NYPD Red(81)

When I finally got to the spot where I saw her hit the water, I dove down. It was dark and murky, and the best I could do was search frantically by sweeping my arms in front of me. After a minute, I shot up, gulped down some air, called her name again, and looked in every direction.

Nothing.

And then something broke the surface. A shoe. I dove back underwater and swam toward it. Ten feet. Twenty feet. I had lost all sense of direction. I no longer knew where I was or where Kylie had gone down.

Then I saw it. Swirling in the black water were strands of gold. Blond hair.

I kicked so hard I collided with her, then I grabbed her and pushed my way to the top. I sucked in some air, pressed my mouth to her mouth, and forced whatever oxygen I had in my lungs into hers.

She threw her head back and let out a loud gasp. I held on to her as she coughed up most of the water she had gulped down.

“Breathe,” I said.

She breathed.

“Just keep breathing. Don’t try to talk.”

She talked. “What happened?” she said.

“I saved your life. Second time today.”

“No, with Benoit.

“You blew him out of the water into bite-size chunks.”

“I was only trying to stun him.”

“He must’ve had a pocket full of C4. You couldn’t light it up with a bazooka, but if he had it primed with a blasting cap, all it took was one good Tase.”

I could hear the sirens. Then I saw them coming at us from all angles—Harbor Patrol, fireboats, Coast Guard, and at the front of the pack, Jim Rothlein in the Kristina.

The last traces of sun were disappearing into the water, and there in the distance, wrapped in a purple and pink New York City twilight, I could make out the Statue of Liberty.

“I guess this is how Benoit’s movie ends,” I said.

The water was cold, and Kylie, shivering, pressed her body as close to mine as she could get. “As they say in the biz,” she said, “‘fade to black.’”

I wrapped my arms around her, held her tight, and whispered in her ear, “Roll credits.”





EPILOGUE





END CREDITS





Chapter 96



NEW YORKERS LOVE a hero, and when they woke up Thursday morning, they had two new ones. Splashed across the front page of the Daily News was the headline “Dynamic Duo Foils Hollywood Killer.”

Below it was a picture of Spence Harrington in his hospital bed with Kylie sitting at his side.

The headline on page 3 said “Bomber Nails Producer. Producer’s Wife Nails Bomber.” The story was accompanied by a shot of Kylie in an evening gown and Spence in black tie which had been taken just a few days before at Radio City.

There was also an inset photo of me, my official department head shot, captioned “Kylie MacDonald-Harrington’s other partner, Detective Zachary Jordan.”

It was hard to believe. On Monday, I had woken up wondering if teaming up with Kylie MacDonald would be career suicide. By Thursday, she was a hero, and I had become the Other Guy.

I got to the office at 7:30, and Kylie was already there waiting for me.

“Zach, I’m mortified,” she said, holding the paper in her hand.

“Don’t be,” I said. “You took down Lexi, you took down Benoit, you deserve the glory.”

“But you and I are partners. We were in this together. You’ve been with NYPD Red three years. I’m here all of three days. I don’t know what the press was thinking when they spun the story the way they did.”

“They were thinking that you and Spence are a celebrity couple, and that a picture of the two of you on the front page would sell more newspapers than one of me sopping wet, dragging my ass off a police boat.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can have Spence call the studio publicist and have her get the press to clarify—”

I jumped in fast. “Absolutely not. I’m a cop. I don’t have a publicist, and I don’t want one.”

“Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” she said.

“Well, yeah, if you don’t mind,” I said.

“Anything.”

“I’d really be honored if you and Spence would autograph my copy of the Daily News.”

She punched me in the shoulder. “Asshole.”

“Speaking of Spence,” I said, “how is the other half of the Dynamic Duo this morning?”

“He’s on heavy doses of antibiotics, so they’re keeping him in the hospital for a couple more days, but the surgeon says he’ll be fine. He’ll need crutches for a while, but in about six months, it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

My phone rang. It was Cates.

“You and MacDonald,” she said. “My office. We have some unfinished business.”