NYPD Red 2(77)

She hung up.

I reached for the reading light on the headboard and flipped it on. Cheryl rolled over on her back, jet-black hair cascading over the pale blue pillowcase, caramel skin glowing in the lamplight.

I swung my legs onto the floor and sat on the side of the bed.

“Mmmm, don’t go,” she said softly, sitting up and letting the sheets slip below her breasts.

I couldn’t believe that I was living in a universe where someone as beautiful and desirable as Cheryl would be lying naked beside me and I would leap out of bed and put on my pants. But that’s exactly what I did.

“I have to,” I said.

“Who called?”

“The police commissioner. He heard we’ve been sleeping together.”

She gave me a drowsy smile. “And he’s going to fire you?”

“Hell, no. He’s giving me a medal. Go back to sleep.”

I leaned over and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around me, worked her tongue against mine, slowly let one hand slide down my back, under my belt, and grabbed hold of my gluteus maximus.

She put her warm, soft lips to my ear. “Just stay ten more minutes,” she said. “I promise they’ll be the best ten minutes of your day.”

“You’re killing me,” I said, trying to pull away.

“I know,” she purred. “But you’ll die happy.”

Her hand found a new resting place, and I stopped pulling away and leaned into it.

“I have a problem, Doctor,” I moaned in her ear. “Something big just went down on the O’Keefe kidnapping, and Cates wants me at the mayor’s house in twenty minutes. But then something big came up in my personal life, and I don’t know what to do.”

She pulled her hand away and sat up straight. “Are you serious? Why didn’t you say something? Go.”

“Thanks for understanding.” I planted one more kiss on her lips. “I’ll definitely be back to pick up where we left off.”

Showing up for work wearing yesterday’s clothes is a red flag for the gossipmongers, so I had one drawer at Cheryl’s place just for times like this. I grabbed a clean shirt and called Kylie.

I told her what, when, and where, and I was about to hang up when I heard a man’s voice in the background.

“Who is it? What’s going on?”

It was Spence.

“Go back to sleep,” I heard Kylie say just before she hung up.

I had to laugh. I’m sure she didn’t want to get out of bed any more than I did.

At least the universe wasn’t playing favorites. It was dicking around with both of us.





Chapter 72



I got to Gracie Mansion at 3:26, three minutes past my ETA. Kylie was already waiting outside the guardhouse.

“How the hell did you get here so fast?” I said.

“I pride myself on punctuality. It’s the hallmark of great police work.”

“I deserved that,” I said as we headed up the mansion’s steps to the sprawling front porch.

“Also, did you forget I’m staying in Shelley’s apartment? It’s five blocks away. I strolled over.”

I hadn’t forgotten. But when I’d heard Spence’s voice, I’d jumped to the conclusion that she had spent the night downtown in her own bed. But Spence must have made his way uptown.

Or maybe it wasn’t Spence’s voice.

Or maybe it was none of my damn business.

The four of them were in the mayor’s office at a conference table—Mayor Spellman, Irwin Diamond, Captain Cates, and PC Richard Harries. Kylie and I sat down, and the PC started talking.

“Last night, a couple on East Seventy-First Street, Larry and Clare Bertoli, left their apartment at seven fifteen and went to the theater. Mrs. Bertoli got sick during the first act, so they left, went home, and walked in on a burglary in progress. They knew the perp. It was their doorman. He didn’t try to run—just sat down on the couch and started bawling. Mrs. Bertoli called 911. The uniforms made the collar, took him in to the One Nine, and turned him over to the detectives to be debriefed.”

I knew he hadn’t gotten us up at this hour to talk about a routine burglary. Cates had already told me that the Rachael O’Keefe case had blown through the roof, and I was waiting for the bombshell. But I know Richard Harries, and he’s painstakingly methodical. He needs time to land the plane.

“The lead investigator is Detective Sal Catapano,” he said. “He’s got twenty-one years, and as soon as he walked into the interrogation room, he knew he had a page-one case on his hands. The doorman’s name is Vidmar, Calvin Vidmar.”

Bombshell. I looked at Kylie. She knew it, too.

“You recognize the name,” Harries said as soon as he saw our reaction.