NYPD Red (8 page)

ONE SECOND I was staring at the guy who torched Brad Schuck, and the next he was gone.

“We lost him,” I said. “He knows where our camera is, and he’s climbing down the back side of the scaffold.”

I’d never worked with Jerry Brainard before, but the man was a total pro. Unflappable. Grace under fire.

“Of course he knows where
that
camera is. It’s twenty-seven feet high and pointing right at him,” Brainard said. “But I wonder if he knows about this one.”

His fingers worked the console, the picture changed, and suddenly there was our bomber, climbing down the opposite side of the camera tower.

“Traffic cam,” Brainard said. “I preset every one in a six-block radius before we started. Just in case.”

Jerry was good, but the guy we were after wasn’t stupid. He had to know we’d pick him up with another camera soon enough. As soon as his feet touched the ground, I understood why he needed to be off camera, even if for just a few seconds.

In one swift, almost invisible move his distinctive blue E! channel shirt was transformed into a red, orange, and gold tie-dyed T.

“Velcro,” Brainard said. “Pretty slick.”

I grabbed the mic. “Command to all units. Suspect is on the ground and on the run. He’s removed the E! channel uniform and is now wearing jeans and a red, orange, and gold tie-dyed sixties-type T-shirt. He’s in front of the Time-Life Building and headed for West Five One Street.”

You might think that with more than a hundred cops blanketing the area we’d have no problem grabbing one man. But it wasn’t that easy. Most of our guys had been stationed in front of the barricades, and they had to work their way back through the crowd.

Under normal circumstances, a bunch of New Yorkers might begrudgingly get out of the way if a cop yelled “Coming through, coming through!” But tonight, the circumstances were far from normal. As soon as the Molotov cocktail hit, people stampeded for safety. To make matters worse, they didn’t all agree on which direction was safe. It was every man for himself, and they pushed, shoved, and elbowed frantically, not caring if the person they bowled over was a pregnant woman or a cop chasing a lunatic.

Several of our uniforms broke through the crowd and made their way toward 51st Street.

“He doesn’t have a prayer,” Brainard said.

Then our screen went purple.

“Shit—he tossed a smoke bomb,” Brainard said.

The smoke screen wouldn’t win any special effects awards, but it worked.

Brainard pulled back to a wide shot.

“There he is,” I said.

Tie-Dye was heading for the maze of food carts that had taken over the south side of 51st Street.

“Sir, we’ve got a bird’s-eye view, but our guys at street level can’t see two feet in front of them.”

“But they can look up,” I said, keying the mic.

“Suspect is in the row of food carts on Five One,” I said. “He’s between a yellow-and-blue Sabrett hot dog umbrella and a red-and-white that says ‘Falafel.’”

The smoke was settling quickly, and I could see several of our uniforms aggressively pushing their way through the mob toward the target umbrellas.

The cop in the lead was ten feet away when it happened.

A motorcycle came roaring out from between the two carts and headed east on 51st Street.

“Damn,” Brainard said. “This guy is good.”

“Not as good as we are. We got him now. Command to all units,” I said into the mic. “I need a total lockdown on all vehicular traffic, Forty-second to Fifty-seventh Streets. Ninth Avenue to Third. Suspect is on a bright green Kawasaki Ninja rice rocket.”

The man on the motorcycle made a rubber-burning right turn and headed the wrong way on Sixth Avenue. The Ninja was at full throttle and was making a beeline for the flaming limo.

“Look at that crazy bastard,” Brainard said. “Where the hell is he going?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “The entire grid is locked up tight. It’s impossible for him to get away.”

And then, right before my very eyes, the son of a bitch did the impossible.

STANDING THERE ON the scaffold with the Molotov in his hand, Gabriel the director gave a last-minute pep talk to Gabriel the star.

“This is the money shot. You only get one take, but you can do it. You’ve done it a thousand times.”

