NYPD Red 4 (8 page)

Elliott Moritz, the
tenant in 4C, was about sixty, mild mannered, and by far the least confrontational of all the tenants we had met. He quickly admitted that the cameras were his.

“And who authorized you to install them?” Kylie said.

“They're not exactly
authorized,
” Moritz said, backing up a step. “I sort of have unwritten permission from the landlord.”

“Unwritten permission won't hold up in court, Elliott,” Kylie said.

“Court? Wait a minute, officer, I'm not the criminal here,” Moritz said. “It's the woman in 5B. She's a flight attendant. She sublets her apartment whenever she's out of town, and the people she rents to are noisy and dirty, and you can smell the marijuana through the air vents. So I complained to the building management. They said they can't evict her without proof. So I said I would get some, and they said okay.”

“You're right, Elliott,” Kylie said. “What she's doing is illegal. But so is spying on your neighbors. If this were any other night, I'd arrest you, but I've got a homicide to deal with, and you may be able to help, so I'm going to let you decide how we handle this. Option one: I wake up a judge, get a warrant to impound your equipment, and book you on charges of video voyeurism. Option two: you show me and my partner your video feed, and I'll give you the name and cell number of an inspector in the city's Buildings Department who hates illegal subletters even more than you do.”

Moritz wisely chose option two.

He had a quad monitor with one camera pointed at the flight attendant's apartment on the fifth floor. The other three only covered the stairwells. At 9:37 a man had trudged up the stairs to the third floor.

“That's our guy,” Kylie said when he didn't show up on the fourth-floor camera.

There was no audio track, so we didn't get to hear the gunshots, but at 9:44, Teddy Ryder stumbled down the stairs, bleeding. A minute later, the man who had lumbered up the stairs raced down. The image was poor quality, but we could tell that our suspect was white, about six feet tall, and no more than thirty-five years old. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Kylie downloaded the video onto her cell phone. We took it back to the precinct, found a tech to pull some screenshots, and got them out to every cop in the city.

It was almost two a.m. when Kylie dropped me off at my apartment. Angel, my favorite doorman, was on duty.

“You look beat, Detective,” he said.

“Fighting crime isn't as glamorous as it looks,” I said.

He laughed and said good night. I got in the elevator. It had been hours since I'd walked out on Cheryl without saying a word, and I wondered if she'd still be there when I got upstairs.

Angel probably knew. But I was too embarrassed to ask him if my new live-in girlfriend had moved out with all her stuff while I was away.

Annie Ryder was
a night owl. As her husband, Buddy, loved to say, “Annie never goes to sleep on the same day she wakes up.” So when her cell rang at ten minutes after midnight, she didn't panic. She just figured it was one of her insomniac neighbors who wanted to stop by for a cup of tea and an earful of gossip.

The screen on her iPhone said Private Caller, but that didn't bother Annie either. Caller ID was a two-way street, and since she always blocked her name and number from popping up, she couldn't fault anyone else. She muted the TV and answered the phone with a crisp “Hello. Who's this?”

“Ma,” a weak voice on the other end said.

She stood up and pressed the phone to her ear. “Teddy, are you all right? What's wrong?”

“I got shot.”

“Oh Jesus. Where?”

“In my apartment, but I'm not there now. I ran like hell.”

“Teddy, no—not where were you when you got shot. Where did the bullet hit you?”

“Oh. He shot me in the stomach.”

Annie was good in emergencies, but this was a crisis. She instinctively moved over to the sideboard and rested her hand on Buddy's urn for strength.

“Listen to me,” she said. “Get yourself to a hospital. Now.”

“Ma, are you crazy? I go to the hospital with a gunshot wound, and they call the cops.”

“Teddy, I'd rather visit you in jail than identify your body at the morgue. A bullet to the abdomen can be lethal. God knows how many of your organs got torn up. Get your ass to an ER before you bleed to death internally.”

“My organs are fine,” Teddy said. “You're thinking like I got shot in the belly button. That's not what happened. It's more like the bullet went through the fat parts that hang off the side.”

“Love handles?” Annie said.

“Yeah. That's not so bad, right?”

“Of course it's bad. You want to get an infection and die of sepsis? We have to treat it right away. Where are you?”

“I just got off the subway. I'm standing outside the station.”

Annie gritted her teeth.
The
subway.
The
station. Teddy had never mastered the art of spelling out details. “
Which
station?” she demanded.

“Yours, Ma. I took the N train to Astoria Boulevard. I'm right here under the el by the Pizza Palace on 31st Street.”

“Jesus, you're right around the corner?”

“Yeah, but I didn't want to just come up to the apartment in case the cops are watching it.”

“Smart thinking, kiddo,” she said.

The catchphrase was a throwback to Teddy's grade-school days, when he was a permanent fixture in the slow learners' class.

Early on, Buddy came up with a plan. “The kid may not be too bright,” he said, “but we can't be the ones to reinforce it. Our job is to con him into thinking he's smarter than he is.”

From that day forward, whenever Teddy did or said something that would be normal for an average kid, Annie and Buddy rewarded him, sometimes with a sweet treat, sometimes a little gift. But the positive feedback that always made Teddy the happiest was those three little words:
Smart thinking, kiddo.

