NYPD Red

by James Patterson

KYLIE WAITED TILL we were in the car before she said a word.

  “For a couple of homicide detectives, we didn’t do a lot of detecting,” she said.

  “Technically, there’s nothing to detect yet. The only guy who confirmed that it’s a homicide writes crime fiction for a living. Chuck Dryden knows it’s poison, but he won’t commit till he’s back in the lab with a test tube full of proof.”

  “Give me a break, Zach,” she said. “He could have made the call right there on the scene. If you ask me, some cops are too damn thorough.”

  “You’re faulting him for being thorough? Kylie, the guy is more scientist than cop. His job is all about being…”

  She grinned. At least it started out as a grin, and then it blossomed into a full-blown stupid girly-girl giggle. “Gotcha,” she said. “Do you really think I have a problem with cops who do their jobs by the book?”

  “Sorry, but you do have a reputation for working off the reservation.”

  “That was the old me. The new me is practically a Girl Scout. My mission is to play by the rules, impress the hell out of Captain Cates, and get to ride with you for the next couple of years.”

  And not get pregnant.

  I turned east onto 59th Street, drove past Bloomingdale’s, and crossed Third Avenue. The 59th Street Bridge to Queens was straight ahead.

  “Clearly we’re not going back to the office,” Kylie said.

  “Cates called. There was a shooting at Silvercup Studios.”

  “Oh my God. Spence is there.”

  When I first saw Spence Harrington’s picture on Kylie’s cell phone back at the academy, he was a struggling television writer and her ex-boyfriend. Ten years later he’s an executive producer with a hit cop show that he shoots right here in New York.

  I wish I could tell you I hate his guts, but Spence is a decent guy. Kylie had dumped him back then because she had a career in law enforcement, and he had a daily coke habit. But Spence wasn’t about to give her up that easily. Without saying a word, he entered rehab. Twenty-eight days later, he showed up, detoxed and desperate, and asked Kylie to give him one last chance. She did, and the transformation was remarkable. A year later they were married.

  As soon as I told Kylie there was a shooting at Silvercup, she went from tough cop to anxious wife.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said. “The vic is Ian Stewart. I didn’t realize Spence was working at Silvercup.”

  “He’s developing a new series,” she said as the tension drained from her face. “It’s another cop show, and a damn good one. He’s screening the pilot for the Hollywood glitterati on Wednesday night. It’s all part of the joys-of-shooting-in-New-York attitude the mayor is trying to hawk.”

  “The mayor is in deep doo-doo,” I said. “The joys of shooting in New York just took on a new meaning.”

  She pulled out her cell phone and hit the speed dial. “Hey, babe, it’s me. Are you okay?”

  I didn’t have to be a detective to know who babe was.

  Kylie turned to me. “Spence is fine.”

  I nodded. “Say hello for me.”

  “Zach says ‘hi.’ Did you know there was a shooting at the studio?” Pause. “Then why didn’t you call me so I wouldn’t worry about you?” Longer pause. “Oh, I didn’t check my email. Next time, call. Zach won’t mind.”

  “I won’t mind what?” I said.

  “Spence didn’t call because it’s my first day on the job, and he didn’t want to bother us.”

  “No bother, Spence!” I called out.

  “Zach and I are in the car,” she said. “We’re on the bridge. Are you ready for this? We caught the Ian Stewart shooting.”

  There was a long pause while Spence did the talking.

  “Good advice,” Kylie responded. “Thanks. I love you too.” She hung up.

  “What kind of good advice did Spence give you?” I asked.

  “He said the buzz is all over the lot that the shooting was an accident, but he doesn’t buy it.”

  “Why not?”

  “He said assholes like Ian Stewart don’t get shot by accident.”

  Chapter 13

  BEFORE BECOMING THE center of film production in New York City, Silvercup Studios was a bakery. I’m not kidding. Until the early 1980s Silvercup White was one of those spongy, marshmallow-soft sandwich breads made mostly of flour, water, and air that was a staple of my parents’ generation.

