“Two suspects?” Boyle said.
“You sure?” Donovan said. “We’ve been looking for one.”
“And we also have another witness who saw Alex Kang get into a car with two guys,” I said.
They both looked bowled over.
“Son of a bitch,” Donovan said. “You got lucky. We couldn’t find a witness for shit in Chinatown. What kind of car?”
“A black SUV. No make, no model,” I said.
“How about the two men?” Donovan said. “You get a description on them?”
“Just two average white guys like you and me,” I said.
“How about O’Keefe? Anything on her?”
“Two guys took her, so the Post may be right. It’s probably the Hazmat team.”
“You closing in on them?”
“Not closing in,” I said, “but getting closer. We just got some fresh evidence.”
“Fresh evidence like what?” Donovan asked.
“The two who took O’Keefe left a trail. We’re on it, but that’s all we can tell you right now.”
Boyle nodded. “Hey, I know we didn’t get off on the right foot, but if you’re closing in on these guys, you’re gonna need backup, right?”
“Probably,” Kylie said.
Boyle shrugged. He knew that “probably” was as much of a commitment as he was going to get.
“Hey, man, you’ve got our cell phones,” he said. “Call anytime.”
Chapter 60
Donovan and Boyle got on the elevator, and Kylie and I waited quietly as they rode to the ground floor.
“I didn’t trust those two when they were trying to undermine us,” she said as the elevator doors opened with a loud clunk that reverbed up the shaft. “I trust them even less now that they want to help.”
“Technically, I think only Boyle wants to help,” I said. “Donovan would probably be happier finding us stuffed into a couple of Hazmat suits. I can’t believe they pulled a good cop/bad cop routine on us.”
“I’m still trying to figure out if they’re smart cops or stupid cops,” she said.
“I vote stupid.”
“We came up with more leads in three days than those bozos did in four months,” she said, “so on the surface they come off as pretty lame.”
“And you think there’s something below the surface?”
“Let’s just say Cheryl is right, and we’re looking for real cops. If Donovan and Boyle are the doers, then they managed to set themselves up as lead detectives by committing the first murder in their jurisdiction. That’s not just smart, it’s brilliant.”
“How do you explain the fact that they showed up tonight to pump us for details on the case? Don’t they know that’s the fastest way to move to the top of the suspect list? Sounds pretty dumb to me.”
“It’s only dumb if they know we’re looking for dirty cops,” she said. “Right now there are only four people who know we’re thinking that the killers are NYPD. You, me, Cheryl, and Cates. These guys may be a lot smarter than they act. I think they threw a shit fit when we grabbed the case away from them, and they did everything they could not to help us. Then they realized that freezing us out freezes them out. So they decided that offering to be our backup is the best way to stay in the loop and keep tabs on the investigation.”
“I don’t care if they’re dumb or smart. If they’re keeping tabs on us, maybe we should keep tabs on them.”
Kylie lit up. “Zachary Jordan, are you talking about tailing those guys?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think Captain Go-by-the-Book would approve of our putting a team on them?” she said.
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” I said.
“Probably no.”
“It doesn’t matter, because I’m not asking her. Right now I don’t give a damn what she says.”
“Listen to the straight arrow talking,” she said, giving me a big grin. “And I thought I was the only cop around here with a reputation for going off the reservation.”
Long before she showed up at Red, Kylie was notorious for breaking the rules any time she felt they were working against her. And although the brass frowns on rogue cops, she always got the job done, so they always looked the other way. Donovan and Boyle smelled rotten, and I was ready to nail them—chain of command be damned.
“You heard the mayor this afternoon,” I said. “Whatever we fucking have to do ‘damn well better happen before Election Day.’ Did that seem like a casual comment?”
“Hell, no. It sounded like a direct order from the top of the food chain. I love the way you think,” she said. “Way to go, partner.”
She picked up her desk phone and dialed. “Hello, it’s Kylie. Oh man, I’m so glad you’re still there. Can I swing by?”
Whatever the response was, it made her laugh. “Great. I’ll pop round in a minute.”
She bolted for the door.
“You mind telling me where you’re going?” I said.
“Matt Smith’s office. I’ll be back in five.”
And with that she was gone.
I just sat there fuming, as though the girl I’d brought to the dance went home with someone else.
Matt Smith? Way to go, partner.
Chapter 61
Joe Salvi stared at the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove. His mother would have dumped it in the garbage before she would have fed it to Papa. Then his eyes shifted to the woman who had just served it to him.
Teresa was standing at the kitchen counter, opening another bottle of wine. She stopped to kick off her eight-hundred-dollar five-inch heels. Good idea, Teresa. A lady doesn’t want to fall on her ass when she’s swilling down her second two-hundred-dollar bottle of Bruno Giacosa Barolo.
Forty-one years ago she had been the perfect wife, delivering on all three of the only characteristics his mother told him were important. Good in the kitchen, great in the bedroom, and Catholic.
Mama was gone now. And so was Teresa. They still shared a bedroom, but the sex was no longer spectacular. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t any good. Like the sauce.
