NYPD Red 2(81)

“What if we ask Matt Smith to trace the GPS on their cell phones? Wouldn’t that tell us they were somewhere close to Rachael’s house when she was kidnapped?”

“These guys are too smart to leave digital bread crumbs. Even if they did, the fact that they were in New Jersey that night wouldn’t be enough to nail them.”

“Maybe we could convince Alma Hooks to have Shawn look at some mug shots,” Kylie said.

“A thirteen-year-old black drug runner fingering two white cops. That ought to stand up nicely in court.”

“I have an idea that I know you can’t shoot down,” Kylie said. “Let me get you some coffee.”

“Good idea,” I said. “That’s one in a row.”

She got out, and I tried to focus.

Unlike a lot of cop cars, the Ford Interceptor has an adjustable driver’s seat, so I tilted it back and closed my eyes. All along, I had painted a picture in my head of Donovan and Boyle convincing Alex Kang, Antoine Tinsdale, and Evelyn Parker-Steele to get into their car. Now I had to go back and put Casey and Bell in their place.

Casey would have been the one driving down Second Avenue. Bell was better looking and would be the one in the backseat, calling out to Evelyn. She got in the car, they drove to Queens, and then…and then the picture went blank.

Strike one.

I tried the same scenario with Kang and Tinsdale. Bell’s approach would have been different with those two, but all he had to do was play the NYPD card, and in the car they’d go.

But it didn’t matter. Playing the situation in my mind’s eye with Casey and Bell instead of Donovan and Boyle didn’t help. Strike two. Strike three.

And then it hit me. I should be getting four strikes. I’d forgotten about Sebastian Catt.

The car door opened, and I sat up.

“Sleeping on the job?” Kylie said, getting into the front seat and handing me a cardboard cup.

“Mulling on the job.” I popped the lid and let the smell of fresh coffee work its way into my brain.

“Did you mull anything worth repeating?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve got something.” I took my first sip. “No, I know I’ve got something.”

I put the lid back on the coffee and started the car.

“Are you serious? You have hard evidence to connect Casey and Bell to any of these crimes?”

“I don’t,” I said. “But you and I know someone who does.”

“We do?”

“Yes, we do, missy,” I said, making a U-turn on 42nd Street and heading east. “Yes, we do.”





Chapter 75



At five in the morning, we flew across town and made it to Horton LaFleur’s building on East 84th Street in ten minutes. I rang the doorbell to apartment 1A and stepped back.

“One ring won’t cut it with this old bastard,” Kylie said. “Lean on the bell till he answers.”

I did. LaFleur didn’t.

“Move over,” Kylie said, and began pushing every doorbell on the panel.

Someone buzzed us in, and she stormed down the hall to apartment 1A and pounded on the door.

“NYPD!” she yelled.

“You got a warrant?” LaFleur hollered back from inside.

“I don’t need a warrant. I have a foot. And unless you open this door, I’ll kick it open.”

It’s not the way I would have handled it, but it worked. LaFleur opened the front door and blocked it with his bony body and his rolling oxygen tank cylinder.

“What the fuck do you want now?” he screamed, jaw clenched, neck muscles straining. “You looking for a killer? You got him, missy. Here I am. I did it. I killed them all. Go ahead, arrest me. Come on—either arrest me or get the fuck out of my sight.”

Some cops might have backed off. Not Kylie. Especially not now.

“We’re not going anywhere,” she said. “We have questions, and you can either answer them here, or we’ll drag your sorry ass into the station.”

“I already told you I got nothing more to say. You ever hear of the right to remain silent? It’s one of the freedoms I took a bullet for, so get the hell out of here.”

“Cuff him, Zach. We’re taking him in.”

“All right, all right…,” LaFleur said, muttering some unintelligible profanity under his breath. “What do you want?”

“We want to hear the tape,” she said.

On the outside, LaFleur looked like someone you’d see doddering around the halls of a nursing home, but inside, his brain was quick, nimble, and ready for the face-off with Kylie.

“And what tape would that be?” he said innocently. “The one of Sebastian Catt admitting that he murdered my wife? I don’t have a copy. Why don’t you look for it on the YouTube.”