  But as one newspaper punster said back then, someone finally realized there was more dough in making movies than in making bread. Was there ever, because thirty years later, Silvercup is now the largest film and television production facility in the Northeast.

  The only remnant of its past glory is the ageless Silvercup sign that still dominates the skyline as you cross the bridge into Queens. All they did was change the word “Bread” to “Studios.”

  I turned right off the exit ramp and cruised past the storage facilities, auto repair shops, and the rest of the industrial ugliness that defines Long Island City. Three squad cars from the 108th were already parked in front of the sprawling complex on 22nd Street, and one of the uniforms waved me through the front gate.

  Bob Reitzfeld was waiting in the parking lot. Bob is a former NYPD lieutenant who likes to tell people that the only thing he ever failed at was doing nothing. He retired on a full pension, tried golf, tennis, and fishing, hated them all, and within three months signed on as a security guard at Silvercup for fifteen bucks an hour. Two years later he worked his way up to the top spot.

  I got out of the car, and he shook my hand. “Zach, I’m glad you’re here. We’re in short supply of people for the mayor to crap on.”

  “I’m sure he’s not happy,” I said.

  “Understatement. This is Day One of Hollywood on the Hudson week. He’s screaming that he’s going to change the name to Homicide on the Hudson,” Reitzfeld said.

  “Do you know for sure that it’s a homicide?” I asked.

  “The only thing I know for sure is that we’re on the East River, not the Hudson, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to correct His Honor when he’s on the warpath.”

  Kylie got out of the car. Reitzfeld did a quick double take. Then his cop brain instantly put the pieces together. “I heard Omar was on the DL. Don’t tell me this is your new sidekick.”

  “You guys know each other?” I said.

  “I only know this young lady as Mrs. Spence Harrington, but I’ve heard a lot about Detective Kylie MacDonald,” he said. “So, how do you like NYPD Red?”

  “It’s my first day,” she said, “but I’m keeping busy.”

  “Brace yourself for a baptism of fire. The body is at Studio X. It’s a two-minute walk. I’ll give you the highlights.” He turned and headed toward the Forty-third Avenue side of the main lot. Kylie and I flanked him.

  “The vic is Ian Stewart. Everything you read in the tabs that says he’s a total asshole is true. He’s pushing sixty, should be getting ready for the grandpa roles, but he still thinks he’s leading-man sexy. Can’t keep his dick in its holster—straddles any young thing that comes along—and rumor has it he’s not necessarily gender-specific. He’s been banging Devon Whitaker, his young costar, which pissed off Edie Coburn, his other costar, who also happens to be his latest wife. Edie threw a hissy this morning, locked herself in her trailer, and shut down production for a couple of hours. The director finally pried her loose with his crowbar, and when I say crowbar, I think you get my drift.”

  “Who’s the director?” Kylie asked.

  “Some whiz kid out of Germany, name of Henry Muhlenberg, nickname The Mule, which—and again, this is rumor—is not so much about him being stubborn as it is an anatomical reference. Since he was banging the victim’s wife just a few hours ago, he’s an automatic person of interest, but he’s a powderhead, so you won’t get much out of him till his nose is clean.”

  “What can you tell us about the shooting?” I said.

  “The armorer on the set is an old pro—Dave West. He�
��s been handling prop guns for twenty years. He gave Edie a nine-millimeter SIG Pro that was supposed to be loaded with blanks. She took two shots at Whitaker, no problem. Two more at Stewart and, as if by magic, she gets to kill the whoring, cheating bastard she’s married to and still claim that she didn’t know the gun was loaded.”

  “Do you think she did?” Kylie said.

  “No. She was hiding out in her trailer all morning. Besides, there’s no amount of money that would convince a guy like Dave West to put real bullets in the gun. I think someone on the set got ahold of it and switched mags.”

  “How is that possible?” I said.

  “It’s not, if Dave’s doing his job by the book,” Reitzfeld said. “But his wife’s been sick and his head’s not always in his job. Last month I caught him leaving a gun cabinet open, and I tore him a new one. He swore it would never happen again, but like I said, his wife’s sick and his focus isn’t where it should be.”