She had drifted away slowly. She said it was because he was so wrapped up in his work.
His work? What did she think paid for all this? The house? The cars? The clothes? The jewelry? The charities? She gave his money away to whoever had a hand out, and they put her on a pedestal. Fine, if that’s what she needed. But where did she think the money came from? It came from his work.
“Did I tell you she’s remarried now?” Teresa said.
She had been droning on, but he had tuned her out.
“Yes, you told me,” he said. Twice.
“She’s so happy. She married the teacher from John Adams, and now they run their little flower shop together,” Teresa said. “Her husband dies, and two years later another man is sleeping in his bed. Tramp.”
She refilled her wineglass, staring him down as she poured from the new bottle, challenging him to say something about how much she was drinking.
“And she’s so proud of her precious little pig cop son saving the world,” Teresa said. “I’m glad, because it only means that when I get finished with him, it’s going to hurt all the more.”
He laughed. “When you get finished with him? Who died and left you boss?”
“Enzo died. That’s who died. I’ve been waiting twelve years for payback, and now I’m going to get it.”
“You going to take on the police department?” he said. “You going to go whack a cop?”
“Two cops,” Teresa told him. “The other one whose name was in Enzo’s collection book. The friend Dave. You always said it would take more than one to kill Enzo. You thought it was the blacks from Ozone Park, but it was those Mick bastards.”
She gulped down half the wine in her glass. “Those people were our neighbors. We threw parties for them. We fed them. And this is how they show their respect? We welcomed them with open arms, and they turned around and stabbed us in the heart. Judas has been sitting at our ta
ble, Joe. Judas.”
Salvi held up a hand. He hadn’t seen her this bad since Enzo’s funeral. “All right, Teresa, enough. I’ll handle it.”
“When?”
He stood up. “Now. I have a lieutenant who owes me a favor. He’ll find out where these two cops work.”
“And then what?”
“How should I know? Let me find them first. Give me some room to think.”
“Don’t think. Act. If not for me, then do it for your mother. Remember what she promised Enzo when she threw herself on his casket. La famiglia fornirà giustizia. An eye for an eye.”
She lurched toward the counter, grabbed the bottle, and staggered out of the room.
Salvi took out his cell phone and called Bernice. “I’m coming over,” he said.
That was all he had to say. He hung up and went to the closet for a coat.
Bernice worked for his accountant. Forty years old and never been married. Not pretty. Just a nice quiet Jewish girl who turned out to be a tigress in the sack. They’d been at it for seven years, and the woman never asked for anything. He gave her gifts, and she would say, “Thank you, Joe. You really shouldn’t have.” But there were no demands.
The sex was incredible. And on top of it all, she was a damn good cook.
Mama would have hated her.
She wasn’t Catholic.
Chapter 62
Kylie has always had a knack for infuriating me. Tonight was no exception. Twenty minutes had passed since she’d yelled “I’ll be back in five” and bolted out the door to talk to Matt Smith. No explanation. No invitation for me to come along. Just her signature I’m-in-charge-you-wait-here-for-further-instructions attitude.
I was working up a seriously unhealthy resentment when my cell rang. It was Cheryl. My slow burn dissolved into a warm glow, and I picked up the phone.
“Hey,” I said, “you’re not only beautiful and intelligent, you’re also clairvoyant. How did you know I was in desperate need of a shrink?”
“And how did you know I was in desperate need of someone to tell me I was beautiful and intelligent? In real life, I’m sprawled on the sofa in my sweats, drinking wine, munching popcorn, about to subject my superior intellect to a movie I’ve already seen seven times.”
“Pretty Woman with Richard Gere and Julia Roberts?”
“You know me well, Zachary. So why do you need a shrink?”
“Because I’m sitting here gathering dust while Wonder Woman toddles off to solve the biggest case of my career on her own.”
“It’s a tough time for Kylie,” Cheryl said. “From what you’ve told me, her personal life is off the rails. Her job is the one thing she can control.”
“Great. Except that her job is my job. I’m her partner.”
“Then cut her some slack, partner.”
“Is that your professional take on it? You want me to cut her some slack? I thought you’d be on my side.”
“Professionals don’t take sides. Come on, Zach—you’ve had some rough patches, and Kylie has always been there for you. Don’t take it personally—she’s not trying to cut you out. Diving into work helps distract her from her problem with Spence. Eventually, they’ll iron it out, and you two will find your balance again.”
“What am I supposed to do until then?”
“In the words of my illustrious colleague,” she said, “suck it up, dude.”
“And who said that? Dr. Freud?”
“Dr. Phil.”
“Okay, you’ve successfully restored my mental health,” I said. “Enjoy your wine, your popcorn, and your girlie movie. It sounds like you’ve planned an evening to remember.”
“It’s only missing one thing,” she said seductively.
Now I really felt restored. “Me?”
“Actually, I was thinking Richard Gere to take me shopping on Rodeo Drive, but sure—you’ll do. Are you available?”
“Not immediately, but it’s hard to turn down free wine and popcorn. Keep a light on for me. I’ll be there in about two hours.”
