NYPD Red 4 (13 page)

“NCIC is still working on it.”

“Then you were right,” Q said. “I
do
have a better database than they do. Annie’s back in New York. She’s got a place in Astoria.”

He gave me an address on Hoyt Avenue. I hung up and nodded at Kylie. “We’ve got a twenty on Annie.”

“We’re done here,” she said to Marco. “Take this worthless piece of shit with you.”

Marco dragged Seth to his feet and practically carried him out the door.

Kylie locked up and texted Shelley to send for a cleaning crew and a locksmith.

“Thanks,” she said once we were back in the car. “I was pretty crazy when we left Cates’s office. Having you there helped calm me down.”

I smiled. All things considered, she had been pretty calm. But I doubted if Seth would agree.

“ED KOCH OR
Robert F. Kennedy?” Kylie asked before we pulled out into traffic.

I laughed out loud. Annie Ryder lived in Queens, and we were in Manhattan, on the opposite side of the East River. There were two ways to get across, neither of them any faster than the other. But having butted heads with me about her need to run the show, she was now turning the next critical decision over to me: which bridge to take.

“Haven’t you busted enough balls for one day?” I said. “Just get me there alive.”

We took the RFK.

Ryder lived on the seventh floor of a newly constructed fifteen-story tower that had been designated as affordable housing for seniors. Kylie rang the bell in the lobby.

“Ms. Ryder,” she said. “NYPD. Can we ask you a few questions?”

“Only if you have identification,” the voice came back. “I can’t open the door unless you show me proof that you really are the police.”

Kylie gave me a grin. Annie was playing the little old lady afraid to open the door for muggers. The charade continued outside her apartment until we proved that we were legit, and she finally let us in.

Annie had been charged twice with fraud, and even though nothing stuck, her picture was still in our database. But the person who opened the door looked nothing like the steely-eyed, stern-jawed, fiftysomething grifter whose mug shot I’d studied. This Annie was twenty years older, and with her gray hair pulled back in a bun and a warm crinkly smile on her face, she looked like the woman you’d cast to play the farmhouse granny in a Hallmark commercial.

“How can I help you, officers?” she asked.

“We’re looking for your son, Teddy,” I said.

“Then you should get in touch with his parole officer. That fella always knows where Teddy is better than his own mother,” she said, capping it off with a roll of her eyes that looked like it had been lifted from a fifties sitcom.

“When did you last see him?” Kylie asked.

Annie tapped her chin and thought about it for a bit. “Oh, I remember,” she said. “He came here for dinner Monday night. I made a meat loaf. Then the two of us watched TV while we had our dessert.”

“What was on that night?” Kylie said, asking the standard cop follow-up question.

“Well, I love to watch the celebrities get all dolled up, so we turned on the show where they were doing live coverage of a Hollywood premiere. It was horrible. Here’s me and Teddy, just sitting there eating our Chunky Monkey ice cream, watching to see who’s the next one to walk down the red carpet, and all of a sudden, this limo crashes and out tumbles that poor actress who got shot.”

We hadn’t asked her for Teddy’s alibi for Monday night, but she’d decided to get it on the record. Her bogus story had just the right amount of detail, and she wrapped it up by gracing us with a warm grandmotherly smile, which I’m sure was the exact same one she’d lay on the jury when she perjured herself on her son’s behalf.

“Can you tell me what’s going on that you want to talk to Teddy?” Annie said. “He’s made some mistakes, but he served his time, and now he’s back on the straight and narrow.”

Normally, it’s not a question we’d answer, but she already knew why we were there. “We’re investigating a homicide,” I said. “A man named Raymond Davis was shot in his apartment.”

Annie covered her mouth with both hands, reeling from the horror of it all. “I hope you don’t suspect Teddy. He and Raymond were best of friends. Besides, my son would never, ever hurt a soul,” she said, her eyes watery. “It’s how he was raised.”

“Did Teddy ever talk to you about Raymond?” I asked. “Like, do you know if anyone had a grudge against him?”

“I wish I could help, but you know how boys are. Teddy never tells me anything. Always confides in his father. They had a long talk Monday night while I was fixing dinner.”

