NYPD Red 3

by James Patterson

  “I know Spence has put you through the wringer with his drug problem, but divorce—that’s pretty drastic.”

  “Nothing is drastic yet,” she said. “I told you, I’m just testing the waters. I want to understand my options.”

  “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do,” I said. It was meant to be supportive. Or, at best, noncommittal. But Kylie responded like it was judgmental.

  “Hey,” she snapped, “I love Spence, but if he can’t kick it, I’m not sticking around. That was the deal I made with him when we got married ten years ago, and it’s the same deal today. Do I sound like a coldhearted bitch?”

  “No, not at all,” I said, making sure she knew whose side I was on. “You sound like a woman who’s already given Spence a second chance. He blew it. And now he’s blowing his third.”

  “Exactly. Three strikes. I’m a cop, Zach. I can’t be married to a drug addict.”

  “Whatever you do, I got your back.”

  I heard a key in the front door, and my stomach dropped. Timing is everything, and mine was disastrous.

  The door opened. It was Cheryl. “Well, hello. I thought I heard voices.”

  “You did. It was us,” I said, hoping I didn’t look as guilty as I sounded. “I thought you were spending the night in Westchester.”

  “Mildred passed.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Kylie said.

  “Me too.” I stood up and gave Cheryl a half-assed hug.

  “At this point it was a blessing. Fred is with Mildred’s sister and some of his cousins, so I thought I’d come home and go back for the wake on Tuesday. I came to your apartment because I wanted to make up for blowing off dinner last night. But if you guys are working, I’ll go to my place.”

  “No, no—working is the one thing we’re definitely not doing,” Kylie said. “That’s been the pact two nights in a row. Strictly social. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving,” Cheryl said, reaching for a slice of pizza.

  “Can I get you a beer?” I said, heading toward the fridge.

  “Please,” she said. “And hurry.”

  I brought her back a beer from the kitchen. She took a long swallow and exhaled slowly. “I can tell you right now that one won’t be enough,” she said. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

  “Same for us,” I said. “Why don’t I pop downstairs and make a quick beer run?”

  I dashed out of the apartment before they could answer. I didn’t even bother with a jacket.

  I replayed the scene in my head, trying to picture what Cheryl saw when she opened the door. Oh look, there’s Zach on his sofa, all nice and cozy, sipping beers with his ex-girlfriend, totally confident that his current girlfriend is out of town comforting her dying friend.

  Not a pretty picture. Even so, there was one brief moment when I had a shot at redemption. It was when Cheryl said, “If you guys are working, I’ll go to my place.”

  And then Kylie nailed the coffin shut.

  Hell, no, we’re not working. We’re just having fun. That’s been the deal two nights in a row. What? He didn’t tell you about the trip down memory lane we took last night? It was magical. Just Kylie and Zach—the same asshole who bitched and moaned about you spending any time with Fred.

  I bought two more six-packs at the bodega, but deep down inside I knew that no amount of alcohol was going to salvage my evening.

  It was the first thing I’d been right about all night.

  Chapter 52

  “Time to poke the bear,” Madison said, zipping up his jacket.

  Tripp was under a blanket staring at the ceiling. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve learned from your father’s mistakes. Handle all your business transactions in private. I’m going out. You’re not.”

  He grabbed a clean burner phone and padlocked the cabin door.

  It was a clear, crisp night, and the moon lit the way to the Subaru. There was no sense warming it up. This would be a short call. He lit a cigarette and dialed Hunter Alden’s number.

  Ten seconds into the conversation, it was clear that Hunter’s legendary negotiating skills were impaired by exhaustion, booze, and rage.

  He flew into a tirade. “You should have taken the five million I offered last night. Now that I know my shit-for-brains son is in on it, you get nothing.”

  “News flash, Hunter. Tripp is not just in on it. The whole thing was his idea.”

  “Bullshit. He’s already got a half-a-billion-dollar trust fund and a shitload more down the road. Why would a kid like that need another hundred million?”

  “To punish you, Hunter. And to make reparations to your victims.”

