NYPD Red(37)

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered with every thrust.

“Shhh, shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t talk.”

It was powerful, raw; it was pure, primal, postmurder adrenaline sex. It was what he needed. What they both needed.

Lexi’s orgasms had always had their own sound track, and he held back until he heard the first familiar muted moan. Her pitch grew louder and more frenzied, and he finally let go, stifling his own screams as he climaxed in waves.

Eyes glazed, she slumped into his arms, and he carried her to the bedroom. They stripped off the rest of their clothes and made love, slowly, gently, without apologies.

When it was over, Lexi clutched a pillow to her chest and curled up in a fetal position. Gabe wrapped his body around hers and pulled the sheet over them.

The money, he thought.

The wads of hundreds were still stuffed into the pocket of his windbreaker. He had no idea how much there was.

It could wait.





Chapter 41



“DRIVING LIKE A maniac isn’t going to make our murder victim any less dead,” Kylie said as I drove balls out through the Central Park–65th Street transverse.

“I know,” I said, not slowing down. “I think it’s like getting addicted to a bad soap opera. I want to know what happens in the next episode.”

“So do I, but not enough to die in crosstown traffic. And for the record, ‘bad soap opera’ is redundant.”

We made it to West 62nd in under five minutes. There was a squad car from the 20th Precinct parked alongside the production trailer. A uniformed cop, Frank Rankin, was waiting for us outside the trailer.

“My partner and I got here two minutes ago,” he said. “The permit on the trailer says they’re part of the movie company that’s shooting at Fordham. The victim, according to the guy who called it in, is Jimmy Fitzhugh.”

“Did you or your partner go inside the trailer?”

“I did, but not too far. I didn’t want to contaminate the scene, but I wanted to make sure he was dead.”

“And?”

“Gunshot wound to the chest at close range. The Crime Scene Unit isn’t here yet to make the call, but I know dead, and this guy definitely is. There’s also a safe in there—door wide open. I didn’t check it out, but I figure if the door is open, whatever was in it is gone.”

“Who called 911?” Kylie asked.

“His name is Michael Jackman. Said he’s the assistant director. He didn’t see or hear anything. He came over for a meeting with the victim and found the body. He’s sitting in the back of our unit with my partner.”

“Keep him there,” I said. “We’re going to take a look at the scene.”

Fitzhugh was slumped in a desk chair, his gray T-shirt stained dark brown from the collar to the waist. There was a fresh bloody gash on his right cheek.

“Pistol-whipped,” Kylie said.

I shined a light inside the open safe. “The uni called it on the safe. It’s empty.”

“Except for the movie connection, this doesn’t feel like any of the other homicides,” she said.

“I had the same gut reaction,” I said. “The other three murders were planned out, artful almost. This just looks like a robbery gone bad. Vic working at his desk, perp walks in and says open the safe. Fitzhugh says no; perp gives him a convincer with the gun butt. Fitzhugh opens it, and the perp pockets the cash.”

“That’s a robbery gone good,” Kylie said. “If the perp got the money, why did he shoot Fitzhugh? Why up the ante from robbery to murder?”

“Fitzhugh recognized him,” I said.

“There’s only one hiccup, Zach. The man we’re looking for is a master of disguise. We have him on video, and we can’t even ID him.”

“So if it’s impossible to recognize this guy,” I said, “why’d he pop Fitzhugh?”

“That’s the question I just asked you.”

“In that case, it’s unanimous,” I said. “We’re both clueless.”

We backed out of the trailer and walked over to the squad car where Rankin’s partner, Robin Gallagher, was waiting for us.

“Mike Jackman, the guy who found the body, is all shook up,” she said. “He not only worked with the victim, he’s his brother-in-law.”

“Did he say anything worth repeating?” Kylie asked.

“‘Who’s going to tell my sister and the kids?’” Gallagher said. “Which you kind of expect. And one other thing which you wouldn’t.”

“What’s that?” I said.

“‘Fucking Levinson.’ He said it maybe half a dozen times.”