Bingo. We’d finally caught her in a lie. Q had told us that Buddy Ryder was dead, and NCIC had confirmed it.

“Then maybe his father can help us out,” I said. “Can we talk to him?”

She put her hand on my arm and led me over to a sideboard. “You can talk to him all you want,” she said, pointing to a bronze cremation urn with Buddy Ryder’s name engraved on it. “Just don’t expect him to talk back.”

Game, set, match.

“The envelope, please,” Kylie said as soon as we got in the elevator.

“I tried,” I said. “Did I even get nominated?”

“No. She played you like a grand piano. The old girl could have done her victory lap right after the Chunky Monkey ice cream and ‘that poor actress who got shot.’”

“I know. She had all the right answers before we even asked the questions.”

“Mothers lie, Zach. And Annie Ryder does it better than most.”

WE GOT BACK
to the precinct three hours after we left Cates’s office pretending to be in hot pursuit of Annie Ryder.

“The captain is probably wondering why we’ve been gone so long,” Kylie said, giving me an impish grin.

Our side trip to Shelley’s apartment and Kylie’s throw-down with Spence’s stoner buddies had wasted a serious chunk of time, and the grin was to let me know that she didn’t care.

“I need five minutes before we go to her office,” I said, heading up the stairs.

“What’s more important than debriefing Cates?”

“Salvaging my relationship with Cheryl.”

“Bad idea. Cates put a freeze on personal time,” she said, giving me another grin.

I gave her the finger and double-timed my way up the stairs to Cheryl’s office. She wasn’t in. I bounded up another flight of stairs and got to Cates’s office just a few steps behind Kylie.

Cates was in the middle of a meeting, but she dropped everything as soon as she saw us. I’m sure she said something, but I didn’t process a single word. I just stood in the doorway staring at the three other people sitting in the room. Our backup team, Betancourt and Torres, and, next to them, Cheryl.

She gave me half a smile. On closer inspection, it looked more like half a frown. I eased my way into the room as Kylie gave Cates a top line summary of our visit to Annie Ryder.

“She definitely knows where Teddy is,” Kylie said, “but she’s too smart to lead us to him.”

“I’ll post a team outside her apartment anyway,” Cates said. “Any intel is better than nothing at all.”

“Thanks,” Kylie said.

“Glad you got here,” Cates said. “We’ve been running down where we are on the hospital robberies. Torres, catch them up.”

“Lynn Lyon hasn’t been anywhere near a hospital since we started tailing her,” Torres said. “She’s onto us.”

“She’s not onto
us
,” Betancourt corrected. “She knows that her cover is blown, and whoever she’s working for knows it. Her scouting days are over.”

“So now what?” Kylie said. “We can’t wait for them to hit another hospital and hope they trip up.”

“We
are
going to wait for them to hit another hospital,” Cates said. “But we’re going to be inside the hospital waiting for them to show up.”

“There are over a hundred major medical facilities in the five boroughs,” Kylie said. “We can’t cover all of them.”

“We only have to be at one, and Cheryl has an idea on how to zero in on the right one. I’ll let her spell it out for you.”

It was a sting, and a damn good one. It took Cheryl less than a minute to lay it out.

“I love it,” Kylie said, “but we can’t do it without Howard Sykes on board.”

“Then talk to him and get back to me,” Cates said. “This meeting is over.”

The group broke up, and Cheryl walked past me and down the hall.

I followed. “Cheryl, can we talk?”

She let one hand sweep across the wide-open squad room filled with cop eyes and cop ears. “This is not the right place for a conversation, Zach.”

“I just need to say six words.”

“Fine.” She gestured for me to follow her. She opened the door and started down the stairs. I thought we were going to her office, but after half a flight, she stopped, and the two of us stood in the empty stairwell. This was as much privacy as I was going to get.

“Six words,” she said.

I took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. “I’m wrong. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

My father had taught me those words when I was seventeen, after I’d had a huge argument with my girlfriend the day before our senior prom. It had worked like gangbusters on my prom date, but it definitely wasn’t flying with Cheryl.

“Is that it?” she said.

“No. An apology is just the beginning. I want to talk about what happened and then prove to you that it won’t happen again.”