  “Reparations? Is that his ingenious blackmail scheme? Give me your money, and I won’t tell your secrets? But once I get the money, I’ll give it away, and it will be on the front page of every newspaper on the planet.”

  “What can I say? The kid’s an idealist.”

  “Well he can shove his ideals up his ass. I don’t have any victims, and you’re not getting any money. Fuck you and Tripp. You can kill him for all I care.”

  “I’d be happy to accommodate you,” Madison said. “But it will cost you a hundred million dollars.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You haven’t figured it out yet? I thought surely by now you would have grasped the finer points of my brilliant business model.”

  “Illuminate me, asshole.”

  “Tripp knows everything. As soon as you pay the ransom, he’ll go straight to Homeland Security, tell them what a bad daddy he has, and put you behind bars for the rest of your life. I didn’t kidnap Tripp so I could send him home once you pay the money. I’m only planning to let Tripp go if you don’t pay me.”

  Hunter inhaled sharply, audibly.

  “Aha…that sounds like a gasp of enlightenment. It’s quite simple, Hunter. If you fail to see the wisdom of my business proposition, I’ll cut my losses, turn your son loose, and within a few hours, men with buzz cuts and badges will appear at your front door. Need I go on?”

  Hunter didn’t say a word.

  “Your silence is heartening. It means you’re finally processing the upside of my proposal. Shall I text you the number of my account in the Caymans?”

  “These things take time,” Hunter said.

  “I come from humble beginnings, but I’ve familiarized myself with a few of the basic rules of international banking. It’s now almost midnight on Friday. The Fed reopens for immediate, final, irrevocable wire transfers at nine p.m. on Sunday. That gives you forty-five hours to contemplate your future, my future…and of course Tripp’s future.”

  “Spell it out for me,” Hunter said. “Exactly what am I buying?”

  “Total silence. As soon as the wire transfer clears, Tripp and I will take off on a little sea voyage, and you’ll never hear from either of us again. Good night, Leviticus.”

  He hung up and walked back to the dock. Silver beams of moonlight streaked the Hudson, and looking east, he could see the tip of Manhattan. The heart of the financial district. The Street. Home of the robber barons.

  He tossed the cell phone into the water and watched it sink without a ripple. Then he extended his arm, stuck up his middle finger, and yelled into the cold, quiet night.

  “My name is Ryan Madison, and you can all kiss my hundred-million-dollar ass.”

  Part Three

  Project Gutenberg

  Chapter 53

  If you have to be anywhere at six o’clock on a cold Saturday morning, Gerri’s Diner is one of the better places to be. The food is always good, and at that hour the place is relatively empty, so Gerri has time to come to your table and shamelessly meddle in your life.

  Sometimes I steer clear of her unsolicited advice, but after last night’s disaster with Cheryl and Kylie I was ripe for her take-no-prisoners brand of grandmotherly wisdom.

  She brought two cups of coffee and a basket of muffins and sat down across from me.
r />   “Sorry I ran out on the check yesterday,” I said.

  “Yeah, I called the cops,” she said, pushing the muffins in my direction. “They’re looking all over for you.”

  “What do I owe you?”

  “I don’t know yet. It depends how long this therapy session lasts. You’ve got ‘needy’ and ‘confused’ written all over you.”

  I told her what had happened the night before. She didn’t say a word until I got to the point where I bolted out the door.

  “You left the scene of the crime? I hope you brought back a third woman, because you don’t have a chance in hell with the two you left in your apartment.”

  She nailed it, and the look on my face let her know she was right.

  “Anyway, I get back with the beer, thinking, ‘How do I do damage control?,’ and as soon as I walk in the door, Cheryl says she’s exhausted from a long day, gives me a half-assed peck on the cheek, and leaves. Then Kylie, who’s clueless about what’s going on, says she better be going too, and she leaves.”

  “And there you are with all those party supplies and no party.”

  “I felt like a total asshole.”

  “You want my take on it?”

