NYPD Red 3

by James Patterson

  “Hell, no,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Irwin, I don’t know if you and the cat are running some kind of scam together, but I do know that you’re too smart to make a crazy bet like that unless you know something that I don’t.”

  “Reliable information is how I make money,” he said, “but the difference between me and Alden is that my information comes from meticulous research. He taps phones, hacks email, plants bugs, bribes corporate executives, and gives kickbacks to government officials.”

  “So he’s a crook. But what did Irene mean when she said they made money in the wake of all that suffering?”

  “I don’t know, but I could give you a hypothetical. Let’s say there’s a new diet pill that lets you eat all you want and still lose weight. The FDA approves it, and the smart money says the drug company’s stock will go up. But Hunter Alden bets millions that it will go down.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he found out that the drug company rigged their clinical trials. But he doesn’t blow the whistle. The pill hits the market, hundreds of people who took it die, and the stock goes in the toilet.”

  “And Hunter makes a lot of money in the wake of a lot of suffering,” I said.

  “But wouldn’t the SEC check all the drug company’s stock transactions and realize he had insider information?” Kylie said.

  “His name would never show up. He’d do it all through phone calls to a Swiss lawyer and wire transfers to an offshore bank,” Irwin said.

  “I think now we know what’s on that missing flash drive,” Kylie said.

  I stood up and walked to the window. “Maybe I should have taken your bet. It looks like that cat doesn’t want to come out in the snow.”

  “Oh, my neighbor doesn’t have a cat,” Irwin said. “I just wanted to show you the power of information, even when it’s a lie.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I don’t know if any of this will help us crack the case, but it helps me understand why the 99 percent hate the 1 percent.”

  Irwin laughed. “Don’t hate us too much. Just remember that without the 1 percent, NYPD Red would just be NYPD Blue.”

  Chapter 63

  The taxi skidded across Third Avenue, barely missing the M101 bus. Hunter banged on the partition. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

  The driver laughed. “Sorry. Not so much snow in Bangladesh.”

  “Well, maybe you should think about going back where you—” Hunter’s phone rang. “Hello,” he barked.

  “Mr. Alden, this is Sergeant McGrath at the Nineteenth Precinct. Your car’s been released. You can send someone to pick it up anytime.”

  “Send someone? No, Sergeant. You hauled it away, you bring it back. Just use the garage door opener in the car, then exit through the side door of the garage. Can you handle that, or do I have to call the police commissioner?”

  “No, sir. I’ll find someone to drop it off at your house.”

  “Just make sure they know what they’re driving. That car costs more money than ten cops make in a year. I don’t want to see any dings or dents.”

  “Yes, sir,” McGrath said.

  The cab stopped at the 117th Street entrance to the East River Plaza, and Hunter entered the massive retail complex for the first and, he hoped, only time in his life.

  He followed the signs to Costco, and produced the official access document for a cheery greeter at the front entrance.

  “Where’s the food court?” he said.

  She pointed, and Hunter headed toward it. Tripp was sitting at a table off to the side, a slice of pizza and a soft drink in front of him.

  “Stand up,” Hunter ordered.

  “In case you forgot, I’m running this meeting,” Tripp said. “Sit down.”

  “Not until I make sure you’re not wired. Stand up.”

  “Wired? You must think everyone is as sick as you.” Tripp stood, and for the second time that day he let himself be frisked.

  “What do you want?” Hunter said when they both sat down.

  “You’re a negotiator. I thought we’d negotiate.”

  “Okay, here’s my final offer,” Hunter said. “You’re not getting a penny, and I’m completely restructuring my estate so that when I die, you wind up with nothing.”

  “When you die?” Tripp said. “You’re going to prison. Once the world knows what you did, I doubt if you’ll live through the first night. And even if they put you in solitary, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the guards kills you.”

  “You don’t have the proof to send me to prison.”

