NYPD Red (4 page)

NOTHING CLEARS A crowded restaurant like a bleeding corpse. We were told that someone yelled “Call 911!” when Roth hit the floor. After that, everybody yelled out “Check!”

By the time the two uniformed first responders showed up, most of the witnesses had left the building. Luckily, this was the Regency and not a Starbucks, and Philippe, the very buttoned-up and genuinely helpful maître d’, assured us he could refer to his seating chart and reconstruct the entire population of the dining room from the minute it opened to the minute Roth died.

“Mr. Roth was at table twelve with four others,” Philippe said. “Two of them are still here.”

He pointed to two men in their early thirties sitting at a table in the corner, a silver carafe and two coffee cups between them.

I looked up, and one of the men grinned and started waving.

“He seems to be taking Roth’s death rather well,” I said to Kylie. “What the hell is he waving at?”

“Me,” she said. “I know him. He’s a friend of Spence’s.”

We walked over, and the man stood up. “Kylie,” he said. “I knew you were a cop, but what are the odds?”

“This is my partner, Detective Zach Jordan,” she said. “Zach, this is Harold Scott.”

“My friends call me Scotty,” he said, shaking my hand.

He introduced us to the other man. “This is Randy Pisane. We were having breakfast with Sid Roth when he died.”

“Thanks for staying,” I said. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“One minute Roth is fine. He’s telling us war stories. I mean this guy worked with everybody—Eastwood, Newman, Brando—the biggest of the big. I’ve got to tell you, even if half of that shit was true—”

“Scotty,” Kylie said. “What actually
happened?
”

“Anyway, to make a long story short, all of a sudden, bam—he’s standing up, puking, having some kind of a seizure, and then down he goes. Smashed his head open, bled all over everything. It was gruesome. I mean, you see a lot worse on film, but in real life, it’s—I don’t know—it’s real. It sucks.”

“Did Roth grab his chest or his arm or his shoulder?” Kylie asked.

Scotty shrugged. “I don’t know. It was kind of fast, and I was pretty grossed out by all the vomiting.”

“You mean did he grab his chest like he was having a heart attack?” Pisane asked.

“Yes.”

“No, there was none of that,” Pisane said. “Look, I’m no doctor, but I wrote for
CSI: Miami
for two seasons, and what happened to Roth played out like an episode we shot where the guy was poisoned.”

“You mean like food poisoning?” I said.

He looked at me like I was stupid. “No! Poison, like murder. Don’t you watch
CSI: Miami
?”

“So you’re talking about a homicide,” I said. “Do you know if Mr. Roth had any enemies?”

Both men laughed.

“It would be a lot easier if you asked if he had any friends,” Scotty said.

“Scotty’s right,” Pisane said. “Google him. He was a ruthless son of a bitch, but everybody wanted to work with him because he made a bitchload of money.”

We thanked them and found Dryden, who was still busy photographing table twelve.

“One of the witnesses corroborates your theory,” I said. “He says that the symptoms Roth displayed just before he died make it look like he was poisoned.”

“Is he a doctor?” Dryden said.

“A writer for
CSI: Miami.
”

“It’s crap. Never watch it.”

Philippe had had the good sense not to clear Roth’s table. There were still five plates, five coffee cups, five waters, and one empty juice glass sitting on the table.

“This is Rafe,” Philippe said. “He was Mr. Roth’s waiter.”

“Where was Roth sitting?” I asked.

Rafe pointed toward the juice glass.

I turned to Dryden. “Chuck, you can bag and tag it all, but do me a favor, when you run it through the lab, start with the glass.”

“And you might want to test everything in the kitchen,” Kylie said. “Just in case someone was targeting the whole dining room and Roth was the first to drink the Kool-Aid.”

Chuck moved his head imperceptibly in something that looked like agreement.

“Rafe,” I said, “did you bring Mr. Roth the juice?”

“No. There was a busboy—a new guy, Latino. I asked him to top off the coffee. When he got to the table, Roth asked him for the tomato juice, and he brought it.”

“What’s this busboy’s name?”

“I don’t know,” Rafe said. “Like I told you, he was new.”

“Where is he now?”

Rafe shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s not here. He’s not in the kitchen. He probably went home.”

I turned to Philippe.

He shook his head. “We don’t have any new busboys today. This is a busy week. I have all my regulars—nobody new. The one who brought the juice—I don’t know who he is.”

My cell phone rang. It was Cates.

“Give me an update,” she said.

“We’re at the Regency. The Possible Homicide is looking more like a Probable Murder One, but we have to give the lab rats time to dust and dissect. We’re going to head back to the precinct.”

“Don’t,” Cates said. “I need you at Silvercup Studios. There’s another body. Ian Stewart, the actor.”

“What went down?” I asked.

“He was shot,” Cates said.

“Anybody see anything?”

“There were about a hundred witnesses,” Cates said, “and if none of them are any help, we’ve got the whole thing on film.”

I GAVE PHILIPPE my email address and told him to send me a list of everyone who was in the dining room. “And put the two guys who had breakfast with Roth and bolted before the cops got here at the top of the list.”

I thought about asking Rafe the waiter to sit with a police artist and come up with a sketch of the busboy, but I know a waste of time when I see one. No sense circulating a picture of a generic male Puerto Rican who looks like half a million guys from East Williamsburg to Spanish Harlem.

I thanked Philippe and motioned Kylie toward the exit. As expected, the Regency’s unholy trinity was waiting in the doorway.

“Do you have any surveillance cameras in the dining room?” I asked.

The manager looked at me like I’d asked if they had peepholes in the guests’ bathrooms.

“This is the Regency,” he said. “Our clients come here for discretion and privacy.”

“How about the back of the house? Do you keep an eye on the kitchen staff?”

“We did, but…” He looked at the executive chef. “Etienne had the cameras removed when he came here two years ago.”

The burly chef gave a wave of his hand to let me know that he had no regrets. “I find them offensive, distracting,” he said.

The old me would have said something like
Makes it easier to spit in somebody’s bouillabaisse if they piss you off,
but my sensitivity training kicked in and I went with, “We’ll need a list of everyone who worked here this morning.”

“Fine,” Chef Etienne said.

Not so fine with the guy from corporate. “Detective, is that really necessary? It’s a heart attack.”

“It’s a police investigation,” I said. “My partner and I have to go. We’ll be talking to you.”

“Wait!” It was
le chef.
“We have to set up for lunch. How long before that, that…” He pointed at the dead man on the dining room carpet, which I’m sure he found offensive and distracting.

“I’m sorry it’s taking so long,” I said. “He’ll be out in a few minutes. Thank you for being so patient.” It was the classic bullshit response waiters are trained to give customers when the dinner they ordered an hour ago still hasn’t come out of the kitchen.

I seriously doubt if Chef Etienne appreciated the irony.

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.”

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.”