NYPD Red 4 (16 page)

“The only reason
Leo is still alive is because he never made it to the limo,” Jeremy said, his voice an angry whisper. “How can you blame that on me?”

“I'm not blaming that on you,” Max said, resting a hand on his chin and gently stroking his beard. “But you've had plenty of other opportunities since then.”

“Opportunities? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You spent all of last night shacked up with him at a hotel.”

“And what was I supposed to do? Shoot him in bed and leave his body on the room-service cart?”

Max shrugged. “I'm not in charge of logistics, Jeremy. You are. All I know is that we had an agreement. I promised you a shitload of money—far more than you're worth—and you would see to it that Leo was the unfortunate victim of a jewelry heist gone horribly wrong.”

“And that's exactly what would have happened. Raymond Davis was a contemptible, cold-blooded scumbag. All it took to get him to agree to kill Leo was to promise him ten thousand more than I was giving Teddy. It was a solid plan.”

“And yet,” Max said, lifting his beer from the table and dabbing with a napkin at the wet ring it left behind, “Raymond not only failed to shoot Leo, he murdered Elena Travers and turned your
solid plan
into an international cause célèbre.”

“Shit happens, Max.”

“Apparently it happens to you more often than to most criminal masterminds. But I was willing to overlook it. Do you know why? Because I had faith that you could bounce back from your monumental blunder and get it right the second time around. I mean, after all, you still had Raymond Davis, and from what I understood, it wouldn't take much for you to convince him to try his luck with Leo a second time. But did you do that? Did you seek out Raymond and try to motivate your handpicked employee to finish the job?”

He slammed the beer bottle back down on the table. “No! Instead, you went to Raymond's apartment and you killed him. And now you want me to pay you for all your hard work?”

“Fine,” Jeremy said. “So I didn't finish that part of the job. But I still want to be paid for stealing the necklace.”

“Stealing it and losing it,” Max said. “Twice. First you were outwitted by a half-wit, and then you had it in your hand, and you gave it back, leaving me in a position where I will have to negotiate with a woman who is as well versed in the art of the deal as a Wall Street banker. Bottom line: you failed at every turn, and Max Bassett doesn't reward failure. At the risk of repeating myself, good-bye, Jeremy.”

Jeremy's shoulder slumped. “No. Please, Max, I know I messed it up, but don't dump me now. Give me one more chance to make it right.”

Max folded his arms across his chest and sat back in his chair. His body language said it all.
I am impenetrable.

Jeremy countered with body language of his own. He spread his arms wide and placed his palms on the table.
I am defenseless, vulnerable, and I trust you.
“I know what you need,” he said in a near whisper. “Leo has been a thorn in your side your entire life. And now, with this Precio Mundo opportunity at your fingertips, the thorn has become a roadblock, a barricade.”

Max's head moved. An involuntary nod. Jeremy had struck the right chord.

“I know him, Max,” Jeremy said, leaning in. “I know him intimately, and he has sworn to me that he will never give in. Your brother will stand in the way of your dreams until the day he dies. Give me one more chance to make that day come fast. Today, if you want.”

“How much do you want?” Max said.

“It's a one-time-only payment. Once I have the money, you'll never see or hear from me again.”

“How much do you want, Jeremy?”

“A million dollars.” Jeremy smiled. “I realize that you could shop around and get it done for less, but you've been grooming me for this job for months. Leo trusts me. Just say the word, and when you wake up tomorrow morning, the destiny of Bassett Brothers Jewelry will be in your hands, and yours alone.”

“Do it,” Max said. “I'll go to my club for dinner and play poker till eleven p.m. Leo will be home alone. If he's dead when I get there, I'll wire you the million. Otherwise, you're broke, unemployed, and wanted for murder.”

“Don't worry,” Jeremy said. “I won't let you down. Thank you.”

“Of course you won't,” Max said, a self-satisfied smirk crossing his lips.

Jeremy took a long, slow deep breath. The oxygen filled his lungs, and he realized how effortless it had been. He exhaled slowly. Another breath. His chest pains were gone, his focus was back. Somewhere during Max's harangue the anxiety and the fear had turned to resolve. Max was not Leo. Max was a formidable opponent, and Jeremy was determined to crush him.

No,
he thought, staring at the sardonic smile that mocked him from across the table.
More than crush him. Kill him.

I underestimated Kylie.
I figured she'd spend the entire day second-guessing her decision to put off rescuing Spence, but I was wrong. She was pleasant, productive, and we breezed through our shift.

First we met with Howard Sykes. “I had a long talk with Phil Landsberg, the CEO at Hudson,” he said. “Needless to say, he's not jumping up and down at the thought of his hospital being the target of the next robbery, but he finally caved. I'd like to tell you that it was my four decades as an advertising genius that won him over, but it wasn't.”

“So now you owe him,” I said.

Sykes frowned. “Actually, Muriel owes him. I just have to break the news to her that she'll be the guest of honor at their next fund-raiser,” he said. “I've done my part. What's next?”

