NYPD Red 4 (15 page)

The silver S550
Mercedes was parked outside the precinct. Q's driver, Rodrigo, opened the rear door, and Kylie and I got in.

Q, in a custom-tailored navy suit, white shirt, and blue and gold repp tie, looked more like a captain of industry than a purveyor of fine flesh and priceless information. “First things first,” he said to Kylie. “Let me have your phone.”

She handed it to him, and he deleted the picture he'd sent. “To quote the incomparable John Ridley,” he said, “‘Discretion—it never goes out of style.'”

“Where is Spence?” Kylie asked.

“Atlantic City. The Borgata. Room 1178.”

“Yesterday he was in a flophouse on the Bowery. He's traded up. How did you find him?”

“My business is a lot like yours,” Q said. “We both cater to the rich and powerful. If Spence had been holed up in a warehouse down by the Holland Tunnel, I'd never know. But five minutes after he rolled into the hotel, I got two texts: one from a valet, another from a bellman. I asked Tanya, the young lady in the photo, to get visual confirmation. For the record, she's not
with
him. She just worked him long enough to get the picture…in case you were wondering.”

“For the record,” Kylie said, “of course I was wondering. Thank you. It's very reassuring. Maybe I can have a T-shirt made: ‘My Husband Isn't Cheating. He's Just on a Drug Bender.'”

“It appears that he's upped his game. I have it from a trusted source that the paperboy hooked him up with Aunt Hazel.”

There's a vast lexicon of street terms the illegal drug trade uses to shroud their activity in mystery. New code names pop up every day, but the maiden aunts have been around for decades. Aunt Mary is marijuana, Aunt Nora is cocaine, but Aunt Hazel is the most deadly of them all: heroin.

“I'm sorry to be the messenger of such dire tidings,” Q said, “but at least you know where he is—for now. If I were you, I'd get down there in a hurry.”

“A hurry?”
Kylie said. “Atlantic City is a six-hour round-trip.”

“Not if you've got lights, sirens, and you push the needle to triple digits.”

“The department tends to frown on cops who use the company car to resolve their marital issues,” Kylie said. “I appreciate your help, but I can't leave the city for that big a chunk of time.”

“How about if I have Rodrigo expedite things for you?”

“Expedite?”
Kylie said. “Because nothing says ‘loving wife' like having someone stuff your husband into the trunk of a Benz and hauling him a hundred miles up the Jersey Turnpike.”

Q laughed. “I forgot how your cop brain works. I was just offering to get you there by helicopter. NYC to ACY in thirty-seven minutes.”

“You own a—” Kylie twirled a finger in the air.

“Let's just say I have
access.
My employees are on call 24/7, so I can hardly rely on public transportation. Besides, it's an amenity my clientele are happy to pay for.”

“Your clients have the five grand it costs to be airlifted to hooker heaven,” Kylie said. “I can't afford that kind of happiness.”

Q did his best to look offended. “Please—since when has our relationship ever been sullied with talk of money? The ride is a gift.”

“If you take your mom up for a spin, it's a gift. If you take a cop, it's a bribe. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Damn it, Kylie, I do you favors; you do me favors. That's the basis of our relationship. I'm helping you track down a drug addict. Someday you'll pay me back. Straight-up quid pro quo. Why change the rules now?” He turned to me. “Zach, talk some sense into this girl.”

“Only if you tell me what's going on,” I said.

Q gave me a blank stare. “What are you talking about? Nothing's going on. I'm trying to help your partner out.”

“You
did
help her. You found her husband. This is where you would normally walk away. But you're still
helping.
So I have to ask myself: why is Q so invested in getting Kylie to Atlantic City that he's willing to fly her there at his own expense? The only answer I can come up with is there's something in it for you. Would you like to share that with us?”

“Okay, full disclosure. I'm hosting a party at the Borgata this weekend. My best customers: seven oil dudes from Texas, all white, all married, and they love the ladies of color. Money is no object. All they care about is privacy—I don't even know their real names. Sunday morning they pay me in cash and fly home. It's a huge payday, and I'm afraid Spence could fuck it up.”

“How?”

“Because he's a big-time TV producer
and
a cop's husband. If he's found dead in a bed, that hotel will turn into a media circus, and my camera-shy cowboys will pull the plug on the party before it starts. Can you help me out?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Step out of the car so Kylie and I can talk.”

I didn't have to ask twice.

“Do you want to take a personal day and drive down there now?” I said to Kylie as soon as we were alone.

“No. I'm done putting Spence's addiction ahead of my career. I'll punch out at six, rent a car, and be back by morning. You stay and cover for me.”

“It would be a lot faster if you went by chopper.”

“I've done a lot of stupid things, Zach, but I've never taken a bribe.”

“It's not a bribe,” I said. “Q is our best CI. He just gave us Raymond Davis and Teddy Ryder. Like he said, quid pro quo. We can't give him a get-out-of-jail-free card, but we can help him eliminate a minor business annoyance. We both fly down tonight. I help you drag Spence's sorry ass to a rehab, and if our phone rings, we're only thirty-seven minutes away. Win-win.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “I've created a monster. You're starting to think like me.”