  “Don’t I? How about every single phone call you made to your Swiss lawyer, Mr. Joost? I listened to them. At first I thought you were making some crazy high-flying, high-risk investments, but you sounded so cocksure of yourself—it’s like you knew in advance what would happen. Turns out you did.”

  “Overconfidence is not a crime,” Hunter said.

  “There’s more. It took me weeks of searching through your archives, but I finally found the mother lode—the meeting in Turks and Caicos. You actually taped it. Dumb move, Leviticus. And then you kept the tape. Even dumber. But I understand why you did it. You hate to lose. Even more, you hate when somebody else wins. That tape was your insurance. You figured if you got caught, you could use it to bargain with. If Homeland could track down the guy who set up the Gutenberg deal, you might be able to avoid the death penalty.”

  Hunter laughed. “I don’t know what you think you found,” Hunter said, “but I’ll be sure to look for this so-called mother lode myself as soon as I get home. This meeting is over.” He stood up.

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” Tripp said. “Do you think you can just run home and erase the evidence? I’ve got it all, Dad. The phone calls to the lawyer, the meeting in Turks and Caicos—they’re all on one flash drive.”

  “Which you and your partner, Mr. Cain, intend to share with the world, whether I pay you or not.”

  “There is no more Mr. Cain,” Tripp said. “He’s been out of the loop for a while. And I’ve changed my mind about going public.”

  Hunter sat back down. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that as much as I want to punish you, I love my grandfather too much to destroy his name, his legacy, and everything he ever worked for. I’m willing to keep the secret a secret. But it will cost you.”

  “How much?”

  Tripp pounded his fist on the table. “How much do you think, asshole? You knew exactly what was going to happen. But you didn’t warn anyone. You stood by and let it happen. How much?” he said, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. “A billion fucking dollars. Every cent you made cashing in on everyone else’s misery.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Oh no, Dad. I’m damaged, but I’m not crazy. Monday morning I want you to create a foundation in Mom’s name. And then, in a magnanimous philanthropic gesture, you will fund the Marjorie Alden Foundation with a billion dollars in memory of your late wife, and you will appoint your son chairman of the board.”

  “And what’s your grand plan, Mr. Chairman?”

  “I’ll use the money to repair the damage you’ve done.”

  “I bet you will. And what happens to me?”

  “You? You’ll be a hero. Your picture will be on every front page in America. The benevolent Hunter Alden, a kind and generous global humanitarian. And only I will know what a vile and despicable scumbag you really are.”

  Chapter 64

  Tripp’s heart was racing as he left Costco and walked through the parking lot to his van. He’d had his father on the ropes, but then he blew it.

  “Never let the other guy see your cards,” his grandfather had taught him years ago. But Tripp had played a card he didn’t even have in his hand. The flash drive.

  And now that Hunter knew it existed he’d be scouring the house trying to find it. Sooner or later he’d get to Peter’s room, and that would be it.

  Tripp got behind the wheel of the va
n and dialed Patrice.

  “Tripp, I’m relieved to hear from you,” Patrice said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay, but I really need that flash drive I told you about. Did you find it yet?”

  “I’ve looked, and it’s nowhere to be seen, but right now I’m more concerned about you than a flash drive.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I just need you to keep looking. I’m sure it’s somewhere mixed in with all of Peter’s stuff.”

  “Most of which is still at your house.”

  “Patrice, you’re his brother. It’s all yours now. You don’t even have to ask anyone. Just go to the house and take it. I’ll give you the key code to the garage.”

  “I think you and I should sit down and talk first,” Patrice said. “Can we meet somewhere?”

  Tripp felt the cold steel of a gun barrel at the back of his neck. He lifted his head slowly and looked in the rearview mirror.

  Madison.

  “I can’t meet right now,” Tripp said. “I’ll get back to you soon.” He hung up the phone and focused on the man in the mirror.

