NYPD Red 2(18)

Evelyn’s apartment was blandly tasteful and remarkably inoffensive. The walls, the furniture, and even the art were all varying shades of beige. The one thing that popped out was the sour-faced octogenarian in the black suit and red turtleneck sitting on a minimalist ecru sofa, a silver TV remote in one hand, a bright green can of Canada Dry ginger ale in the other.

“This is Evelyn’s father, Leonard Parker,” Sykes said, introducing us.

We did the usual sorry-for-your-loss routine. He thanked us but seemed more interested in the stock ticker crawling along the bottom of the TV screen.

“She’s not gay,” he said, looking up from the TV. “They tortured her into saying that. Evelyn and Jason were happy as a couple of newlyweds.”

He made no attempt to deny the fact that his daughter was a murderer—as long as we didn’t walk away thinking she was a homicidal lesbian. What a dad.

“You find this Hazmat bastard for me,” he said, forgetting that Kylie and I worked for the city and not him. “We’ll get the truth out of him. I have people.”

Sykes jumped in before he could spell out his revenge plot. “Leonard,” she said, “this is all very stressful. I desperately need a cigarette.”

He looked at her as though she’d said she was about to pee on the carpet. “Not in here,” he said. “I have to sell this place. Buyers will smell that shit from the lobby. Take it outside.”

Sykes walked us over to a sliding glass door and opened it.

This was the famous terrace where Cynthia Pritchard had spent her final moments. Because it had belonged to a wealthy woman, I had always pictured it as a spacious yard in the sky filled with expensive Frontgate patio furniture and lush vegetation. This wasn’t that.

This was a balcony. Just another one of those small shelves you see hanging off high-rise buildings where storage-starved city dwellers cram their bikes, rusted-out hibachi grills, and other crap they don’t want inside.

There was no place to sit, and we stood there waiting for Sykes to light up a Capri, one of those ultralong, ultraslim cigarettes preferred by women who want to look sophisticated while they inhale nicotine-infused carcinogens.

“No photos, please,” she said after taking a drag. “It’s bad for my image.”

“Tell us about the break-in,” Kylie said.

“All they took was a couple of computers,” Sykes said. “I’m sure it was Spellman’s people. You know politics. You’d think people would have learned something from Watergate, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I guess the mayor will do anything to save his ass.”

“Did you report the theft?” Kylie said.

“Someone from my staff called it in.”

“Then why are you here instead of at campaign headquarters?” Kylie asked.

“Leonard is a dear friend. He’s trying to cope with his grief, and he asked if we could spend some time here alone. He’s a crusty old codger, but Evelyn was his only daughter, and he adored her. I think he wanted to have a quiet moment to commune with her.”

All politicians are full of shit. Muriel was fuller than most. From what I could see, her dear friend Leonard was more concerned about her cigarette smoke lowering property values.

“Did you take anything from the apartment?” I asked.

“Detective,” she said, “that borders on insulting. You do know I was a former U.S. attorney? Taking anything from this apartment could be considered a criminal act—at the very least, it might be considered obstruction of justice. The answer is an unequivocal no.”

“I apologize,” I said. “Typical cop question.”

“Except you’re not a typical cop—neither of you are. You people at Red are trained to deal with high-profile situations like this one. You were front-page heroes a few months ago. I expect you to think twice before you ask me any more stupid questions.”

The best defense is a strong offense, and Muriel Sykes had just pummeled us.

“Now where are you on Evelyn’s murder?” she said.

“We wanted to go through her computer,” I said. “Does she have a laptop here?”

“I have no idea. If she does, I can assure you that neither Leonard nor I touched it.”

And if there were any lesbian porn lying around, I’m sure you and Leonard didn’t get rid of that either.

“Do we need a search warrant, or can we look around?” I asked.

“Of course. I’m here to help,” she said, turning on the warm, grandmotherly smile that graced all her campaign posters. But from the neck down, her six-foot body was steeled for battle. As one columnist put it, “Sykes is a political enigma. You’re never sure if she plans to beat the daylights out of you or bake you cookies.”