NYPD Red 4 (14 page)

I called Bob
Reitzfeld at home.

“Damn,” he said when I told him about Marco. “I liked him, but the son of a bitch was a toe tag waiting to happen. I'm glad it's not Spence.”

“Do you know this kid Seth?”

“Seth Penzig,” he said. “Him I don't like.”

“So far I haven't met anyone who does. Why doesn't the studio fire him?”

He laughed. “For a smart cop, Zach, you can ask some dumb questions. It's show business. If they got rid of all the assholes and the snow snorters, there'd be no show and no business. Hey, Spence destroyed two sets, but you can bet he'll be invited back as soon as he cleans up his act.”

“First we have to find him, and to do that, we have to find Seth. Can you help us track him down? We don't have a lot of time.”

“I pulled up his home address while you were talking,” he said. “Six three one Thirty-Ninth Avenue in Woodside. Fast enough for you?”

I thanked him and had the van drive me and Kylie to Queens. It was a working-class neighborhood a few miles from Silvercup. Seth's apartment was on the second floor, over a nail salon.

We rang the bell and were buzzed in, no questions asked.

“He didn't even ask who it is,” Kylie said. “He must be expecting some sort of delivery.”

Whatever Seth was expecting, it wasn't us. He opened the door, took one look, and tried to slam it shut. But Kylie pushed it in his face, and he teetered backward into his apartment.

“You got no cause,” he said. “I didn't do anything wrong.”

“The place reeks of marijuana,” Kylie said, “which gives us plenty of cause, and which, according to part 3, title M, article 221 of the New York penal code, is not only wrong but highly illegal. And that bong on the table isn't going to help your case.”

She took a step toward him, and Seth cupped his hands over his balls.

“But don't worry, I'm going to overlook the drug abuse,” she said, “because your buddy Marco was shot tonight, and you've been upgraded from crackhead to murder suspect.”

Whatever cockiness Seth had in reserve went out the window. He sat down on the edge of a coffee table that was scarred with roach burns and shook his head. “Marco was my friend. I didn't shoot him. I don't even have a gun.”

“How about an alibi? Do you have one of those?” Kylie demanded. “Where did you and Marco go after he helped you hobble out of Shelley Trager's apartment this morning?”

“Starbucks. We were having coffee, and Spence called me. Told us to meet him in a hotel.”

“Which one?”

“I don't know if it even has a name. It's one of those flophouses down on the Bowery where you can rent by the hour.”

“That doesn't sound like Spence's style,” Kylie said.

“That was the point. He didn't want to go where anyone might recognize him.”

“What happened when you got to the hotel?”

“Spence had some blow, but it turned out to be crap—cut with baby-formula powder. Marco said he knew about this good shit he could get up in the Bronx. Colombian—95 percent pure. Spence wanted it bad. Said he'd buy if Marco would score it for him. Marco said, ‘It's pricey. How much cash you got?'

“Spence was pretty wasted by then, so he just takes his wallet out of his pocket and says, ‘Take it all, and don't come back empty-handed.' Marco says, ‘This dude doesn't take plastic,' so he dumps out Spence's credit cards, puts the wallet in his pocket, and takes off. That's the last I ever saw him. I swear.”

“And what about Spence?”

“Your husband is crazy, lady. After half an hour, he was climbing the walls. Couldn't wait for Marco to get back. Said he's going down to the meatpacking district. He's got VIP status in one of the clubs. Tells me to call him when Marco shows up.”

“And then what?”

“I waited two hours. No Marco. I figured he scored the dope, and it's up his nose by now. And no Spence, because, hell, he's got an Amex Platinum card, so he's probably sucking down five-hundred-dollar bottles of Grey Goose. I bailed, took the subway to Queens, and stopped for a twelve-pack at the bodega around nine, so I got a witness who can tell you I wasn't anywhere near Marco.”

“Don't move,” Kylie said.

The two of us walked to a corner of Seth's half kitchen, where we could talk in private and still keep an eye on him.

“Dead end,” she said. “I don't think he'll be much help to Varhol either, but why don't you call him and get him over here? Maybe Seth can come up with a name for the dealer Marco was meeting.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to call Jan Hogle and have her monitor Spence's credit cards. Do you have any other ideas?”

