NYPD Red 2

by James Patterson

  “Oh no, Gideon is living in Manhattan. But he’s so busy saving everyone else, he barely has time for a phone call from his mother.”

  “So he’s a doctor,” Teresa said.

  “If only,” Emma said. “Then I wouldn’t have to worry so much. Gideon is a New York City police officer. Very dangerous job, but he loves it.”

  Teresa’s hand shook, and she set down her coffee cup before she dropped it. She forced a smile. “It’s always good to see a boy make something of himself. I only wish I had been able to see my Enzo do the same, but thank you for bringing a little piece of my son back to his family. It’s a great comfort to all of us.”

  Teresa stood up, the smile still plastered to her face. She thanked Emma one last time, then bolted from the house.

  She couldn’t wait to tell Joe that the Mick bastard who had Enzo’s journal all these years—and the one who probably murdered him—was a fucking cop.

  Chapter 57

  Mommy’s coming, Kimi. I’m sorry for what happened. Mommy’s coming to make it better. Mommy loves you so much.

  Rachael O’Keefe knew she was going to die. She knew it as soon as they stripped her down and put her in a white Hazmat suit.

  Then they gagged her, chained her to a pipe, and left her without food, water, or hope.

  Talking to Kimi made it easier. Those two words—Mommy’s coming—became her mantra. They were on a loop in her brain, and she chanted them silently, hoping they could lull her to sleep. But the blinding light, the damp cold, and the stench of mold made it difficult to sleep.

  And the fear made it impossible.

  Mommy is in a dungeon, Kimi. But don’t cry. Pretty soon Mommy will…

  The lights went out with a thunk that echoed off the corrugated metal door. Rachael inhaled sharply. Were they back? Were the lights on a timer? What now?

  A hum. A motor. And then she felt it. Air. Warm air blowing down on her from above.

  Thank you, Kimi, thank you, Kimi, she chanted. Her head dropped, and she let her body sink into the blessed warmth and darkness.

  She was just crossing the sleep threshold when the barking began. She jerked awake. A second dog joined in with a low, threatening growl, and she screamed in terror, but the only sound that made its way past the gag was a muffled whine.

  The barking grew louder and closer, and Rachael tried to wrench herself free. The chains around her wrists, ankles, and neck tore into her flesh as the room exploded with the sound of a pack of snarling, angry dogs. The silent screams continued, and then she lost control of her bladder, just as she had when she was attacked by her neighbor’s pit bull at the age of nine.

  Mommy’s coming, Kimi. Mommy’s coming, Kimi. Mommy’s coming, Kimi. Mommy’s coming, Kimi.

  And then, a voice. “Are you ready to tell us the truth?”

  The lights snapped on, and the barking stopped abruptly. Rachael looked around the room. No dogs. Just the two men in black.

  The taller one—the leader—peeled away the duct tape and removed the ball gag from her mouth.

  “Are you ready to tell us the truth?” he asked again.

  Her wrists and ankles were bleeding, and her neck was rubbed raw from the chains. “I did tell you the truth,” she whimpered.

  “No, you didn’t,” he said, opening a bottle of Poland Spring water. He tilted the bottle to his lips and gulped down half of it.

  Rachael stared at the water.

  “You look thirsty,” he said. “The rest of this is yours. Just tell me who killed Kimi.”

  “I swear I didn’t kill Kimi. I loved her. I would never hurt my only child.”

  “Oh yes. You were Mother of the Year,” he said. “Here’s first prize.”

  He held up the water bottle and turned it upside down.

  Rachael sobbed as the water splashed onto the concrete floor. “The jury believed that I didn’t do it. Why can’t you?”

  “Juries are stupid,” he said. “And in a hurry to get home. We’re neither.”

  The shorter one—the nicer one—pointed to a video camera on a tripod in front of her. “Just talk to the camera. Tell us what really happened, and we’ll give you a hot meal, lots of cool, cool water, and then you can sleep.”

  “You mean then you can kill me,” Rachael said.

  “True,” the leader said. “Death is inevitable. But pain and suffering are optional. Here—let me demonstrate.”