  I knew I wasn’t going to like what she had to say, but I needed to hear it. “Sure. Lay it on me.”

  “You’re right about one thing,” she said. “You were a total asshole. Someone Cheryl loves is dying, she’s devastated, and all you can think about is your manly ego? She was married to Fred for more than ten years. It’s over. And you’re upset because she’s got compassion? My take on you—” She picked up a spoon and banged it on the tabletop like a gavel. “Guilty of bad behavior.

  “Next case: Cheryl was right to chew you out after the way you behaved when she showed up with Fred. But then she walks in on you and Kylie, gets her own nose out of joint, sends you on a fool’s errand, then walks out when you come back? Classic passive-aggressive shit. Verdict on Dr. Robinson: guilty.” The gavel-spoon came down again.

  “And finally, Kylie. Do you really think she was clueless about what was going on between you and Cheryl? Women are not remotely as clueless as men would like to think. As for coming up to your apartment for pizza so she could tell you how her marriage is going south, she knew exactly what she was doing. She wants to play out the old girlfriend-boyfriend scenario, only without the sex…for now. But that’s like Spence spending the night with a bottle of oxy on the dresser and promising himself he won’t even look at it.”

  “So you think she wants to get back together with me?”

  “I’m not saying she’s ready to jump into bed with you, but she definitely remembers the times when she did, and it’s not an option she’s ruled out. And you—you had the same thing on your mind. You weren’t just sitting on the sofa drinking beer so you could help save her marriage. Both of you: guilty.” She pounded the gavel-spoon two more times.

  “Okay, but at least you’re saying we’re all equally at fault.”

  “You’re not listening. Yes, you’re all at fault, but not equally. You started it, Zach. You’re the one who got upset with Cheryl because you let your ego take over for your brain. And you’re the one who invited Kylie up to your apartment for a six-pack and sympathy, only it wasn’t your ego that made that stupid decision. It was your—hey, do I have to spell it out for you? Court is adjourned.”

  She gave one last hit with her gavel and stood up.

  “You need protein,” she said. “How do you want your eggs?”

  Chapter 54

  Tripp woke up to the smell of fresh coffee. He’d slept in his parka and hugged it to his body. “Worst night’s sleep of my life,” he said, easing himself out of the top bunk.

  “I’ll call the front desk and see if I can arrange for an upgrade,” Madison said. “Till then, suck it up, princess.”

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” Tripp said. “That guy walked in out of nowhere and opened the cage. I had no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice,” Madison said. “But what’s done is done.”

  “I guess my father is pissed at me now that he knows I’m not really kidnapped.”

  “I hate to break it to you, kid, but he didn’t seem to give a shit about you. Mostly he’s crapping in his pants that I know about Project Gutenberg.” He poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’m going up top for a smoke. Help yourself to coffee. There are some power bars in the cabinet.”

  Madison went up to the deck and lit a cigarette.

  Tripp poured himself a cup of black coffee and followed him upstairs. “You think he’ll pay the hundred million?”

  “Oh, he’ll come around,” Madison said. He took a drag on his cigarette, turned away from Tripp, and blew the smoke in the other direction.

  Tripp braced himself. Now or never.

  As Madison turned back to look at him, Tripp’s arm flew up and unleashed a full cup of scalding hot coffee at his face.

  Madison screamed, dropped his cigarette and coffee cup, and threw his hands against his seared skin. Tripp dug into the pocket of his parka, produced the stun gun, wedged it under Madison’s jaw, and shot fifteen million volts into the teacher’s neck.

  Madison crumpled to the deck. One hand still clutching his face, he struggled to get to his feet, but Tripp fell on him, jammed the stun gun against his ass, and squeezed the trigger.

  All it took was three seconds and Madison was immobilized. Tripp rifled through his pockets. Money. Car keys. No phone—and no time to go back to the cabin and hunt for one. Shoving his arms under Madison’s torso, he dragged him across the deck and, with one adrenaline-charged motion, heaved him over the side into the icy Hudson.