“The movie will be over in two hours,” she said.
“You’re a professional—I’m sure you’ll find a way to help me cope.”
Kylie walked through the door.
“Gotta go,” I said. “Detective MacDonald has returned from her quest.”
“Don’t get snarky,” Cheryl said. “Be nice to her.”
“I will, I will, I promise,” I said. “See you later. I blank you.”
“I blank you too,” she said, and hung up.
We still hadn’t zeroed in on the best way to end a phone call. Neither of us was quite ready for I love you, but after three months, who were we kidding?
Kylie was grinning like a prospector who had just struck a mother lode.
“You’re glowing in triumph,” I said. “What have you got?”
“You were right on the money when you said let’s tail Donovan and Boyle. Matt searched the DMV database to find out what kind of cars they each drive.”
“And you wouldn’t be this excited unless one of them owns an SUV.”
“Detective David Donovan,” she said. “A 2011 Toyota Highlander, and it is black as the hills of South Dakota.”
“That’s encouraging, but guaranteed he’s not the only cop whose car fits the description.”
“I know. Matt gave me the usual blah, blah, blah warning—don’t jump to conclusions because there are two million vehicles registered in the five boroughs, and 15,811 of them are black SUVs. But still, if we’re going to stick our necks out, it helps that Dave Donovan owns a car that matches the one used in the kidnappings.”
“So now what?” I said.
“I agree with you that we can’t ask Cates if we can tail two detectives on a hunch. Even if she says yes, it would create a paper trail, and if we’re wrong, she’ll look like an idiot along with the two of us.”
“So we tail them without telling her,” I said.
“Not ‘we.’ We have too much on our plate as it is. We need to recruit someone.”
“You have anybody in mind?”
“I have a couple of thoughts,” she said. “How about you?”
I’d had twenty minutes to think about it before Cheryl called, and I did have somebody I thought could tail them and keep it under wraps. I told her.
“Perfect choice,” she said.
“Really? No counterproposal?”
“I know you have trouble taking yes for an answer, but I’m in violent agreement with you. Let’s call their boss and see if they’re available.”
“We didn’t call our boss. Are you really sure we want to call theirs? I mean, why start going by the book now? Let’s just call them direct. More Red, less red tape.”
“An unauthorized tail,” she said. “I’m proud of you, cowboy. You’re finally learning how to bend a couple of rules.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s because working with you is pretty much like taking a master class.”
Chapter 63
When I was fifteen, my mother got a regular gig doing makeup on Guiding Light. Every day I would stop by after school so I could pig out on the never-ending buffet of snacks that are always on hand for the crew.
It wasn’t long before I realized that I was racing to the studio every afternoon because I was more interested in the twisted lives of the characters on the show than the junk food on the craft services table.
I was hooked on a soap opera—not an easy realization for a teenage boy to come to grips with, and I was sure there was something wrong with me.
Mom assured me that I was perfectly normal. “We all love getting caught up in other people’s problems,” she said. “It’s human nature.”
I can’t speak for the rest of humanity, but it sure as hell is my nature. Which is why as soon as Kylie said good night and hopped a cab uptown to Shelley’s apartment, I hopped one going downtown and headed for hers.
Spence had been released from the hospital that evening, and I decided this wa
s the perfect time to have a little heart-to-heart with him. I didn’t tell Cheryl where I was going because she had already weighed in on the subject last night.
“Stay out of it,” she’d said. “The man is an addict, and unless you know what you’re doing, stay away. It would be like sending a traffic cop to handle a hostage negotiation situation.”
Had we been at the office when she’d said it, I’d have argued with her. But we’d been in bed at the time, and I was still wrapped in the afterglow of postcoital bliss. Not the ideal moment to get into a discussion with my psychologist girlfriend about whether or not I was qualified to get involved in my former girlfriend’s marital problems. Or why I even wanted to, which was a question I hadn’t quite answered for myself. So I’d just whispered, “You’re right.”
But deep down, I knew Cheryl was wrong. I wasn’t exactly a traffic cop.
Kylie and Spence lived in lower Manhattan in an eight-story factory that had been converted to eight incredible lofts with spectacular views of the Hudson River. There was no doorman—just a pair of thick glass doors and a wall-mounted video security system. I rang up.
“Zach?” Spence squawked over the intercom. “Kylie’s not here.”
“I know. I wanted to talk to you. You mind if I come up?”
“It’s late, man. What do you want to talk about?”
The evils of drug addiction, but I was hoping we could have a beer and some guy talk before I jumped into it.
Clearly he wasn’t buzzing me in. I had to make my pitch from the lobby.
I took a deep breath. “Look, Spence,” I said, “Kylie told me what’s going on. I know you’ve been having a few issues with the painkillers…”
“Oh, Jesus,” he groaned. “So my wife asked you to take a break from chasing serial killers and start working narcotics?”
“She doesn’t even know I’m here. This is personal—just between you and me.”
“Personal? Bro, you’re Kylie’s friend, not mine.”
“You’re right, I’m not your friend, Spence. I’m just a casual acquaintance who risked his fucking life to save yours.”