  He had a wooden box in his hand. It reminded Rachael of a music box her mother had when she was a little girl.

  He opened it, and she almost expected it to play “Irish Lullaby.” But there was no music. There was just a strange metal contraption inside. She’d never seen anything like it, but she knew it was evil.

  “It’s called a choke pear,” he said. “Some call it the pear of anguish. This one is from the sixteenth century. I bought it on eBay for twelve hundred bucks.”

  Rachael squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Open them,” he said slowly, “or I will open them for you.”

  She opened her eyes. The box was on the floor, and now he had the pear-shaped thing in his hands.

  “Now open your mouth.”

  She shook her head.

  He nodded to his partner.

  The nice one pinched her nostrils and forced her mouth open, and the other slid the metal pear inside.

  “Now here’s the beauty of this little pear,” he said. “The stem is really a corkscrew, and when I twist the spiral rod in the center—”

  He gave the corkscrew two quick turns, and Rachael gagged and screamed at the same time.

  “Relax,” he said. “This is only a demo. It won’t hurt. Not this time.”

  He twisted the corkscrew in the opposite direction and slid the pear from her mouth. Rachael gasped at the air.

  The man in black smiled. “All I did was turn it twice,” he said. “Like this.”

  He turned the corkscrew twice, and Rachael watched as the pear opened at the bottom and four spoonlike segments began to spread out.

  “Now watch what happens when I turn it again. And again. And again.”

  The iron lobes spread out even farther, leaving no doubt as to what damage the device could inflict.

  “How many was that?” he asked. “Five turns? You should see it at ten. Or fifteen. It’s diabolical, but you know those crazy punishing medieval judges—they couldn’t wait to use it.”

  “I didn’t kill my daughter,” Rachael said. “I swear.”

  “Hold that thought. I’m not quite finished.”

  He held the pear up to her face. “Here’s the genius of this little beauty. It’s a multi-orifice device. So if you were a blasphemous heretic, it would go inside your lying mouth. Male homosexuals were punished with the anal pear. And women who fornicated with Satan…well, like I said—it works in any orifice.”

  A cell phone rang, and the man patted his pocket.

  “Something for you to ponder while I take this call.”

  Chapter 58

  “Hang on,” Gideon said into the phone as he walked behind the false wall they’d built to hide the audio equipment.

  He had done his research well. He knew that Rachael would be petrified at the mere sound of dogs. And that was all it took to bring her to the point of hysteria—a cut from a sound effects library.

  He stepped outside the rear door and put the phone to his ear. “Mom, what’s up? I’m a little busy.”

  “I thought your shift would be over. That’s why I waited till now.”

  “My shift is over. I’m busy with life.” He still had the choke pear in his other hand, and he fondled it.

  “Fine. I’ll make this short. You’ll never believe who came to the house today.”

  “Mom, can this wait? I’m really busy here.”

  “Teresa Salvi.”

  “That’s great, Mom. I gotta— What? Who?”

  “Mrs. Salvi. She told me to call her Teresa.”

  “What the fuck was she doing there?”
/>   “Gideon. Language.”

  “Mom, Mom, I’m sorry. I wasn’t focused. Just tell me again. Teresa Salvi came to the house? Joe Salvi’s wife?”

  “Now I have your attention. Yes, she did. She made a special trip just to thank me for returning her son’s book.”

  There was a plastic milk crate behind the garage, and Gideon slowly lowered himself to it. “What book?” he asked. But, of course, he knew the answer before he even asked the question.

  “Her son Enzo’s journal. I found it wedged behind a desk drawer when I was cleaning up your room.”

  “That’s…that’s impossible.”

  “Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong?”

  His brain was racing. His mother couldn’t have the book because he had it. He could swear he had it.

  That rainy night in 2001, he had read through every page. He remembered thinking, If the people in this book knew I was the one who put Enzo Salvi out of the protection business, they would throw me one hell of a party.