  The hot coffee had left Madison’s face red and blotchy. There were blisters on the right side below his ear and a welt on his neck from the stun gun.

  “Dude,” Tripp said, “you really ought to see a dermatologist, or nobody’s going to want to go with you to the prom.”

  Madison raised the gun and brought it down hard on Tripp’s shoulder blade. The pain radiated up to his brain, but Tripp bit down hard, determined not to scream.

  “I heard your desperate phone call to Peter’s brother. It sounds like you lost your proof. I knew you could never pull this off on your own.”

  “Maybe not, but after you killed Peter and Silas, and locked me up on that boat, I decided it was safer to go solo. How did you find me, anyway?”

  “I never bothered looking for you. I knew you’d contact your father—all I had to do was follow him. I watched the two of you from behind a couple of pallets of paper towels. I couldn’t hear anything, but from the body language it looks to me like you cut a deal with him. How much did you ask for?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Tripp said. “I’ll still give you your share.”

  “You’ll give me?” Madison drove the gun down on the same shoulder blade.

  This time Tripp let out a yelp. “What was that for? I told you you’ll get your money—all ten million.”

  “And how much do you get?” Madison said, readying the gun to come down again.

  “The whole billion,” Tripp said, grabbing on to his battered shoulder. “Every penny he made from Gutenberg.”

  Madison laughed. “And why would he give you a billion if he turned me down for a fraction of that?”

  “Because he’ll pay whatever it takes to keep me quiet!” Tripp yelled, spinning around to face Madison. “And he’s not giving it to me. I’m starting a foundation in my mother’s name. Once I do that, he knows I’ll never say a word about Gutenberg. It would disgrace her memory.”

  “Was your mom an idealist, Tripp? Is that who you take after? Because clearly you didn’t inherit your father’s killer instincts for business. Ideals don’t mean jack shit to him when there’s money on the table. Let’s go for a ride.”

  Tripp turned around and put the key in the ignition. “Where are we going?” he said.

  Madison leaned forward. “East 81st Street. I’m going to make a deal with the devil.”

  “Why? I told you—he agreed to pay. You’ll screw up the whole deal.”

  “You don’t get it, do you, Tripp? Dealing is what Hunter Alden lives for. And do you know what he likes best?” Madison whispered, his warm breath in Tripp’s ear.

  “What?” Tripp said, starting the engine.

  “Getting what he wants from the lowest bidder.”

  Chapter 65

  The temperature was just on the cusp of freezing, so the roads were covered with what forecasters call a wintry mix, which is a euphemism for the unholy mess of snow, sleet, and icy rain that can cripple the city.

  I inched the car along Third Avenue past the usual logjam in front of Bloomingdale’s, where half a dozen overly optimistic shoppers craned their necks, looking for cabs. I saw daylight at 60th Street and picked up speed.

  “Do you think we have a shot at getting a search warrant?” Kylie asked.

  “You already know the answer to that one, which is why you didn’t ask Irwin Diamond,” I said. “And don’t bother asking Cates again. She gave us a flat-out no yesterday.”

  “That was different. We were talking about tossing Alden’s entire house, looking for a severed head. Now all we want is a tiny little peek inside the garage, where Peter’s room is. How long could it take us to find the flash drive?”

  “It wouldn’t matter if we found Peter’s head on Alden’s dining room table,” I said. “We don’t have cause to search. All we have is a doddering old woman talking about what might be a white-collar crime.”

  I made a left onto 67th Street. There’s a fire station next to the precinct, so parking on our block is at a premium, even for cops. But there in front of the One Nine was a familiar vehicle taking up twenty feet of NYPD’s valuable real estate.

  “Looks like Hunter Alden is finally getting his car back,” I said.

  “Perfect,” Kylie said.

  I had no clue what she meant, but then I realized she wasn’t talking to me. She had that look in her eyes that cartoonists use when one of their characters has a really bad idea. And I knew my partner well enough to know what Kylie’s bad idea was.

