NYPD Red 2(6)

“Who’s Cynthia Pritchard?” I said.

“An event coordinator who worked with Parker-Steele two years ago on the campaign to reelect Congressman Winchell. A month before the election, Pritchard fell fourteen stories from the terrace of Evelyn’s apartment.”

“Fell?” I said.

“That’s what she told the DA. She changes her tune on the video.”

“I never even heard about this case,” I said.

“You didn’t hear about it because Leonard Parker has enough lawyers to squelch the sinking of the Queen Mary,” Cates said. “The autopsy showed that Pritchard was drunk. Parker-Steele was wasted herself, passed out on the floor when the cops arrived. The coroner’s conclusion was that Pritchard leaned too far over the terrace railing and fell. He ruled it an accident.”

“Medical examiners make mistakes all the time,” I said. “Didn’t the department ask for a follow-up investigation?”

“Yes, but the lawyers cut it off at the knees. They said the two women were co-workers, got along well, and there was no motive. They also stated loud and clear that if an unwarranted departmental witch hunt—their words—was leaked to the press and in any way damaged the reputation of Evelyn or any member of one of the city’s most prominent families, there’d be repercussions.”

“Financial repercussions,” I said.

“Right. They’d sue the city’s ass, and they’d probably win. So—no investigation, no press, case closed,” Cates said. “Money buys anonymity, Zach, and a lot of money buys total silence.”

“Only now some vigilante comes out of the woodwork and gets Parker-Steele to confess to murder,” Kylie said.

“Yes, and Muriel Sykes is already firing off tweets that say it’s a crock of crap. If you torture somebody long enough, they’ll tell you Jimmy Hoffa is buried in their basement. She’s screaming that Parker-Steele is not a killer, she’s a victim. And this city needs a mayor who can lock criminals up, not have them run loose so they can pin murders on innocent citizens.”

She turned and headed toward the carpeted staircase, talking as she went. We followed. “The mayor has been plunging in the polls, and with a serial killer on the loose and an opponent who’s bashing him for being soft on crime, unless we catch this Hazmat Killer, his reelection campaign is going to plunge right into the toilet.”

We were at the top of the stairs, and Kylie stopped. “Captain,” she said, “can I be brutally honest with you?”

Cates turned around. “With me, yes, but not with the mayor. Speak.”

“If you told us the Loch Ness monster was seen in the subway system, Zach and I would walk the tracks from the Bronx to Far Rockaway till we found it. I don’t know how long it would take, but we’d get it done. Now we’re chasing down a painstakingly smart serial killer who has eluded the cops for four months, and the mayor wants us to solve it in a week?”

“You got it, MacDonald,” Cates said.

“We’re cops. Our job is to nail this bastard before he kills someone else, not to save the mayor’s sorry political ass.”

Cates laughed. “You sound like me back in the day when I didn’t have to worry about being politically correct. But the mayor asked for you two by name. You want the job?”

“Totally. And we’re flattered that he sent for us,” Kylie said. “But he might want to hedge his bet and send for a moving van.”





Chapter 6



Stanley Spellman started his law career with the Legal Aid Society in New York City forty years ago. His insightful logic, compassion for others, and personal charisma propelled him from his small office on Water Street to Congress and eventually to Gracie Mansion.

None of those sterling qualities were in evidence this morning. He was in a full-blown panic.

“It’s about bleeping time!” he bellowed as we walked through the door. He wanted us to know he was mad, but he was old school and preferred bleeping over F-bombs when he was in mixed company.

The man sitting next to him stood up and crossed the room to greet us.

It was Irwin Diamond—Spellman’s oldest friend and most trusted adviser. The mayor could go off the tracks—especially in times of crisis. Diamond kept him grounded. His unofficial title at City Hall was deputy mayor in charge of damage control.

“Detective Jordan, Detective MacDonald,” Diamond said, shaking our hands. “Under the circumstances I can’t say I’m happy to see you again, but I’m reassured that we’re putting our trust in the best law enforcement officers this city has at its disposal. Thank you for coming.”