  But he couldn’t tell anyone. And he couldn’t bring himself to burn it either. He was sixteen, and Enzo Salvi’s leather book with the gold froufrous on it was a trophy. Over the years, he’d thought about destroying it, but he couldn’t. It was a symbol of what he could accomplish when he was only a kid. Imagine how powerful he could become.

  Sure, it was dangerous to keep, but Gideon never ran away from danger. He never told Dave he still had it. Dave would shit. But over the years, he’d had no regrets—he was happy he’d kept it. If he’d ever had any guilt about killing Enzo, the details in that journal were a living list of the scumbag’s crimes.

  A few years ago, when he’d moved out of his mother’s house, he’d packed up everything he’d wanted to keep. He could swear he’d taken the journal. He’d been drinking that night, but still—he was sure he’d buried it at the bottom of one of those cartons that were stored in the closet of his new apartment. It had to be there. It had to.

  “Gideon—are you listening?” his mother said. “I asked you a question.”

  “What, Mom? I didn’t hear you.”

  “I said I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing. The book had Enzo’s name on it, so I gave it to Father Spinelli, who gave it to Mrs. Salvi. The poor woman’s son was killed when he was only eighteen.”

  “No, Mom, you didn’t do the wrong thing.”

  “I know those Salvis are mixed up in all kinds of shady nonsense. But not the mother. She’s always going to Mass. She throws those big parties for the neighborhood. I thought the least I could do was let her have a little touchstone of her dead son. God only knows how his book wound up with your things.”

  “You did fine, Mom,” Gideon said. “Thanks for telling me. I’ve got to go now.”

  “I know, I know, you’re so busy with life, but maybe one night you can squeeze in a dinner with me and Sherman.”

  “I promise,” Gideon said. “Love you, Mom.”

  He set down the phone and buried his face in one hand.

  He didn’t have to check the cartons in his closet. Somehow he’d screwed up. He had left Enzo’s book at his mother’s house, and she’d given it to the Salvis.

  He stood up. And now the Salvis are going to come after me and Dave.

  The back door opened, and Dave stepped out.

  “Hey, Gid, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Gideon said. “Just the usual stupid Mom phone call. You know—‘Who are you dating? Don’t work too hard.’ Nothing important.”

  “You did great in there with the choke pear. And the dogs—that was a good call. She’s cracking.”

  “I think you’re right,” Gideon said. “She’s on the edge.”

  “Let’s give her another twenty-four hours in there,” Dave said, “and come back mañana. At that point she should be ready to spill her murdering guts out.”

  “Good idea,” Gideon said.

  No sense telling Dave about the Salvis tonight. He’d freak. First we break Rachael, then I can deal with the Mafia.

  Chapter 59

  Despite the fact that we have the most sophisticated crime-solving technology at our fingertips, Kylie and I spent the rest of our day hoofing it through the bureaucratic roadblocks created by the New York County District Attorney’s Office and the City of New York Department of Correction.

  At 5:00 p.m., we reported in to Cates.

  “Four people at the DOC knew where Rachael O’Keefe was headed when she left lockup,” I said. “And at least eight from the DA’s office.”

  “At least eight?” Cates said. “You can’t get a hard number?”

  “We tried,” Kylie said, “but we’re dealing with the justice prevention department.”

  “We interviewed and cleared everyone at the DOC and managed to track down six of the DA’s people,” I said.

  “Then you have two left.”

  “Not quite. The ADAs went out on a group bender that night, and three of them admitted ‘saying something to someone they knew they could trust,’ so that brings us back up to five people we have to clear.”

  “How hard can it be to track them down?” Cates said.

  “Tracking them down is easy. We’ve emailed, texted, and left phone messages—they all know what we want. Pinning them down for a face-to-face is the problem. They’d be happy to phone it in, but these guys lie for a living. We figured we had a better shot at getting the truth out of them if we confront them up close and personal.

  “Two of them are coming up here tonight. A third just had an emergency appendectomy, and we can’t talk to her till tomorrow. The final two on our hit list are Mick Wilson and one of his flunkies. And you know Mick—he has a bad habit of either not returning messages, or just not giving a shit.”

