Kylie fired at him, and the shot went wide.
“You missed, bitch,” he screamed.
I knew better. Kylie was the best shot in our class at the academy. Her shot hadn’t missed. She was trying to draw his fire so I could get to him.
I could hear the sirens and see the flashing lights making their way into the park from East 72nd Street.
“Madison,” I yelled. “You’re surrounded. Throw down the gun.”
“I’ve seen too many movies, Jordan,” he yelled. “Throwing down the gun makes for a piss-poor ending.”
He fired at me. Once again the bullet missed by inches. I rolled.
“Zach?” Kylie yelled.
All she said was my name, but we’d been partners long enough for me to put it in context.
“Do it,” I screamed.
Kylie stood up and fired over the door of the Maybach. The bullet made a neat little hole directly under Madison’s jaw, and a much bigger, much messier one in the back of his skull.
A gurgling growl came from his throat, and for an instant he remained frozen, arms in the air. Then his body pitched forward over the side of the boat pond and landed facedown on the cold stone bottom.
It reminded me of the very first time I’d seen Ryan Madison. He’d been jumping up and down on a desk in his classroom, fighting off imaginary airplanes. Then, mortally wounded, the great King Kong had gently set his captive Barbie doll on the desk, and fallen to the floor.
I looked over at Kylie. She was walking toward me, the flashing strobes of an army of cop cars bouncing off her blonde hair. Once again it was beauty killed the beast.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Go? Kylie, you just killed a man. It was a clean shoot, but you can’t walk out and—”
“Zach, listen to me. I’m going to be doing paperwork on this mess for a week and a half, but I’ll be damned if I’m starting now. Tripp Alden is still on the run. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a fugitive, and we’re bringing him in.”
She headed for the edge of the pond. “You’re either with me, or you’re not,” she yelled over her shoulder. “You decide.”
I followed. “One question,” I yelled back. “How do you propose we find him?”
“First thing I’m going to need,” she said, hoisting herself over the side of the pond, “is a car.”
Chapter 70
“We’re not making the same mistake twice,” Kylie said, passing up three sedans until she spotted an empty SUV with the motor running. “Get in.”
We were moving before I had the door closed. Two cops were standing in the cold, waiting for orders. Kylie hit the brakes and rolled down the window. “Is this your vehicle?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” one said.
“Detective MacDonald. Find out who this belongs to and tell them I swapped cars with them. Mine’s at the bottom of the pond.”
She made a U-turn while I put out a BOLO on Tripp Alden and dispatched units to Hutch’s apartment and Lonnie’s.
“I don’t care how many politicians Hunter Alden has in his back pocket,” Kylie said. “He’s hid behind all that power and privilege long enough. I’m not taking his shit anymore.”
“Damn it, Kylie, who did you think you’d serve and protect when you signed on to Red? Boy Scouts? Kidney donors? Hunter Alden is a despicable human being, but he makes more money, pays more taxes, and generates more jobs than Joe Six-Pack. If you can’t handle him, you’re in the wrong outfit.”
She stopped at a light. Some people cry when they’re in pain. Kylie MacDonald breathes fire. “Ryan Madison put a gun six inches from my head and pulled the trigger. That wouldn’t have happened if Hunter Alden hadn’t lied to us. I’ll get him, Zach. I swear to God I’ll get him.”
“I want to nail him for something as much as you do, but coming on like a storm trooper and ‘not taking his shit’ is not an option.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence. There were two units from the One Nine parked outside Alden’s town house. The senior cop approached us.
“He’s in there, Zach. He says his kid’s not home, and I can’t search the place.”
I leaned on the intercom button until the gate opened. By the time Kylie and I got to the top of the stairs, Alden had stepped out and was sneering at us like we’d breached the perimeter and were planning to shove takeout menus under his door. “Where’s my son?” he demanded.
“We were about to ask you the same thing,” Kylie said.
“How the hell would I know?”
“He was in your garage a half hour ago,” she said.
“And I was upstairs with a goddamn murderer trying to keep Tripp from being his next victim. I was doing what I had to do to keep my son alive. If the two of you had done your job, I wouldn’t be in that situation.”
Kylie didn’t back off. “Our job? You mean like find your son’s kidnapper? We might have had better luck if you’d have bothered to report him kidnapped.”
