NYPD Red 2(2)

“Damn,” I said as she rode past us.

“Is that your missing muckety-muck?” Bell asked.

“Yeah. Her name is Evelyn Parker-Steele.”

Both cops gave me a never-heard-of-her look.

“Her father is Leonard Parker,” I said. “He owns about a thousand movie theaters across the country. Her brother is Damon Parker—”

“The TV news guy?” Casey said.

“The bio I have on him says he’s a world-renowned broadcasting journalist,” I said, “but sure—I can go with TV news guy. And her husband is Jason Steele the Third, as in Steele Hotels and Casinos.”

“Holy shit,” Casey said to Bell. “We stumbled onto the First Lady of rich chicks.”

“She’s a lot more than that. She’s a high-paid political operative who is currently the campaign manager for Muriel Sykes, the woman who is running for mayor against our beloved Mayor Spellman.”

“Rich, famous, connected,” Bell said. “Six ways to Sunday, this is a case for Red. I guess we better get out of here before we blow our cover. Good luck, Detective.”

“Hang on,” I said. “My partner is running late, and I could use your help feeling out the crowd.”

Casey instinctively looked over his shoulder at the deserted park.

“They’re not here yet,” I said, “but they’ll come. The media, the gawkers, people in a hurry to get to work but who can always make time to stop and stare at a train wreck, and, if we’re lucky, the killer. Sometimes they like to come back to see how we’re reacting to their handiwork. You mind helping me out?”

The two cops looked at each other and grinned like a couple of kids who just found out school was closed for a snow day.

“Do we mind helping Red on a major homicide?” Bell said. “Are you serious? What do you want us to do?”

“Throw on some clean clothes, get rid of the smell, then hang out and keep your eyes and ears open.”

“We’ll be cleaned up in ten,” Bell said, and they took off.

The calliope music was driving me crazy, and I walked far enough away from the carousel so I could hear myself think. Then I dialed my partner, Kylie MacDonald. For the third time that morning, it went straight to voice mail.

“Damn it, Kylie,” I said. “It’s six forty-seven Monday morning. I’m seventeen minutes into a really bad week, and if I haven’t told you lately, there’s nobody I’d rather have a bad week with than you.”





Chapter 2



I finally got a text from Kylie: Running late. Be there ASAP.

Not ASAP enough, because she was still among the missing when Chuck Dryden, our crime scene investigator, let me know he was ready to give me his initial observations.

They call him Cut And Dryden because he’s not big on small talk, but he’s the most meticulous, painstaking, anal-retentive CSI guy I know, so I was happy to have him on the case.

“COD appears to be asphyxiation. TOD between one and three a.m.,” he said, rattling off his findings without any foreplay. “There is evidence that the victim’s mouth had been duct-taped, and the marks on her wrists indicate she was handcuffed or otherwise restrained.”

“Talk to me about the jumpsuit,” I said.

Dryden peered at me over rimless glasses, a small reprimand to let me know that I had jumped the gun and he wasn’t ready for Q&A. He cleared his throat and went on. “The inside of the victim’s mouth is lacerated, her tongue and the roof of her mouth are bruised, some of her teeth have recently been chipped or broken, she has fresh cuts on her lips, and her jaw has been dislocated. It would appear she was tortured for several days pre-mortem. Indications are that death occurred elsewhere, and she was transported here.” He paused. “Now, did you have a question, Detective?”

“Yeah. Love that little white frock she’s wearing. Who’s her designer?”

“Tyvek coveralls,” he said, not even cracking a smile. “Manufactured by DuPont.”

“So we’re looking at the Hazmat Killer,” I said.

Dryden rolled his eyes. A different shade of reprimand. “What a God-awful name to call a killer of this caliber,” he said.

“Don’t blame me,” I said. “That’s what the tabloids are calling him.”

“Totally unimaginative journalism,” he said, shaking his head. “This is the fourth victim. All kidnapped, all dressed alike, and all bearing this oddly curious pattern of facial injuries. A few hours after the body is found, a video goes viral on the Internet where the victim confesses to a heinous crime of his or her own—and the best the New York press can come up with is the Hazmat Killer?”