  “Make him give a shit. O’Keefe was taken fifteen hours ago. Hazmat’s not going to keep her alive for long. Call me when you—”

  “Captain.”

  It was Katina Hronas, a civilian employee assigned to our unit. Katina fielded hundreds of phone calls, emails, and faxes for Cates every day. She was tuned in to Cates’s priorities, both personal and professional, and interrupted the boss only when it was urgent. Cates braced herself for the inevitable.

  “This just came through from the chief of D’s office,” Katina said, handing Cates a single sheet of paper.

  “Damn,” she said, reading the small block of text in seconds. “It’s out.”

  Kylie and I looked at each other. We both knew what “it” was.

  “We kept the lid on it for nine hours,” Cates said, “but the Times just issued an email alert—Rachael O’Keefe Kidnapped Within Hours of Leaving New York City Jail.”

  “The Times doesn’t print rumors,” Kylie said. “Who corroborated it?”

  “‘O’Keefe’s abduction was confirmed by her defense attorney, Dennis Woloch,’” Cates read. “Of course they don’t say who leaked it, but I’d put my money on Hazmat himself. He loves ink, and the media will give him plenty of it.”

  “Which means our tip line will be flooded with hundreds of crackpot sightings,” Kylie said.

  “Not your problem,” Cates said. “Commissioner Harries will give me all the manpower I need to deal with the wacko phone calls. All you have to do is find Rachael O’Keefe, take down the Hazmat Killer, and turn Mayor Spellman into a national hero before Election Day. Get on it.”

  “Best locker room pep talk I ever heard from a coach,” Kylie said as we left Cates’s office. “It’s just what I needed to finally start giving a shit about this case.”

  By nine o’clock, two of the errant assistant DAs showed up and swore up and down that they never talked to anyone about Rachael’s hideaway in Jersey. Neither one of them hedged, hesitated, or in any way held back. They were telling the truth.

  “Three to go,” Kylie said. “I move we adjourn for the night. All in favor…”

  I was about to vote aye when the elevator stopped on our floor. Red has its own space on the third floor of the One Nine, and
we don’t get too much traffic—especially at this hour.

  The doors opened, and out stepped the last two people I’d have expected to show up at our office. The ones John Dho called Defectives Donovan and Boyle.

  They walked toward our desks, scowls still on their faces, chips still on their shoulders, and brooms still planted firmly up their asses.

  “We figured you’d still be here,” Donovan said.

  “That’s the thing about these serial killer cases,” Kylie said. “You don’t get to punch out early. What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think? Catch us up.”

  “On what?” Kylie.

  He laughed. “On what? On the fucking case. Look, you may be calling the shots, but this has been our case from the get-go, and we’re not walking away from—”

  Boyle held up his hand. “Calm down,” he said to his partner. Then he turned to Kylie. “I guess you can tell we’re still a little out of joint, but it’s not your fault. It’s just politics, so let’s start over. Okay?”

  “Go for it,” Kylie said. “It couldn’t get any worse.”

  “Look,” Boyle said, “me and Donovan were blindsided Monday morning. Hazmat was our case. We did the best we could, but let’s face it—the first three victims were all scumbags, and nobody complained that we hadn’t caught the killer. Then Parker-Steele gets whacked, and the case is page one. Now Rachael O’Keefe gets kidnapped, and the whole thing is going global.”

  “We don’t have any proof that O’Keefe is connected to Hazmat,” Kylie said.

  “The Post doesn’t have any proof either,” Boyle said, “but they’re going with it anyway—home page of their online edition. The point is, Hazmat is even bigger than before, and we don’t want to be known as the two schmuck cops that couldn’t crack it. Monday you said we were assigned to this so-called task force of yours. If we’re still on it, catch us up.”

  “Fair enough,” Kylie said. “We found a witness who saw Parker-Steele get into a car.”

  “Did they ID the car, or the driver?” Donovan asked.

  “There were two suspects,” Kylie said. “She got into the backseat with a man, but the witness couldn’t see who was driving.”