“Don’t make me the heavy, Detective. ‘Call the cops, and we kill your kid.’ What was I supposed to do? I thought I might be dealing with the Russian Mafia, but it turns out to be his pissant teacher, Madison. When he finally showed up, I did what I do best. I closed a deal with him. The plan is for him to come back tomorrow, and I’ll wire him the money.”
“Mr. Madison’s plans have been changed,” Kylie said. “He won’t be coming back.”
“You have him in custody?”
“He’s on his way to the morgue. Your car was involved in the police action. It’s going to take a few more days before you get it back.”
“Screw my car. Where is Tripp?”
“I believe that question has been asked and answered,” Kylie said.
Clearly my attempt at sensitivity training with Kylie had failed. I decided to step in.
“Mr. Alden,” I said, “we did our best to apprehend Madison alive, but he opened fire on us. First from your garage, and again when we followed him to the park. In the middle of it all, Tripp managed to escape. He took off. We were hoping he came home.”
“He didn’t. Now you can stop hoping, get out, and take your friends with you,” he said, pointing at the two squad cars in front of the house. “They’re blocking my driveway.”
He took a step back and slammed the door.
My cell rang, and I checked the caller ID. “Cates,” I said.
Kylie threw her hands up, and I took the call. “Yes, boss.”
“I’m standing here with a dead prep school teacher, a private automobile that will probably cost the taxpayers half a million dollars to restore, and a hundred reporters behind the yellow tape all clamoring to know who gets credit for this mess.”
“Captain—”
“I’m not finished, Jordan. What if the PC shows up and asks me why two officers under my command shot a suspect and went AWOL?”
“Captain, you can tell the PC that we were in pursuit of two suspects. We caught one, but we couldn’t stop to file a report. We had to keep going.”
“You tell him. Because if he shows up and you’re not here, I’m telling him you left the scene so you could look for a better job with Traffic Enforcement.”
“We’re on the way, Captain.”
“One more thing, Jordan. Did you search the blue van after you ran it into the pond?”
No. We raced out of the park because my partner was still reeling from having a gun to her head, and she was hell-bent on confronting Hunter Alden.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “The first responders were almost on the scene, so we left the van to them. Can you tell me what was in there, or do I have to wait to read about it in tomorrow’s paper?”
“I’d rather wait till you and your partner get here,” Cates said. “I want to see the look on your faces when you find out what you missed.”
Chapter 71
Nothing attracts a crowd like a shoot-out, and by the time we got back to the park, it was lit up like a movie set and filled up with
cop cars, fire engines, EMS wagons, news crews, and a mammoth Ford 4400 Jerr-Dan tow truck.
And Cates.
“IO 52,” she barked as soon as she saw us coming. “Or is that another departmental regulation you’d like to break?”
Interim Order 52 requires every officer who discharges a weapon resulting in injury or death to take a sobriety test. No cop has ever flunked it, and most cops find it demeaning, which is probably why Cates yelled it loud enough for at least a dozen cops to hear it.
“She’s more pissed at me than she is at you,” Kylie mumbled as we took NYPD’s version of a perp walk to a van, where someone from Internal Affairs was waiting to give us each a Breathalyzer test.
We were declared alcohol-free and reported back to Cates, who was with Chuck Dryden behind a screen he used as a paparazzi deterrent.
“This was in the van,” he said, pointing at a yellow polyethylene case that was crusted with frost. “It’s Tripp Alden’s camera case.”
As soon as he said it, I knew the box wouldn’t contain camera equipment. “Peter Chevalier,” I said, more statement than question.
Dryden snapped the latches and opened the top, and my eyes locked on the severed head.
“It’s been stored at below-zero temperatures for days and had only recently been removed from the deep freeze,” Dryden said.
“And I’ll bet Hunter Alden was the one who kept it on ice,” Kylie said. “Madison was pulling out of his garage when we spotted him.”
“I know where you’re going with this,” Cates said, “but unless you saw Alden hand him the head, there’s no way you can tie him to it.”
“Were there any prints on the box?” I asked.
“Wiped clean.”
“Doc, we’ve got the killer, and you’ve already autopsied Chevalier’s body,” Cates said. “How long until we can get this to the family so they can make funeral arrangements?”
“Not long. I can release it in a few hours.”
