“Damn,” Kylie said as we got into the Ford Interceptor. “I could kick myself.”
“Because you were trying to suck up to the boss by pretending to care about the rules, and she called you on it?”
“I wasn’t sucking up to her, and she already knows I’m not exactly a Girl Scout when it comes to following directions. But I figured if she tore me a new one because of Damon Parker, I should at least let her know that I’m aware of the rules I’m going to break. She’s sending two New York City cops to investigate a high-profile kidnapping that happened across a state line. We’re about to violate more jurisdictions in one morning than most cops do in their entire careers. It’s not just the locals we’re screwing with. Everyone is going to want a piece of this—the Bergen County sheriff, the Staties, and, of course, the Feds.”
“Sounds like your kind of fun,” I said. “So why are you kicking yourself?”
“Because I knew this was going to happen. I knew Rachael O’Keefe was going to be kidnapped.”
“And when was this?” I said as I got on the FDR at 96th Street.
“Monday night when the verdict came down. Everyone on the planet knew O’Keefe was guilty, and the first thing I thought when the jury let her off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist was, I’ll bet the Hazmat Killer could have a field day with her.”
“You should have said something.”
“To who? And even if I did, what good would it have done?”
“Exactly. Nobody would listen to you, and even if they did, nobody would have done anything,” I said. “So stop kicking yourself.”
Kylie’s cell rang. She looked at the caller ID and muttered two words. “Oh, shit.”
She answered. “Hello, Shelley. What’s wrong?”
For the next sixty seconds, she just sat there listening. I had no idea what was going on, but I knew who Shelley was. Shelley Trager was born in Hell’s Kitchen and grew up to be one of the richest and most likable TV and film producers in the business. Over the years, Shelley’s company, Noo Yawk Films, provided jobs for tens of thousands of New Yorkers who would otherwise have gone hungry or, worse yet, been forced to move to LA. One of his most successful protégés was Spence Harrington, Kylie’s husband.
“Which hospital?” Kylie said into the phone. “No, I’ll get there as soon as I can. Thanks for calling.”
I pulled over to a narrow grassy strip on the left and stopped the car.
“It sounds like something happened to Spence,” I said.
“Something did. He’s in an ambulance on the way to Elmhurst Hospital. He was on the set, stumbled over a light stand, hit his head on the studio floor, and got cut up by the broken glass. Why are we stopping?”
“We’re three-quarters of a mile from the George Washington Bridge. I don’t have time to run you to Queens, but I can get off at 179th and drop you at the bus terminal. From there you can catch a cab to the hospital.”
“I’m not going to the hospital,” she said.
“You sure?” I said. “It sounds like Spence got hurt pretty bad.”
“Drive,” she said.
“Look, I can handle O’Keefe’s sister on my own. You go check on Spence, and then we can catch up after you—”
“Zach, Spence didn’t just fall. He was so high on painkillers he couldn’t see straight, and this time he destroyed thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment and put his life and the lives of others at risk. Spence has a problem, and my going to the hospital to hold his hand is not going to help it. I told you this on Monday, and I’ll say it again. This is the best damn job in NYPD, and I’m not going to screw it up because of my drug addict husband. Now do me a favor.”
“Anything. What?”
“Shut up and drive.”
I shut up, pulled back onto the highway, and drove up the ramp for the bridge to New Jersey.
Chapter 49
Driving onto Harold Avenue in Leonia, New Jersey, you’d never know that this anonymous little patch of suburbia was a powder keg that would explode all over the next news cycle.
A black van was parked in the driveway of the last house on the left. It was pulled in tight against a clump of high hedges so that the gold letters that spelled out NYPD Crime Scene Unit on the side panel were out of sight.
Our old friend Chuck Dryden looked up when he heard our car approach, and instead of burying his nose back in his work, he walked down the driveway to greet us.
“Detectives,” he said with an uncharacteristic smile. “We meet again.”
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Kylie said. “There are no bodies to slice and dice.”