  We stopped in front of the elephant doors at Studio X. “It’s all my fault,” Reitzfeld said. “If I’d kept a tighter watch on Dave, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Bob, there are a thousand people wandering around here,” I said. “You can’t be responsible for all of them. How can you blame yourself?”

  “Zach, I’m head of security, which includes firearms safety,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if I blame myself or not. Somebody will. This is show business. Shit floats up.”

  Chapter 14

  I’VE BEEN HANGING around soundstages ever since I was a kid. My mom was a makeup artist, and there were a couple of years when I decided I was too old to need a babysitter and she decided I was too young to be left home alone, so after school I’d meet her on the set of a commercial, music video, or feature.

  Early on she taught me everything I needed to know to understand people in show business. “They think their poo smells like sugar cookies,” she said. “It doesn’t. But it makes them feel good if you pretend it does.”

  Working for NYPD Red, I meet a lot of people who are convinced they’re God’s gift to the world. I can smell their shit a mile away, but Mom’s advice helps make my job a lot easier.

  Kylie, Bob, and I walked through the stage doors of Studio X, which is about a city block long and almost as wide—no big deal in Hollywood, but pretty impressive by New York standards.

  There were about forty people behind the camera, all of whom eyed us carefully as we navigated our way around cables, light stands, and sound carts. We stopped at the edge of the set, a banquet hall, where a semicircle of tables was decked out with fine china, crystal stemware, and exotic flowers. At least that’s what they’d look like on film. In reality they were all plastic. At the center of the main table sat an ornately decorated five-tiered wedding cake, which I knew would be Styrofoam, because buttercream would never hold up under the hot lights.

  “Come meet the groom,” Bob said. “He’s on the dance floor.”

  About a hundred extras, all in black tie and long gowns, had been talking as we showed up. The chatter died down to a whisper as we slipped on paper booties and trod carefully between the pools of blood.

  Ian Stewart was on his back, the final emotion that had surged through his brain frozen on his face. It appeared to be a combination of OMG and WTF, but I might have been reading too much into it. Dead is dead, and Ian was very.

  There was a different CSI waiting for us. Maggie Arnold is younger, prettier, and much friendlier than Chuck Dryden. We’d flirted at past crime scenes, and she gave me a big smile when she saw me. I introduced her to Kylie and asked for a top line.

  “Top line is pretty much going to be the same as the bottom line,” she said. “He took two nine-millimeter rounds, one to the chest, one to the neck. Bled out fast.”

  “The armorer says he loaded the magazine with blanks,” Kylie said.

  “I believe him,” Maggie said. “We dusted the gun. The outside is covered with prints, which will probably match up with the prints we get from the armorer and the shooter, Edie Coburn. But the magazine and the rest of the bullets have all been wiped clean. If the armorer was the last one to handle the gun, his prints would be there.”

  “So Dave is telling the truth,” Bob said. “Somebody swapped mags.”

  “And that somebody could still be here,” I said. “How soon after the shooting did you seal off the studio?”

  “Not soon enough,” Bob said. “First there was chaos. Then they called 911. It was nearly ten minutes before I got the call on my walkie and ordered a total lockdown. The guy we’re looking for had plenty of time to slip out.”

  “I’m not really sure it makes a difference,” I said. “Whoever switched mags could have left long before the shooting.”

  “I doubt it,” Kylie said.

  “Why’s that?” I said.

  “Look at this,” she said, sweeping her hand around the elaborately decorated room, past the hundred dressed-to-the-teeth extras, finally letting it come to rest with one finger pointing down at the blood-drenched body. “This is classic cinematic drama. It’s too big a spectacle to miss. I’ll bet you five bucks that whoever put real bullets in that gun stayed to watch Ian Stewart die.”

  I didn’t take the bet. One thing I learned about betting with Kylie over the years: she almost always wins.