“We do ours,” Kylie said. “A mammogram machine that is 40 percent more effective at detecting breast cancer is newsworthy. We'll have our PIO reach out to the media to spread the word. Then we'll meet with ESU and the head of security at Hudson to work out the logistics. Do you want us to keep you in the loop as we go along?”

“Nobody likes a micromanager,” Sykes said. “You don't have to report back to me till you've got those people locked up. But before I bow out, I have one message to pass on to the two of you from Phil Landsberg. He said, ‘You can let those bastards into my hospital, but whatever you do, don't let them out.'”

By four p.m. the plan was in full swing. All we needed was for the gang to take the bait and move Hudson to the top of their hit list. At six we left the office.

“Did you tell Cheryl where we're going tonight?” Kylie asked as we slogged through rush hour traffic on the FDR.

“Not exactly.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I told her you and I would be working late, but she didn't ask me for the details, so I didn't volunteer. Plus she's going out to dinner and the theater with her mom, so she won't be home until eleven. If we're lucky, I'll be back by then.”

Traffic opened up after 34th, and we got to the Downtown Manhattan Heliport by 6:35. Rodrigo was waiting for us in the VIP lounge.

“When we get to the hotel, go to the front desk and ask for your key,” he said. “Just say ‘Mrs. Harrington, room 1178.' Your name is in the computer.”

“I don't have an ID with my married name,” Kylie said.

“Don't worry. They won't ask,” Rodrigo said. “It gets pretty noisy once we're in the air. Any more questions?”

“Just one,” Kylie said. “I've had my IT people monitor Spence's credit cards, but so far we haven't gotten a hit. How did he check into the Borgata?”

“Corporate card. Silvercup Studios.” Rodrigo was not the chatty type. “We good?” he asked, signaling an end to the conversation.

Kylie nodded, and he led us across the tarmac to a waiting Sikorsky S-76C. According to the brochure tucked in our seat pockets, the Borgata was the biggest hotel in Jersey, with a 161,000-square-foot casino, a 54,000-square-foot spa, and a 2,400-seat event center.

“Spence should be easy to find,” Kylie said. “He'll be holed up in his room.”

Thirty-seven minutes after liftoff we set down on the Steel Pier in Atlantic City. A car was waiting to drive us the two miles to the Borgata. Q had covered all the bases.

Walking into the main entrance of the hotel, my senses were bombarded by the over-the-top grandeur of the decor and the nerve-jangling flashing lights and clanging bells of the slot machines.

There were three clerks at the reception desk. “The one on the left,” Rodrigo directed.

Kylie walked up to him, said a few words, and the clerk responded with a broad smile and a flat plastic room key.

“Smooth as silk,” Rodrigo said as the three of us walked toward the elevator.

There was a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on Spence's door. Kylie looked at me and silently mouthed two words:
Thank you.
Then she took the key card, slid it into the lock, and pulled it out. A green light flashed, and she pushed the door open hard.

Spence, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a single sock, was lying on the carpet, faceup, a trail of wet vomit trickling from the side of his mouth.

His drug kit had spilled onto the floor, and an empty syringe was only inches from his motionless body.

The number of
heroin overdose deaths among young white males has skyrocketed in recent years, and from the looks of him, Spence Harrington was well on his way to becoming the latest statistic.

His lips had a blue tinge, his pupils were black pinholes, and the ominous death rattle that came from the back of his throat was a sure sign that his respiratory system was shutting down permanently.

Kylie dropped to her knees and tried to breathe for him, but he was unresponsive. “Narcan!” she yelled. “My bag.”

I grabbed her black leather handbag, turned it upside down, and everything poured out: money, makeup, tampons, keys, and then a small blue pouch with large white letters printed on it.

In the war against drugs, Narcan—naloxone hydrochloride—is saving lives one junkie at a time. Normally it's issued to 911 responders, but Kylie had had the presence of mind to grab a kit at the station before we left.

I tilted Spence's head back while she loaded the syringe, inserted one end into Spence's nostril, and sprayed half the liquid up his nose. Then she switched to the other nostril, gave another short, vigorous push on the plunger, and shot the rest of the naloxone toward his brain receptors.

It worked instantly, and Spence bolted up, coughing, cursing, and fighting us off. There was no gratitude, just anger—the addict's natural reaction when you screw up his high.

“Rodrigo,” Kylie said, “this stuff wears off in less than an hour. We've got to get him to a hospital.”

“I'm already on it, boss,” he said, cell phone to his ear. He swept his hand across the room. “This is nasty shit to leave for the chambermaid.”

Kylie grabbed Spence's overnight bag from the closet and began picking up the drug paraphernalia.

I bent down to give her a hand.

“Don't!” she said.

I backed off. She was destroying evidence at a crime scene, and she didn't want me to help. “But you can put my stuff back in my bag,” she said.

There was a loud knock at the door.