Gabriel the actor rolled his eyes. A thousand? He’d gotten it right only six times. Six out of thirty-two. Tossing a flaming bottle onto a moving car isn’t as easy as people think. Lexi had rehearsed him, but without the fire. And instead of a car, they had used a shopping cart they took from the parking lot at Pathmark.

He thought he could use some more practice, but she said, “No, you never want to over-rehearse.”

They had made the napalm at home. It was ridiculously easy. Just mix gasoline with Styrofoam and put it in a glass bottle.

Lexi, of course, had to complicate it.

“Add some vodka,” she said.

“What’ll that do?”

“Probably nothing. It’s just a little cinematic symbolism. Brad Schuck—vodka—get it?”

What the hell.
He added a shot of Stoli.

And now it was showtime. The Hummer came rolling up Sixth Avenue.

“And action,” the director called out.

As soon as the bottle left his hand, he knew that the thirty-third time was the charm. Perfect throw, perfect arc, perfect landing.

The explosion was louder, brighter, and more spectacular than he expected. He only wished he had time to stay and enjoy Brad Schuck’s final performance, but he’d see it all on video tonight.

Scrambling down the scaffold, The Chameleon morphed from bland blue to brightly colored tie-dye, and bolted for the Kawasaki.

The smoke bomb was Lexi’s idea. They had argued about the color. He thought red smoke would stick it to the NYPD Red cops. But she reminded him that there’s also NYPD blue.

“Red plus blue equals purple,” she said. “Perfect way to stick it to them both.”

Never argue Lexi logic.
It didn’t matter. He was just glad she came up with the idea, because as it turned out the smoke saved his ass.

The Chameleon knew all the great movie motorcycle scenes—Schwarzenegger on the Harley Fat Boy in
Terminator 2,
McQueen on the Triumph TR6 in
The Great Escape,
and now yours truly on the Kawasaki Ninja.

He jumped on the cow, pinned the throttle, and peeled out. Most of the cops had moved to the inside of the barricade to try to control the freaked-out civilians, so it was clear sailing as he tore down Sixth Avenue.

He didn’t have much time. It was only a matter of seconds before they locked up Midtown, river to river.

At 48th Street he stood up, took his weight off the front wheel, and headed for the one place they wouldn’t think to seal off.

Underground.

He pointed the bike at the entrance to the D train and barreled down the stairs.

Most subway stations would be a dead end, but the Rockefeller family had been thoughtful enough to build a twenty-acre concourse underneath their vast complex of skyscrapers. Lined with shops, restaurants, and art galleries, it connected all the office buildings from Fifth Avenue to Sixth, from 48th Street to 51st.

It was a magnet for tourists, a year-round temperature-controlled transportation hub for commuters, and of course an ingenious escape route for a man on a motorcycle trying to outwit the police.

There were no cops down here. Just wide-eyed sightseers who smiled when they saw the Kawasaki cruising slowly along the marble corridors, and jaded New Yorkers who clearly didn’t give a shit.

It all went smoothly except for the train. It wasn’t pulling in when he got to the station. It never is. He walked casually toward the far end of the platform checking out his fellow travelers.

And then he saw her.

Hilary Swank.

Not the real Hilary. It was a poster for her latest film.

He walked up to it.

“Hey, Hilary,” he said. “Remember me? The jerk at the bar? Not anymore, baby.”

Not. Any. More.

THE COMMAND CENTER was crammed to capacity, including Kylie, Cates, the commissioner, the mayor, and Irwin Diamond, the deputy mayor in charge of damage control.

“I invite half of Hollywood to visit the fine film production facilities of New York City,” His Honor said, “and on Day One we’ve got two dead and another one circling the drain? How is that possible?”

Like Reitzfeld had said earlier at Silvercup, shit floats up. The commissioner fielded the question. “This guy is good, sir. He’s a master of disguise, he knows how to blend in, he’s planned every killing, including his exit strategy, and he’s got balls the size of Brooklyn. We had a hundred cops looking for him, and he sweet-talked his way right into the middle of them, and rode out on a Kawasaki.”