“Just one. But you're not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

“Stop looking for Spence and start looking for the murderers and thieves that the City of New York is paying you to look for.”

“Good call on the ‘you're not going to like it' part,” she said, “but you're right. It's my job. Besides, I have a better chance of tracking down a killer, a gang of medical-equipment thieves, and an eight-million-dollar necklace than I do of finding my husband.”

Annie Ryder could
fall asleep on a rock. But not tonight. After lying in bed for over an hour, her brain was still doing laps like Dale Earnhardt Jr. at Talladega.

She wasn't worried about Jeremy. He wanted the necklace; she wanted the money—that would be easy. Annie wrestled with the hard part.
What next? Where do Teddy and I go? What do we do?

She got out of bed, made some tea, and laced it with cognac. But the answers didn't come, and the questions refused to go away. She went to the living room and lifted Buddy from the sideboard.

“This is why I didn't scatter you all over Vegas,” she said, carrying him into the bedroom. She set him down on the night table and pressed her hands against the sides of the bronze urn. “Sorry to disturb your eternal rest, but one of us has to worry about our son. You take the night shift so I can get some sleep.”

A warm tingle let her know that Buddy was on the job. She kissed him good night, turned off the light, and fell asleep in minutes.

In the morning she gave Teddy a short list of things to do and a long list of things not to do.

“Why can't I go with you?” he asked as Annie changed the bandage on his wound.

“Let's see. Because you're cat-sitting, because you need your rest…and I'm trying to remember…there was a third reason. Oh yeah.” She gave him a motherly whack on the back of his head. “Because you're wanted for armed robbery and the murder of Elena Travers.”

“I can wear a disguise. Otherwise, who's going to protect you on the subway?”

“Don't worry. I am not about to risk carrying an eight-million-dollar necklace on the N train—with or without someone to protect me. I asked Tow Truck Bob to drive me to Manhattan, wait for me, and then drive me back.”

“Tow Truck Bob?” Teddy said, frowning. “I don't know, Ma. You think that's such a good idea?”

“Relax, kiddo. Bob is one of those guys who never asks any questions. As far as he's concerned, he's giving me a ride into the city to pick something up. That's all he knows, and believe me, that's all he wants to know. I trust him.”

“I trust him too, but don't you think it's kind of crazy to go by tow truck? You'll stick out like a sore thumb.”

Annie sighed. This was why Teddy needed her. Like Buddy always said, “The poor kid couldn't think his way out of a room with four doors if three of them were wide-open.”

“No, sweetie,” she said. “That's just his nickname. He retired from the towing business a few years ago.”

“Gotcha,” Teddy said. “What does he drive now?”

“A Jeep Cherokee.”

Teddy's eyes lit up, and Annie knew what was coming next.

“From now on we should start calling him Jeep Cherokee Bob.”

“Smart thinking, kiddo,” she said, putting the finishing touch on his fresh bandage. “I'll tell him.”

Annie sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She still hadn't figured out where she and Teddy should run off to once they had the money, but there was one thing she was sure of: he wasn't smart enough to survive in New York on his own.

She hustled him along to the other apartment and went over his things-not-to-do list one last time.

“What time will you be back?” Teddy asked.

“I'm meeting Jeremy at noon. If it all goes the way it's supposed to, the whole thing should take ten minutes. Then we'll hop on the BQE, and there's not a lot of traffic at this hour, so I should be home by one o'clock.”

“Cool,” Teddy said. “Could you bring me back some lunch?”

“Sure. What would you like?”

“Let's see. A pastrami sandwich, a cream soda…and I'm trying to remember…there was a third thing I wanted. Oh yeah.” He tapped his forehead. “A hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.”

Annie laughed out loud. Sometimes the kid wasn't as dumb as she thought.

When I got
to work the next morning, Kylie was at her computer. “Your girlfriend ratted me out to the boss,” she said, not looking up at me.

“If what you're trying to say is that Dr. Robinson sent a report to Captain Cates about our late-night excursion to the Bronx, I know all about it,” I said.

“Cheryl told you?” she said, finally deeming me worthy of eye contact.

“Only after the fact. She gave me a heads-up as we were on our way to work this morning.”

“Why would you need a
heads-up?
”

“I don't know. Maybe just in case I got to the office and you were in a pissy mood. But I'm happy to see you're nothing but sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.”

