NYPD Red 2(3)

I shrugged. “It’s pretty descriptive.”

“And highly inaccurate,” he said. “Technically, it’s not even a Hazmat suit. It’s a pair of hundred-dollar Tyvek coveralls. What’s more intriguing is that in the three previous cases the bodies were all scrubbed down with ammonia, which makes it almost impossible to process any of the killer’s DNA, and that the Tyvek further prevents other traceable evidence from getting on the victim. At the crime lab, we call him the Sanitizer.”

A satisfied smile crossed his face, and I was pretty sure that he was the one who came up with the catchy handle.

“So you worked the first three cases?” I asked.

Dryden nodded. “The lead detectives are Donovan and Boyle from the Five.”

“The Five?” I repeated. “Chinatown?”

“The first victim was an Asian gangbanger,” he said. “The second body turned up in the One Four, and the third—a drug dealer—was dumped in Harlem, but Donovan and Boyle caught número uno, so they’ve stayed with the case. However, I imagine that Mrs. Parker-Steele, with her blue-blooded heritage, will go directly to the top of the homicide food chain, and she’ll be turned over to the Red unit.”

“Her blood may be blue,” I said, “but her brother is famous, her husband is a billionaire, and her father is a zillionaire, so the operative color here is green. Mrs. Parker-Steele will definitely get the same five-star service in death that she was used to in life.”

“So then, I’ll be working with you and your partner…” He paused, trying to remember her name.

He was full of shit. Chuck Dryden’s brain operated like a state-of-the-art microchip. When he examined a body, he processed every detail. And when the body was accompanied by Kylie’s sparkling green eyes, flowing blond hair, and heart-melting smile, it was forever stored in his highly developed memory bank. He knew her name, and like most guys who meet Kylie, he’d probably given her a starring role in his fantasies. It happened to me eleven years ago, only in my case, Kylie and I took it beyond the fantasy stage.

Way beyond.

But now she’s Mrs. Spence Harrington, wife of a successful TV producer with a hit cop show shot right here in New York. Spence is a good guy, and we get along fine, but it gnaws at me that I get to spend fourteen hours a day chasing down bad guys with Kylie while he gets to pull the night shift.

“Her name is Kylie MacDonald,” I said, playing into Dryden’s little charade.

“Right,” he said. “So this will probably wind up in her lap. I mean yours and hers.”

Her lap? What are you thinking, Chuck?

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m pretty sure Detective MacDonald and I will be tapped to track down this maniac.”

Assuming Detective MacDonald ever shows up for work.





Chapter 3



“Take her down,” Dryden ordered as soon as his team had clicked off a few hundred pictures of Evelyn Parker-Steele in situ. As macabre as it was, I imagined that the twinkling lights and brightly colored horses would make her crime scene photos more festive than most.

They lowered the body to a tarp near the base of the carousel, and I knelt next to her to get a closer look.

“Looks like you found your missing person,” said a familiar voice.

“You mean her or you?” I said, too pissed at Kylie to look up.

Kylie MacDonald is not big on apologies. That’s because in her worldview, she’s never wrong. “Hey, I got here as soon as I could,” she said, stretching out the word could so that it sounded more like back off than I’m sorry.

Now I definitely wasn’t going to look up. “Did you happen to get a message that said we have a murder to solve?” I said, staring intently at the corpse.

“Yeah, I think you left that one about twenty-seven times.”

“Then your phone works,” I said. “So the problem must be with your dialing finger.”

“Zach, there are about a hundred rubberneckers watching us from the other side of the yellow tape. Do you really think this is the best time for me to explain why I was late? How about you just fill me in on what I missed.”

“Small update on that ‘we have a murder to solve’ message. We now have four.”

She knelt beside me.

“This is the late Evelyn Parker-Steele,” I said. “Evelyn, this is my partner, the late Kylie MacDonald.”

I glanced over so I could catch her reaction. It’s almost impossible for Kylie to look anything but beautiful, but this morning she was one hot mess. The mischief in her eyes, the sexy wiseass grin—gone, replaced by puffy eyelids and a tight-lipped frown. All the usual magic that made heads turn was now cloaked in gloom. Whatever had made her late wasn’t pretty.