“And in case you missed it on the West Coast, it’ll be on the news at eleven, and on YouTube forever.” The mayor pounded his fist on the console. “What’s his goddamn motive? Why is he doing this to us? To me?”

Kylie, never afraid to speak, spoke. “He works in the business, sir. He’s obviously got some kind of a grudge.”

“A
grudge?
No, Detective,” the mayor said. “A grudge you take to the union. This guy is a madman, and his mission is to single-handedly put New York City out of the film business.” He turned to his deputy mayor. “Where do you net out on this shitstorm, Irwin?”

Diamond was much older than his boss. In fact, he was the oldest of all the mayor’s advisers. Those who knew him said he was also the wisest. And those who saw him in action said the calmest.

“Actually, Stan,” Diamond said, “I think Detective MacDonald is right. Whoever is doing this does have a grudge. If you don’t like the word ‘grudge,’ call it a ‘major hard-on.’ But he’s not angry at New York. He’s fed up with the entire
fakakta
Hollywood system. And there’s nobody he can bitch to because nobody did anything wrong to him. All they did was ignore him. Reject him. And now he’s getting revenge.”

Heads nodded. It made sense.

The commissioner jumped in. “Irwin is right, sir. This guy is a loser who’s been chewed up and spit out by the whole ugly LA film business. He’s only using New York as his venue because we happened to conveniently gather a lot of primo targets in a small space in a short time. But this is all about Hollywood.”

The mayor pressed his fingertips to his temples and weighed the input. “So our position with the press is that a madman followed these Hollywood people to New York? What’s that supposed to mean? It’s not our fault? It won’t fly, Ben. People got killed on our watch.”

The commissioner didn’t respond. Diamond held up his hand. “Stan, people die in hospitals all the time. Is that the hospital’s fault? Would they have survived if they stayed at home?”

“Don’t get all Talmudic on me, Irwin,” the mayor said. “No matter how you serve it up, NYPD is going to get skewered in the press—especially by the
LA Times
and all those Hollywood rags. Don’t quote me, but the best thing that can happen is this lunatic follows them back to California, offs a few more of them, and by next week this time the LA cops are taking the heat.”

“That’s not going to happen, sir.” It was Kylie.

“You’re saying he’s not going to bother following them back to LA?” the mayor said. “Why? Because he only likes killing people in New York?”

“No, sir,” Kylie said. “He’s not going to LA because we’re going to catch him before he ever leaves town.”

And just like that, my new partner, on her first day on the job, promised the mayor of New York that in less than seventy-two hours, we would track down and capture the worst serial killer to terrorize this city since the Son of Sam.

Irwin Diamond laughed warmly and gave Kylie a thumbs-up. “Talk about balls the size of Brooklyn,” he said.

FIRST THEY WATCHED the video, ate the pizza, and drank the champagne. All of it. Then they made love—gentle, sweet, innocent—more like teenagers exploring the mysteries of sex than a pair of cold-blooded serial killers.

When it was over, they lay naked in each other’s arms and played their favorite game. Acting out the worst cliché-ridden movie scenes they could invent.

“Oh, Professor Cunningham,” Lexi said in her thickest southern drawl. “Ours is a forbidden love. Whatever shall we do if we get caught?”

“We shan’t get caught, my Fair One,” Gabriel said with mock British earnestness. “Unless…”

“Unless what, my darling?” Lexi pleaded. “Unless what?”

“Unless I’m dumb enough to give you an A in Eighteenth-century Lit. People see that—they’ll figure the old prof must be shagging young Pamela Ward.”

They laughed their asses off, filled their champagne glasses with beer, unmuted the TV, and surfed the news channels.

“Holy shit,” Gabriel said. “CBS, NBC, ABC, Fox, CNN—it’s all us all the time. Let’s see if we’re on ESPN.”