She lifted one hand from the keyboard and gave me the finger.

“What's your problem?” I said. “Cheryl cleared you for duty. End of story.”

“Not for Cates. She wants both of us in her office. Now.”

“
Both
of us? This is between you and the captain. Why does she want me?”

“I don't know, Zach. Maybe Cheryl's opinion wasn't enough. Maybe you get a vote too. Do you think I'm fit for duty, Dr. Jordan?”

“Hell, if we're going to play good cop/bad cop, you're totally fit for baddest-ass cop ever. Otherwise, you're going to have to be on restricted duty.”

She lifted the other hand so she could flip me the bird with both barrels.

“You're overreacting,” I said. “And for the record, Mrs. Harrington, the boss didn't find out about Spence from Cheryl. That little card in his wallet that said ‘I'm married to an NYPD detective' was the equivalent of sending up a Bat Signal. It lit up the radios across all five boroughs. It was the system that
ratted you out,
not Cheryl.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.” She stood up, mental body armor in place, ready to do battle with whatever the system had in store for her next. I followed her to Cates's office.

“I'm sorry to hear about Spence,” Cates said as we walked through the door. “I know what it's like to be married to a man with a drug addiction.”

That stopped Kylie cold. “I…I didn't know that,” she said, her body language softening.

“Not many people do. It's ancient history. I'm only telling you because I wanted you to know that Delia Cates understands what you're going through—”

“Thank you,” Kylie said.

“—but
Captain
Cates is about to come down on your ass like the hammer of Thor!” She pounded her desk to punctuate her point. “Last night you were called to a crime scene. As a witness—
not as a cop,
correct?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“After you learned that the victim was not your husband, did the lead detective on the case ask you for any help?”

“Detective Varhol asked if I recognized the victim. I gave him—”

Cates cut her off. “Did he ask you to
assist
him in his investigation?”

“No, ma'am.”

“So if Varhol made it clear that this was not your rodeo, why do I have a civilian complaint from Seth Penzig saying that you and Jordan stormed your way into his apartment and told him he was a suspect in the murder of his friend?”

“
Stormed the apartment?
That's totally bogus. Zach and I had cause. You could smell the pot wafting out of Seth's place from a block away.”

“Could you smell it from the Bronx? Because that's where you were when you told Detective Varhol that you had no idea where Penzig lived.”

“We did a little digging after we left the Bronx.”

“
Digging?
In what universe is it okay for you to shanghai an investigation and question a person of interest in another cop's homicide?”

“I was trying to find my husband.”

“And Detective Varhol was trying to find Penzig, but you decided that your personal needs were more important than the mission of this department.”

Some people find themselves in a deep hole and look for a way out. Not Kylie. She just grabs a bigger shovel. I jumped in before she could dig deeper.

“Captain,” I said, “I'm just as much to blame.”

“You're damn right you are,” Cates snapped back. “Why do you think you're here?”

“It was a big mistake, and I apologize if you took any heat over it. There's no excuse for what the two of us did.”

“And yet, I've heard nothing but excuses from your partner.”

“She wasn't thinking straight. They told her that Spence was dead, and she snapped. It won't happen again.”

Cates grunted. “Do you want to put in for family leave?” she asked Kylie.

“No, ma'am.”

“Then if you want to look for your husband, do it on your own time, which, judging by your caseload, is going to be in short supply,” Cates said. “But if you ever flash your department shield to solve your civilian problems again, you'll find yourself with more personal time than you ever dreamed of. Dismissed.”

“You realize that you never even apologized to her,” I said as soon as Kylie and I were back at our desks.

“It sounded to me like you were repentant enough for both of us.”

“That's not how the concept works. You're supposed to own your—”

The text alert on Kylie's phone chirped, and she immediately tuned me out to look at the message. “Oh God,” she said.

“What's going on?”

She didn't answer. She just handed me her phone.

It was a text from Q.

It was a picture of a stunning young black woman in a glittery low-cut top. Next to her was a bleary-eyed man with a drink in one hand and the other resting on the woman's bare shoulder. There were splashes of blue, purple, and hot pink behind them—the official pyrotechnics of every after-dark club everywhere. Below the picture was a text.