“We can’t exactly do that here,” she said, pointing at the grimy gray stairs and the city-mandated fire hose hanging on the wall.

“I was thinking dinner.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to cook,” she said.

“No, I thought I could nuke us something nice.”

She cracked a smile.

“Or Gerri’s Diner,” I said.

The smile got wider.

“Okay. My last shot: Paola’s,” I said, throwing out the name of her favorite restaurant. “I can call Stefano and ask them to bake me a humble pie for dessert.”

The smile exploded into an eye-rolling, this-guy-is-incorrigible laugh.

“Seven o’clock,” she said. “Pick me up in my office.”

She headed down to the second floor, and I went back up to the third. I wouldn’t be sleeping on the sofa tonight.

JEREMY NEVINS HAD
never killed anyone before, but shooting Raymond Davis didn’t faze him a bit. The arrogant bastard had it coming. First he’d botched Jeremy’s biggest score, and then he’d had the balls to demand more money.

Jeremy was at a table in the Recovery Room, a plate of half-eaten Buffalo chicken wings and an untouched mug of Stella Artois in front of him. He wasn’t hungry, but he needed the real estate and the Wi-Fi, and no place was deader than a sports bar at three in the afternoon.
Correction
, he thought, looking down at his eighty-thousand-dollar Audemars Piguet watch: 3:01.

The watch had been a gift—more like a signing bonus. But with an eight-million-dollar pot of diamonds at the end of the rainbow, Jeremy would have signed on for a Timex.

The plan had been perfect until Leo, his self-obsessed partner in crime, decided not to get in the limo because he didn’t
look right.

So now Elena was dead, the necklace was in the wind, and Jeremy was on his own, trying to formulate plan B.

He didn’t know where the necklace was, but he was pretty sure he knew who had it: Teddy Ryder’s mother. He’d never met Teddy until last night, but he knew all about him. The man had never had an original thought in his life, and now that he was wounded and scared, he’d go running home to Mama.

And Jeremy knew exactly where to find her. When you plan a crime with a scumbag like Raymond Davis, you hedge your bets. Jeremy had attached a GPS tracker to the underside of Raymond’s Honda Civic just in case he decided to take the necklace and drive off with it.

But the GPS had paid off even sooner. In the week leading up to the robbery, the car made two round-trips from Teddy’s apartment to Hoyt Avenue in Astoria. Jeremy’s antennae went up, so on the third day he tailed the Honda to Annie Ryder’s doorstep.

He knew the old con woman’s history, and he knew that pulling a gun on her wouldn’t produce the necklace. The only way to get it was to cut her a deal, and then get Leo to pay her price.

He tapped on his cell phone and searched Google News. There was nothing on the shooting of Raymond Davis. Either the cops made him for just another crime statistic not worth the ink, or they figured out the connection to Elena Travers and put a lid on it.

The phone vibrated in his hand, and he flinched. It was Sonia Chen. He had no desire to talk to her, but she was too connected to the Bassetts: he couldn’t ignore the call.

“Hey, baby,” he whispered into the phone. “How’s the world’s sexiest publicist?”

“Terrible. Come on over to my apartment.”

“Honey, I’m busy.”

“Just for an hour. Please.”

“Sonia, I’m horny too, but—”

“Don’t be an asshole, Jeremy. I didn’t say horny. I’m scared. I’m lonely. I can’t sleep. I’ve never been involved in anything like this. Elena’s dead, and I keep thinking maybe if I made Leo go in the car with her—”

“Sonia, I’m sorry. But don’t blame yourself. What happened is sad, but it wasn’t your fault. It just happened.”

He waited for a response. Nothing.

“Sonia … does that help, baby?”

“It would help a lot more if you came over here and said it in person,” she said, capping the plea with a loud sigh. “Just for a little while. I really don’t want to be alone. Please.”

Without Sonia Chen, Jeremy never would have met Leo Bassett. He didn’t need her anymore, but if there’s one thing he’d learned stalking prey in the valley of the rich and gullible, it was to never, ever burn bridges.

He looked at his watch.
How pathetic that your wrist is worth a fortune
, it said,
but the rest of you still isn’t worth shit.

“Of course I’ll be there, baby,” he said. “I’ll be right over.”