“Housekeeping,” a deep male voice said.

Rodrigo opened the door, and three stone-faced men in dark suits entered, one pushing a wheelchair. Without a word, two of them lifted Spence up off the floor, plopped him down in the chair, and seat-belted him in tight.

I retrieved Kylie's belongings while the extraction team helped her scoop up Spence's shoes, pants, and whatever might connect him to the makeshift drug den. Less than thirty seconds after they arrived, they ushered us out the door. Dark Suits One and Two led the way down the long corridor, followed by the man pushing the wheelchair, then Kylie, then me. Rodrigo brought up the rear.

Spence was ranting about his rights, but none of the suits cared enough to shut him up. A young couple passed us in the hallway and barely looked at us. I got the feeling that seeing a phalanx of people remove a crazy man from an Atlantic City hotel was not all that unusual.

The entire operation was perfectly choreographed: service elevator to an underground garage to an unmarked van for the two-mile drive to AtlantiCare Regional Medical Center. As soon as they handed Spence over to the ER docs, the rescue team from housekeeping disappeared, and Rodrigo escorted us to a VIP waiting room.

Forty-five minutes later, a bleary-eyed young resident walked in and said, “Harrington.”

Kylie stood up. “How is he?”

“Lucky to be alive,” the doc said, his tone clearly unsympathetic to those who clutter up his ER with self-inflicted wounds. “He has bilateral pneumonia. His lungs were compromised by the vomit he aspirated, so we're keeping him on an IV antibiotic drip for the next seventy-two hours.”

“But he'll be okay,” Kylie said, looking for reassurance.

The doctor shrugged. “This time around.”

“Can I see him?”

“He said he'd rather not have any visitors.”

Kylie flashed her shield. “I'm a cop. He's a junkie. Take me to his room.”

Spence was in
bed, staring at the ceiling, when Kylie and I entered. “Congratulations. You found me,” he said, not turning his head to look at us. “What do you want?”

“I don't know,” Kylie said, almost playfully. “For starters, I thought I'd save your life.”

“Who asked you? I left New York to get away from you trying to save my life. Leave me alone, Kylie.”

“Honey,” she said, doing her best to stay composed, “I'm just trying to help you get through this.”

He twisted his body so he could look at her. “
Help?
Is that what you call it when you kick my friend in the balls? Get it through your stubborn
I'm-a-rock-star-detective
brain, Kylie. You can't help me. I'm an addict. I tried rehab, and it didn't take.”

“Bullshit!” she yelled, giving up the tolerant, empathetic wife charade that has never been her style. “You were clean and sober for eleven years. You can do it again.”

“Don't you get it?” he yelled back, thumping his fist on the mattress. “I don't
want
to do it again. I'm a junkie, and I'm back in full-blown junkie mode. I need the high. I want the high. I don't want to do anything except get high, and all you want to do is preach the same program bullshit. It doesn't help, so unless you're here to arrest me, get out and stop trying to save me. If I want to kill myself, that's my business.”

“You want to kill yourself, asshole?” Kylie said, spitting out the words in a low growl. She reached into her holster, pulled out her gun, and shoved it at him, butt first. “Go ahead. Blow your brains out right here and spare me the agony of another long ride in the back of a police van to identify your body.”

Spence turned his head and looked away.

“Not ready yet?” Kylie said. “Call me when you are. I'll keep it loaded.” She holstered her gun and stormed out the door.

“Don't go,” Spence said.

“Too late,” I said.

“I mean you, Zach,” he said, rolling over and sitting up. “What the hell did she mean about identifying my body?”

“Your buddy Marco went up to the Bronx last night with a wallet full of money,” I said. “Your wallet.”

“So I lent a friend some money. Since when is that a crime?”

“You didn't
lend
him anything, Spence. You sent him on a drug run to a war zone and gave him enough cash to make him a target. It worked. Somebody put a bullet through his head. And since he had your ID in his pocket, your wife spent a couple of hours thinking it was you. She doesn't want to go through it again. And neither do I.”

Spence didn't say a word.

“You're right about one thing,” I said. “Kylie can't help you. I don't think you even want help. But just in case you ever feel like you do, hang on to this number.”

I took a piece of paper out of my pocket.

He looked at me in disgust. “I already have your number, Zach. Don't hold your breath waiting for the phone to ring.”

Kylie opened the door. “Cates called. We have to roll. Now!”

I handed him the number. “Good luck,” I said, and left the room wondering if I'd ever see him alive again.

“I didn't tell Cates where we were,” Kylie said as we double-timed our way down the hallway. “I just told her we're on our way to the scene.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Another hospital robbery.”

“If only,” she said. “It's a double homicide, and it's got Cates climbing the walls.”

“And she called
us
in on it?” I said. “She knows we're already stretched six ways to Sunday. Why would she dump two more bodies on us?”

“Probably because these two have our names written all over them.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“No positive ID, but they're lying on the kitchen floor of the Bassett brothers' loft building.”