Red, and she was the department shrink assigned to evaluate me. I know it's what's on the inside that counts, but it's impossible to meet Cheryl and not be dazzled by the outside. Most of her family is Irish, but it's the DNA of her Latina grandmother that gives her the dark brown eyes, jet-black hair, and glorious caramel skin that turn heads. I was instantly smitten.

She had only one drawback: a husband. But good things come to those who wait, and about a year ago, Cheryl's marriage to Fred Robinson crashed and burned, and we went from friends to lovers to whatever it is you call it when two people start living together but hang on to both apartments because they're not so sure it's going to work out.

“Hurry up,” she said as soon as I opened the front door to my apartment.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” I said. “I was—”

“I know, I know,” she said. “It's coming up on the eleven o'clock news.”

She was on the sofa wearing black running shorts and a turquoise tank top, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She patted the cushion next to her, and I sat down.

“You must be starved,” she said, leaning over and giving me a kiss.

I was, but you don't come home five hours late and ask what's for dinner. I didn't have to. Cheryl had set a plate of cheese, olives, salsa, and chips on the coffee table along with a bottle of wine and two glasses. I dug into the food as a somber anchorman led off with the murder of Elena Travers.

The report was interspersed with film highlights of Elena's career, the limo crash, her body on the red carpet, and a still shot of the missing necklace. And since Kylie and I had been involved in three high-profile cases in the past year, the reporter thought it was newsworthy to point the cameras at us and mention us by name as we entered the Ziegfeld to question Craig Jeffers.

The piece ended with a shot of a teenage girl, tears streaming down her face, kneeling down to add a bouquet of flowers to the makeshift memorial.

“It's terrible,” Cheryl said, her own eyes watery and ready to spill over. “I'm glad you and Kylie are on the case. You'll solve it.”

“It won't be easy,” I said. “It seems like a robbery gone bad, so there's no direct link between the killer and the victim.”

“Don't look so down. You've cracked tougher cases.”

“I know, but it's going to mean working overtime. I'm sorry.”

“Stop it,” she snapped.

I didn't know what I'd done, but clearly it wasn't good. “Stop what?” I said.

“Apologizing.”

“I thought women liked apologies,” I said, turning on my boyish smile. “Especially if they're accompanied by flowers or jewelry.”

She muted the TV. Not a good sign. “I don't know what other women like, Zach, but the woman you're living with doesn't like you apologizing on spec.”

“I'm not sure what that means.”

“It means you just apologized to me
in advance
for working overtime. It's manipulative. You're trying to preempt any negative reaction I might have the next time you come home late.”

“I thought I was taking responsibility for my actions.”

“And I think you're asking for a free ride.
‘How can Cheryl be mad? I told her this would happen.'
”

“What can I say? I feel guilty for all the times I've worked late.”

“Why? You're a cop. I know you keep crazy hours. In fact, you may remember that I'm one of the people who helped you land this job.”

“So what's my best course of action here, doctor?” I said. “Should I retract the apology, or should I get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness for having made it?”

That cracked the code. She laughed. “I have a better idea,” she said. “We've both spent the whole night focused on death. Let's do something that reaffirms life.”

She took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. She dimmed the lights to a warm golden hue, and we undressed slowly, deliberately, not touching, leaving just enough space between us for the anticipation to build.

“Not yet,” she whispered as I stood there naked, clearly ready. It was agonizing and tantalizing at the same time. I waited as she pulled back the sheets and lay on the bed.

“Now,” she breathed softly.

I lowered my body gently to meet hers, let my tongue caress her breasts, and slid effortlessly inside her.

And there in the soft light, entwined with the woman I was growing to love more and more every day, all the harsh realities of carrying a badge and a gun melted away. My anxieties about the past and my fears of the future disappeared.

There were no words. Just the calming peace of being with the only person in the world who really mattered. It truly
was
life affirming.