“Wait, wait, the mayor is coming on,” Lexi said.

They were tuned to ABC
Eyewitness News,
and the director cut away from the anchor to a shot of the mayor standing at a podium in front of the NYPD command post. The police commissioner stood to his right.

“Who’s that behind them?” Lexi said.

“Those are the two cops from Silvercup. He’s Detective Jordan and she’s Detective MacDonald. They’re the ones who ignored me. I don’t know the black chick in the uniform. I think she could be one of their bosses.”

“Detective MacDonald looks like she’s kind of a bitch, but Detective Jordan, he’s kind of cute,” Lexi said.

“Shh,” he said. “You wanna hear the mayor or not?”

“A vicious and violent crime was committed on the streets of our city tonight,” the mayor said, “and our hearts go out to Brad Schuck’s family and fans. Mr. Schuck is in a coma at the Burn Center of New York Hospital, and I have no further news on his condition other than that it is critical.”

“Mr. Mayor!” a reporter shouted.

“Let me finish,” the mayor snapped. “NYPD has mounted its most elite task force to track down the person or persons responsible for this hideous crime, and we in New York are saddened not only by the injuries inflicted on Mr. Schuck, but because this has marred what should have been a celebratory event tonight here at Radio City, where New York has opened its heart and its doors to the Hollywood filmmaking industry.”

“What a crock of shit,” Gabe said.

“Let me assure our colleagues from Los Angeles,” the mayor continued, “that while this may well be a hate crime targeted at the Hollywood community, it happened here on our watch, and the city of New York and the NYPD will not rest until the perpetrators are brought to justice. Thank you.”

He started to walk off camera.

“Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!” a chorus of reporters called out.

“Now is not the time for questions,” the mayor said.

“Is this connected to this afternoon’s shooting of Ian Stewart and the sudden suspicious death of producer Sid Roth this morning?”

The mayor stopped in his tracks, said something in private to the police commissioner, and returned to the podium. “NYPD is in the middle of a criminal investigation. We can’t elaborate on what we’ve learned so far, and we can’t speculate about whether any of the incidents you cited are in any way connected to the brutal attack on Mr. Schuck. But the commissioner has assured me that the department is working around the clock to prevent any further violence and to bring about a swift conclusion to this tragedy. Right now, I think that instead of speculating, we all should pray for Brad Schuck to recover from this horrible ordeal. No more questions. Thank you and good night.”

This time, the mayor walked off and the entourage followed.

The station cut back to the anchorman, and Lexi muted the TV. “Shall we pray for Brad Schuck to recover from this horrible ordeal?” she said.

“I don’t pray when I’m naked,” Gabe said, rolling over on his back.

She straddled him, lowering herself gradually, and moaned as she felt him slide inside of her.

He thrust his pelvis upward, and she arched her back. The pace was slow at first, unhurried, but as they moved in perfect rhythm together, the passion built. She cried out his name, and he reached around and dug his fingers into her buttocks.

They were both seconds away from an explosive climax when the phone rang.

It jolted him to the core.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” she said.

But he did stop.

The phone rang again.

It was after midnight. Nobody called them this late. The agency called when they had a job for him as an extra, but never after five or six in the evening.

The phone rang a third time, and he picked it up.

“Hello, who’s this?”

“This is a fan of yours,” the voice on the other end said. “I just watched the mayor’s press conference. Congratulations.”

“Congratulations on what?”

“Come on, Gabe. I know you’re behind all this.”

He sat up, the passion completely gone. Lexi flopped off of him and sat cross-legged on the bed trying to figure out what was happening.

“Behind all what?” he said.

“Cut the shit,” the caller said. “If Roth and Ian Stewart didn’t tip me off, the Molotov cocktail sure did.”

The Chameleon could feel his chest constricting and panic welling up in his throat.

This was not in the script.