  Chapter 15

  DAVE WEST HAD kind eyes. He was about fifty, an African-American with a thin wisp of a mustache and even less hair on his head. He had a soft, round face that I’m sure lit up when he laughed, and brown eyes that were tinged with sadness and bewilderment. But the kindness came through still.

  I offered Kylie a shot at taking the lead, but she passed.

  “Not here,” she said. “Not now.”

  West was sitting at a table at the rear of the studio, an untouched cup of coffee in front of him.

  Kylie and I introduced ourselves, and I sat down across from him. She stood to the side.

  “I know you’re upset,” I said. “Can we talk?”

  “It’s my fault,” he said. “I screwed up.”

  “Dave!” It was Reitzfeld.

  I threw him a look. He held up both hands. “Sorry. I just can’t let him incriminate himself.”

  “Mr. West,” I said. “Just answer the questions as I ask them. How long have you been an armorer?”

  “I got my BFA license twenty-three years ago last month.”

  “BFA?”

  “Blank Fire Adapted,” he said. “There’s prop guns and real guns. The props are harmless, but not too authentic. So most directors like to use a real gun that fires blanks.”

  “And you supply the guns?”

  “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But I have total control over all BFA guns on the set, and I have the absolute final say on whether a gun is safe to use in a scene or not.”

  “And what happened today?”

  “It was a nine-millimeter SIG Pro. The movie takes place in the forties, and I needed a period piece. The gun’s got some years on it, but it’s in mint condition. I cleaned it and loaded the magazine with blanks.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but you’re sure they were blanks.”

  A hint of a sad smile. “Yeah. Like I said, I’ve been a gun wrangler for twenty-three years. It’s hard to confuse blank cartridges with real bullets. You’re a cop. You ought to know. Blanks have no lead at the tip. The ones I used had a red cotton wad inside the casing. Totally harmless, unless you fire the gun at extremely close range, but I met with the director, and I knew Edie would be a good ten feet away.”

  “What time did you put the blanks in the magazine?” I said.

  “I guess about nine, nine fifteen. We were supposed to shoot at nine thirty, but something happened with Edie and we wound up sitting around for a couple of hours.”

  “And where was the gun during that time?”

  He hesitated. “There’s a lockbox.”

  “Did you lock it up?”

  His bottom lip trembled and his e
yes watered up. “I set it down on the prop table. I kept thinking we were going to roll camera any minute.”

  “Could somebody have come in here and tampered with the gun?”

  He nodded. “Look at this place,” he said. “They call it the prop room, but it’s not a room. There are no walls, no doors—it’s all open, and it’s twenty feet from the craft table. Anybody could walk over and tamper with anything, but I was sitting right—” He stopped, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why.

  “Was the gun ever out of your sight?” I said.

  “Two, three…maybe five minutes.”

  “How long would it take to switch the magazines?”

  “Five seconds. But why would anybody do that?”

  “Let’s say somebody did,” I said. “How would they know in advance to have the right magazine—one that fits the gun you were using.”

  “Production notes,” he said. “Everything we do is documented on paper and distributed all over the place. The SIG Pro was on the prop list since way back in preproduction. Anybody could’ve seen it.”

  “At what point did you give Edie Coburn the gun?” I asked.

  “Eleven thirty, I think.”

  “Did you check to see that it was the right gun?”

  “Yeah. I looked at the serial number, and then I took out the magazine and checked that too, but—”

  He picked up the cold coffee from the table in front of him and took a sip.

  “But what?” I asked.

  “This mag for the SIG Pro—you can only see the top two cartridges. I looked in and saw two red tips. How was I supposed to know the rest would be live? But I was stupid. I was too trusting.”

  “When Ms. Coburn fired the gun, what happened?”

  “She took two shots at Devon Whitaker, the bride,” he said. “That’s what was in the script. Bang, bang. So Devon got the blanks. Her blood squibs go off and down she went. Then Edie fired two more at Ian. Soon as I heard it, I knew. Blanks don’t reverb like that. I froze in my seat. Luckily, Alan, the special effects guy, ran over and wrestled the gun from Edie’s hand, but by then…” He buried his face in his palms and his body shook as he wept quietly.