  Tripp ran for the starboard side and vaulted onto the dock. It would have been an easy jump if he hadn’t caught the toe of his boot on a cleat. He landed hard, and both ankles buckled on impact. The stun gun flew from his hand, skittered into a wooden pile, and bounced into the water.

  He staggered to his feet. The parking lot was only a hundred yards away. He started to run, but it was like a dream where he willed himself to go faster, and his body refused. His ankles were on fire, his legs were leaden, and the best he could do was painstakingly limp his way up the icy path toward the Subaru.

  He was almost there when he heard the scream. He turned. Madison was out of the river, slowly slogging toward him.

  Tripp threw himself against the driver’s side door of the Subaru and, with two hands on one key, put it against the lock. It didn’t fit. He fumbled for the other key. That didn’t work either. Cursing, he tried the first one again. Still nothing.

  Madison, waterlogged and weighed down, was halfway up the hill, screaming Tripp’s name, swearing that all was forgiven, promising that everything would be all right.

  Tripp tried the second key one more time. He held it as steady as he could, put the tip against the lock, and pushed. It didn’t fit. By now Madison was fifty feet away, panting, his pace slower, but closing in.

  Tripp had two options: try to outrun him or stay and fight. And then his eyes fell on the useless car keys, and his brain zeroed in on the Pentastar logo.

  It wasn’t the Subaru key.

  Madison was less than twenty feet away when Tripp unlocked the front door of the rusty old Dodge Caravan, shoved the second key in the ignition, turned the engine over, threw the van into reverse, and hit the accelerator.

  The van lurched back into the empty lot. Ten feet, twenty, fifty.

  He was crying now, overwhelmed by fear and the new reality. Peter was gone. Madison had betrayed him. His father despised him. For the first time in his privileged life, Tripp Alden was on his own.

  He shifted the van into drive, and then, pointing toward freedom, careened out of the parking lot and headed north on Marin Boulevard toward the Holland Tunnel, into the city.

  Chapter 55

  After a memorable breakfast of eggs, bacon, and a side order of analysis, I walked to the office to face my second challenge of the morni
ng. Matt Smith.

  Matt is our resident technical virtuoso—an affable Brit who’s easy to like and easy to work with. He’s also annoyingly good-looking, which for me makes him harder to like and harder to work with.

  A few months ago, I caught him being overly attentive to Cheryl, and I was sure he was hitting on her. But I was wrong. Matt was much more fascinated by Kylie. He never acted on his feelings because he knew she was married. But in my never-ending quest to drive myself crazy, I wondered what he’d do if he found out Kylie was thinking about becoming unmarried.

  She was in Matt’s office when I got there. “Zach, Matt’s been working on Tripp’s computer all night, and he’s got something.”

  “Correction,” he said, flashing a self-congratulatory smile. “Half the night. And two somethings.”

  He tapped on the tracking pad, and an email popped up on one of the two thirty-inch monitors on his desk.

  Mwen te kite flash la nan chanm ou. Èske ou te jwenn li? Tripp

  “It’s in Haitian Creole from Tripp to Peter Chevalier,” Matt said. “It says ‘I left the flash drive in your room. Did you get it?’ Here’s Peter’s response.”

  Te resevwa li. Pa enkyete. Mwen pral kenbe l ‘fèmen. Pyè

  “Translation: ‘Got it. Don’t worry. I’ll keep it close. Peter.’ There was nothing in the evidence report that indicates they found a flash drive on Peter’s body. Did you find one in his room?”

  “No, and we released his personal effects to his brother,” I said. “None of it was crime scene evidence, but we’ll get the computer back if you want it.”

  “Absolutely. In the meantime, you should talk to her,” Matt said, flashing a picture of a woman on the second screen. “Irene Gerrity, eighty-five years old. According to the file I found in Tripp’s computer, she’s the first employee ever hired by Alden Investments. She was Hutch’s personal secretary until Junior joined the family business. Then she was assigned to him—probably because in the beginning she knew more than he did. She worked for him till she retired seven years ago. Last November, Tripp shot an interview with her.”