“It sounds like you and I are in violent agreement.”

“Hell, yeah,” she said, a broad grin spreading across her face.

It was the first time I'd seen her smile since she kicked Seth Penzig in the balls. Things were starting to look up.

Annie Ryder knew
better than to burden her son with too many facts. What she failed to tell Teddy was that Tow Truck Bob was also known as Lieutenant Robert Beatty, U.S. Marines—a lone-wolf sniper who had taken out high-profile targets in Lebanon, Somalia, and Nicaragua, plus in a few top secret locations known only to a handful of generals and their commander in chief, Jimmy Carter.

Jeremy might look like a candy-ass, but he'd already murdered Raymond Davis and barely missed killing Teddy. Annie wasn't taking any chances. Bob didn't know any of the details, but if Jeremy had thoughts about going after her, he'd have to get past 260 pounds of muscle, grit, and combat training.

Bob pulled the Jeep into the Edison ParkFast on Essex Street, and the unlikely couple walked around the corner and one block west to 205 East Houston.

They'd already gone over the logistics. Annie went in first. As soon as she walked through the door, she inhaled the intoxicating aromas of corned beef, matzo ball soup, chopped liver, and artery-clogging pastrami that Buddy had said was worth risking his life for.

Katz's Deli was one of New York's most popular tourist attractions—a mecca for foodies of every stripe. For Annie it was the perfect drop spot. There was safety in numbers, and with the lunchtime crowd streaming in, she would be just another anonymous old lady to be ignored.

She went to the counter and ordered Teddy's lunch to go, along with knoblewurst on rye and a bottle of Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray soda for herself. She found a table in the rear and watched as Bob entered, bought a sandwich, and took a seat twenty feet away from her.

Jeremy showed up at noon on the dot. He bypassed the counter, scanned the room, spied Annie, and sat down at her table.

“Let's do this fast,” he said, unslinging a canvas messenger bag from his shoulder and setting it on the floor. “The money is all here. You can check to see if it's real, but don't ask if you can take it into the ladies' room to count it.”

Annie picked up the bag and unbuckled the front flap. The packets of hundred-dollar bills inside looked, felt, and smelled real. She closed the bag and hefted it up and down several times.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jeremy asked.

“I don't have to count it,” she said. “A ten-thousand-dollar stack of hundreds weighs about the same as a Big Mac. This feels like you got my order right.” She put the bag down on the floor.

Jeremy grinned. “At first I made you for one batshit old broad, but it turns out you're as smart as you are nasty.”

“Well, aren't you the sweet talker,” Annie said. “Maybe when this is all over, the two of us can be Facebook friends.”

Jeremy took a jeweler's loupe out of his pocket. “I showed you mine. Your turn to show me yours.”

Annie removed a small black LeSportsac makeup bag from her purse and slid it across the table. Jeremy opened a menu, slipped the bag between the pages, removed the necklace, and studied it with the loupe.

Had anyone bothered to look, he was just another farsighted customer squinting at the menu, trying to decide.

Annie took a deep breath. For the first time since Teddy called her on Tuesday night, she felt a sense of relief. She still didn't know what to do about Teddy, but the bag at her feet would buy her a lot of options. A hint of a satisfied smile crossed her face, and she took a sip of her soda to cover it up.

And then—
bang!

Annie jumped. Jeremy had slammed the table with the base of his fist.

Heads turned. Jeremy didn't care. His teeth were gritted, his jaw was locked tight, and his eyes were aflame. “You conniving bitch,” he said, spitting out every word. He stuffed the necklace back in the makeup bag and shoved it at her.

Annie tried to process what was going on. “I don't understand. What's the prob—”

Jeremy didn't stick around to explain. He scooped up the bag of hundred-dollar bills, pushed back his chair, and bolted for the door. Tow Truck Bob stood up and was about to go after him, but Annie held up her hand.

“Let's get out of here,” she said, shoving the makeup bag into her purse.

Ten minutes later, they were crossing the Williamsburg Bridge.

“You okay?” Bob finally said.

Annie lowered her eyelids. It was the first question the strong, silent marine had asked since she'd recruited him, and based on what had just happened, it was a pretty stupid question at that. But Bob wasn't stupid. He was a kindhearted man doing his best to tiptoe around her feelings, and the last thing he deserved was one of her trademark wiseass answers.

“No, I'm not okay,” she said, opening her eyes as the Jeep merged onto the ramp to the BQE. “Thanks for asking.”

“It's none of my business,” Bob said, “but what the hell happened?”

“I don't know. I'm still shell-shocked.”

“Sorry,” Bob said, “but that's the thing with these business deals. Sometimes they can just go south.”

Con jobs could go south, Annie knew. Hell, if the mark caught on, a scam could explode in your face. It didn't happen to her and Buddy often, but when it did, they didn't ask why. They just packed up and ran like hell.

But this was a legitimate business deal. Okay, maybe not legitimate, but it was a straight-up agreement between her and Jeremy. It was about to go down when something spooked him. But what?