It still worked. “Thanks, Ma,” Teddy said. “So what do I do now?”

“I'll come for you,” she said, lifting the lid of the trunk where Buddy had kept the tricks of his trade. “First I've got to find something for you to wear so nobody recognizes you. Now just promise me you'll stay out of sight till I get there.”

“I'm starved.”

“Promise, damn it.”

“Okay, okay, I promise.”

She hung up the phone. “The boy is in deep shit this time, Buddy,” she called out to the urn containing the ashes of her dead husband as she rifled through the wigs, props, and collection of uniforms that had helped the con man pass as anything from a meter reader to an airline pilot.

Two minutes later, she had what she needed, raced out of the apartment, and then checked every parked car on Hoyt Avenue. Twenty-four minutes after that, Teddy Ryder walked through the front door of his mother's building in plain sight.

Annie was positive that there were no cops watching, but even if there were, she doubted they'd realize that the man with shoulder-length blond hair wearing a bright orange safety vest and carrying a red insulated pizza bag was the one every cop in the city was looking for.

Teddy put the
pizza box on the kitchen counter, pulled out a slice, and grabbed a can of Bud from the refrigerator.

“Alcohol dehydrates you,” Annie said, snatching the beer out of his hand and dumping it into the sink. She opened one of the bottles of orange Gatorade she'd brought home from the Pizza Palace and handed it to him.

Teddy inhaled half the slice and took a swig of the neon-colored drink. “You ever patch up a bullet wound when you were a nurse?” he asked.

“
Nurse?
I was a candy striper. I learned a few things from watching the nurses, but mostly I stole morphine ampoules to sell to the junkies in my neighborhood. Now take off that stupid wig and strip down to your shorts. I'm going next door to borrow a few medical supplies.”

She took a tote bag from the hall closet and left. By the time she got back, Teddy was three slices into the pie, and his jeans and shirt were on the floor.

“That's the beauty of living in a building full of old people,” Annie said, setting down the tote bag. “It's like an all-night pharmacy. They have everything you need for a do-it-yourself gunshot wound repair kit.”

She handed him a bottle of pills. “Amoxicillin,” she said. “Take four now, and then we'll space them out, four a day.”

Teddy didn't argue. He popped four of the antibiotics and washed them down with Gatorade. Annie spread a sheet on the sofa and pulled a bottle of Smirnoff vodka from the tote bag. “It's not the pricey stuff,” she said, “but it'll do.”

“I thought you said no alcohol,” Teddy said.

“This isn't for drinking. Lie down so I can see where you got hit.”

Teddy stretched out on the sofa, and Annie studied his bloodied left side. “You're lucky,” she said. “It's a clean shot. The bullet went in the front and out the back, but I'm sure it dragged pieces of fabric from your dirty shirt along with it. We have to kill the bacteria before it spreads. Bite down on that throw pillow.”

“Why?”

“Because it's going to hurt like hell, and I don't want you to wake up the neighbors when you start screaming.”

“Ma, I'm not going to scre—”

She poured the eighty-proof Smirnoff disinfectant on the wound, and Teddy let out a piercing shriek that he managed to stifle with the pillow.

“Next time maybe you'll listen to your mother,” Annie said, dabbing his skin with a soft cloth. “When I tell you it's going to hurt, it's going to hurt. And when I told you Raymond Davis was no good for you, I was right. But no, you had to wait for him to shoot you before you took my word for it.”

“Don't talk bad about Raymond, Ma. He didn't shoot me. He's dead. The guy who shot me shot him first.”

“Jesus, Teddy. What the hell were you two involved in that someone would want to kill you?”

“This guy Jeremy hired us to steal some shit, so we did, and then when it was time to pay us off, he decided to kill us instead.”

Annie reached into her tote bag and took out a box of adult diapers. She opened one and placed the absorbent fabric so it covered both sides of the wound. “Stand up and hold this so I can wrap it,” she said.

Teddy did as he was told.

“What did you steal?” Annie asked as she began wrapping an ACE bandage around Teddy's waist.

“A diamond necklace.”

“I can't believe it. You robbed a jewelry store?”

“No,” Teddy said, his head down. “A limo. There was this actress in the back, and Jeremy knew she'd be wearing this expensive necklace, and—”

“Oh my God. Elena Travers?”

Teddy didn't answer. He didn't have to.

“You killed Elena Travers?” Annie said.

“I didn't shoot her, Ma. Honest. Raymond did.”

“But you had a gun.”

“Yeah.”

“And what's the one cardinal rule that your father taught you?”

“No guns.”

“And now that poor actress is dead, and you're facing life in prison. Who is this Jeremy, anyway? What's his last name?”

“I don't know. Raymond did all the up-front work. Tonight was the first time I saw him. He was supposed to give us ninety thousand for the necklace, but Raymond didn't trust him, so when Jeremy shows up, Raymond tells him we're not giving him the necklace until he hands over his gun.”

“And of course he did,” Annie said. “No arguments.”

“Right. So then I go and get the necklace and put it on the coffee table.”

