NYPD Red 2(5)

“My husband? What the hell are you talking about?” Kylie snapped.

“Hey, no offense. I read the whole story in the Daily News. Big-shot TV guy who makes cop shows becomes crime victim.”

Kylie’s husband is one of the more visible TV producers on the East Coast, which made him a prime target for the nut job who almost crippled the film business in New York. Kylie and I took the maniac down, but not before he put Spence in the hospital.

“So, how’s your old man doing?” McNaughton said.

“My old man?” Kylie repeated. “My old man is doing turn around and shut the fuck up, McNaughton—that’s how he’s doing.”

Timmy McNumbnuts slunk around in his seat, and nobody said a word till we got to 88th Street and East End Avenue.

Kylie bolted from the car and marched up the walk toward the mayor’s residence without looking back. I hung back and thanked the driver for the lift.

McNaughton put his hand on my arm. “What’s her deal?” he said. “Is she like this with everybody?”

“No,” I said, removing the hand. “Just child molesters and assholes. Have a nice day.”





Chapter 5



Gracie Mansion was two centuries old, but it wasn’t until World War II that it became home to anyone crazy enough to want to be mayor of New York. The current occupant, Stan Spellman, desperately wanted to renew his lease for another four years, but if you believed the pollsters, he was eight days away from being replaced by Muriel Sykes.

As mansions go, it’s pretty low-key. No commanding porticos or marble columns—just a simple two-story, yellow-and-white Federal house with five bedrooms and a better than average view of the East River.

Kylie was at the top of the steps, fuming. “What is this—No Personal Boundaries Day?” she said. “Why is everybody invading my private space?”

“Everybody?” I said, trying not to shout on the mayor’s front porch. “That sleazebag would love to invade your private space. That’s why he’s asking ‘how’s your husband.’ All I want to know is why you fell off the grid this morning. How the hell can you lump me and him in the same category?”

“Because you’re asking different questions, but they have the same goddamn answer. Spence fell in the shower this morning. Hit his head. I took him to the ER. He’s okay now, but he’s upset that he’s still wobbly on his feet three months after the Chameleon incident. That’s why I was late. You happy now?”

I felt like a jerk. “I’m sorry,” I said—my second apology in less than twenty minutes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I thought our main priority was to find a killer. Now, can we get on with it?”

She pushed open the front door, and we entered the foyer. I get my furniture from IKEA. The mayor gets his from the nineteenth century. But I’d been here before and picked up a few factoids. I pointed at the floor, a vast expanse of black and white diamond shapes that led to a winding staircase thirty feet away.

“Faux marble,” I said, trying to soften the edge. “It’s painted wood.”

“I know, Zach. I’ve been here.”

Draped on Spence’s arm was left unsaid.

“Detectives!”

It was our boss, and all I needed was that one-word clue to know her mood. She stormed down the stairs.

Captain Delia Cates is one of the rising stars in the department, black on the outside, true blue on the inside—a third-generation cop. While she can barely tolerate the politics that comes with her job, she plays them well. And when a woman finally crashes through the Y-chromosome ceiling at NYPD, the smart money is on her. Her reputation is “Always tough, sometimes fair,” and I braced myself for a serious dose of verbal bitch slapping.

“You’re late,” she said, “and the mayor is six degrees beyond batshit.”

“Sorry,” I said. “We were working under the theory that homicides take precedence over political hissy fits.”

“You think I like pulling my lead investigators off a major crime scene? This is not your run-of-the-mill hissy fit. It’s as big a political clusterfuck as I’ve ever been in the middle of. What’s the story on our VIV?”

VIV is Red jargon for “very important victim.” I filled Cates in on the little I knew so far, ending with, “And Chuck Dryden is convinced that she’s the latest victim of the Hazmat Killer.”

“He’s probably right,” Cates said. “Someone just uploaded an online video of Parker-Steele confessing to the murder of Cynthia Pritchard. That’s the Hazmat’s MO—kidnap, kill, then go viral to let everyone know that the innocent victim isn’t so innocent.”