  “I’m going inside,” she said, getting out of the car. “Can you bring me back some coffee from Gerri’s?”

  “No,” I said, following her up the stairs and through the precinct door. “They deliver.”

  She headed straight for Sergeant McGrath at the front desk.

  “And where have you been, Detective MacDonald?” he said.

  “Fighting crime, and doing a damn fine job of it,” she said, shaking the snow out of her hair. “Why do you ask?”

  He leaned forward and looked down at her. “Did you get a call this morning from the One Oh Five garage about a crime scene vehicle that was ready to be released to its owner, a Mr. Hunter Alden?”

  Kylie looked at me and shrugged. “I did.”

  “Then why didn’t you call Mr. Alden and tell him?” McGrath said.

  “The truth?”

  “That would be refreshing.”

  “I didn’t call Alden because he’s a dick,” she said. “Also, I had a dentist’s appointment, but mainly because he’s done everything he can to obstruct a double homicide investigation, so I figured I’d let him stew.”

  “The problem, Detective, is that instead of stewing, Alden got on my case. I have enough to do around here dealing with regular folks without having to play Country Club Cop like the two of you.”

  “For the record,” Kylie said, “my partner, Detective Straight Arrow, didn’t know that the car was ready to be picked up.”

  “Not picked up,” McGrath said. “Delivered. In my twenty-two years I’ve never released anything from the chain of evidence without the owner coming in and signing for it. But it seems your Mr. Alden is exempt from the rules. So now I have to send two of my officers to take it back.”

  “No you don’t. It’s my fault this got dumped on you. I’ll take the car back.” She lowered her eyes. “I’m really, really sorry, Sergeant,” said the woman, who really, really never apologizes for anything.

  McGrath bought it. “Apology accepted,” he said, handing her a packet of papers. “Put it in the garage. If Alden’s there, get him to sign for it. If he’s not, leave the paperwork on the front seat, and he’ll fax me back a signed copy.”

  He held up a key ring. It had a small black fob and a gold crucifix dangling from it. “Your basic smart key,” McGrath said, tapping the Maybach logo on the fob. “Just put it in your pocket, and it does the rest. I don’t think Jesus on the cross is orig
inal factory equipment, but it couldn’t hurt.” He tossed her the key ring. “Go with God.”

  “I’m driving,” Kylie said as soon as we were outside. “You can follow.” She got behind the wheel.

  “One car,” I said, getting in the passenger side. “We have a few things to talk about.”

  The electronic ignition picked up a signal from the key ring, and she started the car with the push of a button. “You sure you don’t want to ride in the back and pour yourself a drink? Because the last thing I need is a lecture.”

  “‘You can’t search the garage without a warrant’ is not a lecture.”

  “What am I—a rookie?” she said, turning on the wipers. “I know the law. But now that we have permission to enter the garage, anything we see in plain sight is fair game.”

  “And what’s your definition of ‘in plain sight’?” I said.

  “Anything that is left out in the open, or is unconcealed,” she said, pulling the million-dollar car out onto the slushy street. “Or in the case of assholes like Hunter Alden,” she added, grinning, “anything in a drawer that I can open without a crowbar.”

  Chapter 66

  Hunter Alden was used to being the most important person in the room. But sitting at a table in the food court at Costco, he was nobody. He wanted to stand up and shout, “Don’t you people know who I am? I have more money than all of you put together.”

  He looked at his watch. Seven minutes had passed since Tripp left, ordering him to wait five minutes. It only proved how little his son understood him. Did Tripp actually think Hunter would try to follow him? Hunter had people for that. Had people. Blackstone was dead, and Wheeler was a ghost he’d never met.

  So he’d gone with the only option he could. He had agreed to create the foundation in Marjorie’s name. He had promised to hold a press conference on Monday morning, which gave him less than forty-eight hours to find a cheaper way to silence Tripp.