She clutched the Katz's Deli takeout bag that was sitting on her lap and closed her eyes again. On top of everything, she'd have to explain to Teddy why all she'd come home with was a pastrami sandwich and a cream soda. He'd ask why she didn't bring back the money.

She didn't have an answer. Maybe Buddy would know.

Jeremy could barely
swallow. His breathing was labored, and he hugged his chest, trying to ease the rib-crushing pain. He'd had anxiety attacks before, but this one was the mother of them all.

He sat up straight in the back of the cab, rested his palms on his knees, and took long, slow, deep breaths. Five minutes into the ride, the wave of panic passed.

You're okay,
he told himself.
It's only a temporary setback. Relax and think about what to do next.

The first option that popped into his head was to do exactly what he had told Leo he wouldn't do: take the hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars and run away with it.

He shook off the thought. After all he'd been through, he wasn't going to settle for chump change. He'd have to come up with a new plan, but he couldn't do it alone. “Shit,” he said out loud. “I guess the relationship isn't quite over.”

The taxi dropped him in front of the Flatiron Building, on Fifth Avenue at 23rd Street. It was a short walk to the Bassett brothers' minimansion on 21st, but he knew better than to show up unannounced.

There was a pocket seating area on the wide traffic island that separated Fifth from Broadway. Jeremy bought a bottle of water from a pushcart vendor, found an empty table, and sipped slowly. The water went down easy. He could swallow. He could breathe.
He could do this.

He took out his cell and sent a text.

The response came back immediately.

Jeremy fumed.
Later?
He drank the rest of the water and texted back.

It took two minutes for the answer to come back.

“Stupid rich asshole,” Jeremy said to the text.

It took ten minutes to walk west to the Trailer Park Lounge. He'd never heard of it, but as soon as he walked through the door, he knew why it was the perfect spot to meet. It was the kind of intentionally tacky dive that Leo Bassett wouldn't be caught dead in.

Max Bassett, on the other hand, looked right at home. He was at a table in the rear, wearing jeans, a faded plaid shirt, and a ratty old baseball cap with a logo that simply said HAT. There were two bottles of beer in front of him.

“What do you mean
‘It did not go well'
?” Max said, picking up one beer and pushing the other in Jeremy's direction. “I thought Leo gave you the cash. What did the old lady do? Hold you up for more?”

“No,” Jeremy said. “She was drooling over the money. But the necklace she was peddling was a fake. So I pulled the plug and walked out on her.”

Max's eyes widened in disbelief. “You…you had the necklace in your hand, and you gave it back?”

“You're damn right I did. Max, it wasn't worth a hundred and seventy-five grand, let alone eight million. I thought—”

“Since when do I pay you to think? You were given specific instructions:
‘Buy the necklace from the old lady.'
”

“Max, I know enough about gems to be able to tell what real emeralds and diamonds look like. I took a good look at the necklace with a loupe. Annie Ryder was trying to sell me a fake—a total piece of shit.”

“You know
nothing
about gems. What you were looking at was a perfectly crafted replica using cultured crystals instead of real stones. And it's far from a piece of shit. It may not be expensive, but it's still an original Max Bassett.”

Jeremy tried to make sense of what Max had said, but the vise was starting to tighten around his chest again, and most of his brain was preoccupied with warding off the pain.

“I don't understand,” he said. “Why would you dress Elena Travers up in a fake necklace?”

“Did you think I would trust you to steal the real one? If you ever got your hands on it, you'd be on a one-way flight to God knows where—first class.”

“So
you
have the real necklace?”

“I never let it out of my sight. And as soon as the insurance company pays me for my loss, I will refashion it and make several wealthy women extremely happy. What I don't have is the imitation. Are you beginning to understand why I need it, Jeremy?”

Jeremy nodded. “Yeah, I get it. You're afraid the old lady will turn it in to the insurance company, and once they have it, they'll figure out that the original was never stolen.”

“You really don't have a head for this, do you, Jeremy? The old lady
can't
turn it in to the insurance company. It would be like saying, ‘Here's what my son stole.' And she can't find a buyer, because who would want to buy a
fake piece of shit?
”

“I can fix this,” Jeremy said. “I know where she lives. I'll give her the hundred and seventy-five. She'll be happy to make the deal.”

“Is that the money in the bag?” Max asked.

“Every penny.”

“Let me see.”

Jeremy slipped the bag from his shoulder and handed it to Max.

“You won't be needing this anymore,” Max said. “I'll take care of the old lady.”

“Don't be crazy. Give me the money. I'll be back with the necklace in two hours.”

Max laughed. “Even Leo is not dumb enough to believe that. Good-bye, Jeremy.”

“You want to get rid of me, fine. But you owe me. I put months into this job, and so far I haven't been paid anything.”

“That's because so far you haven't earned anything,” Max said. “You bungled the job from the get-go.”

“Give me a break, Max. It's not my fault Elena wound up dead.”

“Perhaps,” Max said. “But it's definitely your fault that Leo is still alive.”