“And just like that,” Annie said, “Jeremy pulls out a second gun that he had tucked in the back of his pants.”

“It was an ankle holster. He drilled Raymond right between the eyes. He turned on me, and I head-butted him just as he pulled the trigger. He went down hard, and I ran for my life.”

“The cops will be looking for you. Sooner or later, they're going to be knocking on my door. You can't stay here.”

“Ma, I've got no place else to go.”

“I'm cat-sitting for the couple next door while they're on a cruise. You can stay there for the next ten days.”

She taped down the ends of the ACE bandage. Then she picked up his shirt and helped him into it. “You can put your pants on by yourself,” she said.

Teddy stepped into his jeans, buttoned the fly, and cinched the belt. “Hey, Ma,” he said, digging his hand into his pocket. “I brought you a present.”

He pulled out the diamond and emerald necklace and handed it to her.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Teddy, it's…it's exquisite. I thought Jeremy took this.”

“He did, but when I knocked him down, he hit his head. He was kind of groggy, so I figured I'd grab the necklace while I could, and maybe one day you and me could find a buyer on our own.”

Annie Ryder stood there, watching the light refract off the eight million dollars' worth of stolen jewelry in the palm of her hand. At first she was dumbfounded, unable to speak. And then she found the words that always brought joy to the face of her slow-witted but good-natured son.

“Smart thinking, kiddo.”

I opened the
door to my apartment. It was pitch-black. I'm from the school of “I'll leave a light on in the window for you,” so this was not a good sign. I tapped the switch on the wall and breathed a sigh of relief. Cheryl's purse, keys, and department ID were sitting on the hall table.

I made my way to the dining room, flipped on a light, and there it sat: the romantic dinner for two was exactly where it was when I walked out. Still on the table, untouched, and, by now, incredibly unromantic.

I didn't have to wonder how Cheryl felt. Nothing says “You're not getting laid tonight” like cold clotted lasagna and rock-hard garlic bread.

But in case I had any doubts, the bedroom door was shut, and my blanket and pillow had been dumped on the sofa.

I carried the perfect dinner out to the incinerator room, cleaned the kitchen, then tossed and turned on the sofa until five forty-five. The bedroom door was still shut, and I knew I'd be smarter to leave and shower at the precinct.

But first I stopped at the diner to talk to my therapist.

“The doctor is in,” Gerri said, bringing me coffee and a bagel, then sliding into the booth across from me. “What the hell did you do wrong now?”

“That's the thing,” I said. “I'm not sure I did anything wrong.”

I filled her in on the details of last night. She didn't say a word till I was finished.

“Let me start with a question,” she said. “Do you really want this relationship with Cheryl to work out?”

I didn't hesitate. “Of course.”

“Then why would you leave her and go up to Harlem to be with Kylie?”

“Wait a minute—I didn't leave her to
be with Kylie.
Kylie needed help. That's the nature of who I am. When there's a damsel in distress, I—”

Gerri erupted. “
Damsel in distress?
Kylie?
News flash, Zach: Kylie MacDonald is a pistol-packing, ass-kicking, ball-busting hellcat. The day she's a damsel in distress is the day I'll be on the cover of the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue.”

“Okay, okay, you're right.
Damsel in distress
was a poor choice of terms.”

“More like a profoundly stupid choice of terms.”

“What I should have said was, Kylie is a loose cannon. She went up to Harlem—on her own, without backup—an off-duty cop on a harebrained mission to find her husband's drug dealer and then strong-arm him into telling her how to find Spence.”

“So to sum it all up, you made a choice. You chose Kylie over Cheryl.”

“You're oversimplifying.”

“Then let me undersimplify. Let's say I have magic powers, and with one wave of my hand, I can guarantee you a happy life with the woman of your choice. Who's it going to be?”

“Cheryl.”

“You know that for sure?”

“Yes.”

“Does she know that for sure?”

“Cheryl knows that I love her, and hopefully she understands why I bailed on dinner last night.”

“Zach, I'm not sure you understand why you did what you did last night.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” She stood up. “I'm a short-order cook, not a shrink. I'm sorry I said that.”

“Well, it's too late to unsay it. What do you mean, I don't understand what I did last night?”

She sat down. “When my daughter Rachel was nineteen, she had an affair with a married man who was thirty-six. A year later, he got divorced, and a few months after that, he asked Rachel to marry him. I told her I was against it.”

“Because of their age difference?” I said.

“No. Because the guy cheated on his wife. I said to Rachel, ‘If he'll do it
with
you, he'll do it
to
you.' She married him anyway. Five years later, she caught him in bed with another woman. She was devastated. She left him and moved back home with me. I felt terrible for her, but deep down inside, a little piece of me felt vindicated…justified. I told her that he was no good for her, and I was right. So here's my final question of the day, Zach. Did you go up to Harlem to protect Kylie from getting in trouble, or did you go to help her pick up the pieces of a marriage you've been hoping would crash and burn?”

I didn't answer because I didn't know the answer.

Gerri stood up again. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, but I think I may need a second opinion.”

“Good idea,” she said. “Try the Metro Diner on Broadway. Even if you're not impressed with the therapy, you'll love the mac and cheese.”