NYPD Red 2(75)

Tommy Boy stepped away from the wall. “I know who she is, dammit, and trust me, this is a lot bigger than me and you. We need to talk to your father.”

Jojo went for his cell phone.

“Not now,” Tommy Boy said. “And definitely not from here. You asked me what to do. I told you. Get the fuck out. Fast.”

“How the hell do you know her?” Jojo said. “Who is she?”

“I’ll tell you in the car. Trust me. Go.” He took out a handkerchief and began backing out of the room, wiping down everything they had touched.

They were just about out the door when Tommy Boy saw it out of the corner of his eye. It was almost lost in the jumble of audio equipment on the table. “Hold on,” he said.

“What now?” Jojo said.

“I’m not sure. Give me a second.” There was a small wooden box on the table. He picked it up and opened it.

“What the hell is that?” Jojo said, looking over Tommy Boy’s shoulder.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” He took the choke pear out of the box with his handkerchief, set it on the table, and clicked off some more shots. Then he tucked it back in the box.

“Now let’s go,” he said.

Tommy relocked the door, then wiped the lock, the knob, and the jamb. Minutes later they were on the Long Island Expressway, headed back to Howard Beach.

“I figured it out,” Jojo said. “The white overalls. One of those cops is the Hazmat guy.”

“Both of them.”

“That’s what I’m saying. But who’s the girl?”

Tommy Boy told him.

“You sure that’s her?”

“Her face was on TV every night.”

“Not on ESPN.”

“It was in the Daily News. Didn’t you see it in the paper?”

“Probably. I can’t remember everything I read. Was there anything about that weird corkscrew thing in the box?”

“No.”

Jojo pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling Pop.”

“Make sure you call one of his burner phones. The Feds have ears on everything else,” Tommy Boy said.

Jojo stopped dialing. It was as though he’d just remembered his father was a Mob boss and the FBI had had him under surveillance for years.

“Good idea. We don’t want the Federales picking up on this one,” Jojo said. “Y’know, you big ox, sometimes you’re not as dumb as you look.”

“Thanks, boss. I’m no genius, but I have my moments.”





Chapter 70



Of all the elite units in the department, Red is the toughest to get into. There are only seventy-five of us spread out across the city and at least a thousand more hoping to get in. But I’ve never met two cops more eager—or more qualified—to be part of Red than Casey and Bell, the two Anti-Crime detectives who saved my ass at the carousel on Monday morning.

They’re skilled at undercover, fast on their feet, and, as Kylie pointed out, willing to break a few eggs to make an omelet.

When we asked them to tail Donovan and Boyle on the down low, they said yes. When we told them why, Bell asked only one question.

“Does IA know you’re recruiting cops to investigate other cops?”

“No,” I said. “And if IA finds out, they’ll be investigating all of us.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “They won’t find out.”

He called me at 6:00 p.m. and said they couldn’t wait to tell us what they came up with on their first day. I suggested an off-campus rendezvous at Uskudar, a hole-in-the-wall Turkish restaurant on Second Avenue. Logistically and strategically, it was the perfect choice. It was walking distance from our office, but nobody who knew us was likely to show up. The fact that I really liked their musakka may have also influenced my decision.

They were waiting for us at a table in the rear, and from the grins on their faces, I couldn’t tell who was more excited—them or us.

We ordered drinks and a bunch of appetizers and got down to business.

“So, if we help you crack this case,” Bell said, cutting to the chase, “do the two of us have a good chance of working for Red?”

“No promises,” I said, “but I can tell you this—if we don’t crack the case, the two of us have a good chance of not working for Red.”

“So please tell us you have pictures of Donovan and Boyle shopping at a Hazmat suit store,” Kylie said.

Casey laughed. “Nothing that exciting. We have bad news, good news, and great news.”

“Start with the bad and work your way up,” I said, popping a hunk of warm pita bread in my mouth and washing it down with cold beer.

“Eight thirty this morning,” he said, putting his iPhone on the table and bringing up a picture of Donovan walking out of a Starbucks carrying two cups wrapped with cardboard sleeves. “We put our keen detective minds together and concluded it was a coffee run.”