NYPD Red(25)

The Chameleon knew all the great movie motorcycle scenes—Schwarzenegger on the Harley Fat Boy in Terminator 2, McQueen on the Triumph TR6 in The Great Escape, and now yours truly on the Kawasaki Ninja.

He jumped on the cow, pinned the throttle, and peeled out. Most of the cops had moved to the inside of the barricade to try to control the freaked-out civilians, so it was clear sailing as he tore down Sixth Avenue.

He didn’t have much time. It was only a matter of seconds before they locked up Midtown, river to river.

At 48th Street he stood up, took his weight off the front wheel, and headed for the one place they wouldn’t think to seal off.

Underground.

He pointed the bike at the entrance to the D train and barreled down the stairs.

Most subway stations would be a dead end, but the Rockefeller family had been thoughtful enough to build a twenty-acre concourse underneath their vast complex of skyscrapers. Lined with shops, restaurants, and art galleries, it connected all the office buildings from Fifth Avenue to Sixth, from 48th Street to 51st.

It was a magnet for tourists, a year-round temperature-controlled transportation hub for commuters, and of course an ingenious escape route for a man on a motorcycle trying to outwit the police.

There were no cops down here. Just wide-eyed sightseers who smiled when they saw the Kawasaki cruising slowly along the marble corridors, and jaded New Yorkers who clearly didn’t give a shit.





INT. UNDERGROUND CONCOURSE AT ROCKEFELLER CENTER—NIGHT


The Chameleon pulls the bike into a blind corner behind Value Drugs and covers it with a tarp. They’ll find it eventually, but there’s no way to trace it back to him. The plates are stolen, and the ID numbers have been acid-washed off.

Next stop: the men’s room at Starbucks. He emerges two minutes later, a shaggy-haired college kid wearing Harry Potter glasses and a T-shirt that says SAVE THE PLANET. IT’S THE ONLY ONE WITH BEER.

He walks to the subway entrance, swipes his MetroCard, and steps out onto the platform just as a downtown D train pulls in. It’s crowded and he squeezes in with the rest of the straphangers—just another New Yorker headed home after a busy day.



It all went smoothly except for the train. It wasn’t pulling in when he got to the station. It never is. He walked casually toward the far end of the platform checking out his fellow travelers.

And then he saw her.

Hilary Swank.

Not the real Hilary. It was a poster for her latest film.

He walked up to it.

“Hey, Hilary,” he said. “Remember me? The jerk at the bar? Not anymore, baby.”

Not. Any. More.





Chapter 28



THE COMMAND CENTER was crammed to capacity, including Kylie, Cates, the commissioner, the mayor, and Irwin Diamond, the deputy mayor in charge of damage control.

“I invite half of Hollywood to visit the fine film production facilities of New York City,” His Honor said, “and on Day One we’ve got two dead and another one circling the drain? How is that possible?”

Like Reitzfeld had said earlier at Silvercup, shit floats up. The commissioner fielded the question. “This guy is good, sir. He’s a master of disguise, he knows how to blend in, he’s planned every killing, including his exit strategy, and he’s got balls the size of Brooklyn. We had a hundred cops looking for him, and he sweet-talked his way right into the middle of them, and rode out on a Kawasaki.”

“And in case you missed it on the West Coast, it’ll be on the news at eleven, and on YouTube forever.” The mayor pounded his fist on the console. “What’s his goddamn motive? Why is he doing this to us? To me?”

Kylie, never afraid to speak, spoke. “He works in the business, sir. He’s obviously got some kind of a grudge.”

“A grudge? No, Detective,” the mayor said. “A grudge you take to the union  . This guy is a madman, and his mission is to single-handedly put New York City out of the film business.” He turned to his deputy mayor. “Where do you net out on this shitstorm, Irwin?”

Diamond was much older than his boss. In fact, he was the oldest of all the mayor’s advisers. Those who knew him said he was also the wisest. And those who saw him in action said the calmest.

“Actually, Stan,” Diamond said, “I think Detective MacDonald is right. Whoever is doing this does have a grudge. If you don’t like the word ‘grudge,’ call it a ‘major hard-on.’ But he’s not angry at New York. He’s fed up with the entire fakakta Hollywood system. And there’s nobody he can bitch to because nobody did anything wrong to him. All they did was ignore him. Reject him. And now he’s getting revenge.”

Heads nodded. It made sense.