Dryden started to leave, then turned back and looked at Cates. “For what it’s worth, my team inspected the terrain,” he said, pointing at the area where Kylie had lost control of the Maybach. “It’s like a luge track. Once that car came over the hill, there was nothing the detectives could have done. They were at the mercy of Mother Nature.”
“And now they’re at the mercy of Mama Cates. This goes way beyond forensics, Dr. Dryden, but I’m sure the detectives appreciate the fact that you tried to cover their asses.”
Chuck gave us a shrug and left.
“Captain,” I said.
“Save the explanations for another day,” Cates said. “I’ve learned my lesson with you two. Let the infractions pile up until we close the case. Then I can waste my time trying to figure out how to get you two to play by the rules.”
Her cell phone rang, and she jumped into her car so she could be heard over the howling wind.
Kylie and I just stood there.
“I have no regrets,” she said.
“You never do.”
“What’s your problem?” she demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Zach, there’s only one person who can tell us what we need to know to charge Hunter Alden with a crime, and that’s Tripp. So, yeah, I made the call to chase after him instead of hanging around here until some asshole from IA could tell me that I haven’t been drinking. I didn’t twist your arm to go with me, so don’t give me the same old thou-shalt-not-break-the-rules crap I’ve heard a dozen times from Cates and every CO I ever worked for.”
“Kylie, I’m cold, I’m wet, and I feel like shit because I left the scene to chase a ghost instead of staying behind and finding that camera case. But seeing as you saved my life tonight, I’ll spare you the sermon, and just say thank you for shooting Madison before he shot me.”
She was quiet for a few seconds, and then a small smile crept across her face. “All that wind and snow…It was a hell of a shot,” she said. “Did I ever mention I was first in my class at the academy?”
I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back. “Not since last night.”
The car door opened, and Cates leaned out. “Get in,” she said.
We did, and her driver headed out of the park.
“That was Patrice Chevalier,” Cates said. “I had left him a message that we found Peter, and he called back to thank me.”
“Where are we going now?” Kylie said.
“Back to the house.”
“Captain, with all due respect, we’re trying to find Tripp Alden. Sitting around the office isn’t the best way to get that done.”
“Tripp Alden is meeting us there,” Cates said. “Dr. Chevalier is bringing him in.”
In a rare moment of self-restraint, Kylie sat there and didn’t say another word for the rest of the ride.
Chapter 72
I read Tripp Alden his Miranda rights, and as soon as I got to “You have the right to consult an attorney,” he cut me off.
“Yeah, I want one. I called my grandfather before I turned myself in. He’s sending a guy.”
The guy turned out to be Dennis Woloch, known in legal circles as the Warlock because of his uncanny ability to cast a spell over juries. Woloch only took on two types of clients: the filthy rich, who could afford his astronomical fees, and the dirt poor, for whom he’d work pro bono just so he could dominate the six o’clock news with his litigating brilliance.
Grandpa Alden wasn’t taking any chances. He’d sent a flamethrower to a marshmallow roast.
“Detectives,” Woloch said, “are you charging my client with anything?”
“Your client was the victim of a crime,” I said. “One which we believe we’ve resolved. But we have a few questions about the kidnapping.”
Woloch nodded and allowed Tripp to recount what we’d already heard from Gittleman and Lonnie. When he got to the part where Augie showed up, I asked the obvious. “Why would you stun-gun your rescuer and then take off?”
“Don’t answer that,” Woloch said. “And you, Detective, should not be asking a boy who was traumatized by a madman to explain his reaction when a total stranger walked into his prison cell and supposedly rescued him. At that point my client trusted no one. Move along.”
“After you left the school, you didn’t call your family,” I said. “Instead you decided to call your kidnapper. Then you met him at a diner, where he killed Silas Blackstone.”
“That’s not a question,” Woloch said. “And even if it could ever lead to one, it’s irrelevant, because you have your facts wrong. My client did not call his kidnapper. The man who abducted him wore several disguises and only spoke through a voice modifier. That is not who Tripp called. No, in his fear and desperation he reached out to the one person he felt he could turn to: his mentor, Ryan Madison.”
“Do you know anything about the murder of Peter Chevalier?” Kylie asked.
Tripp shook his head.
“Tell us about the flash drive you gave him.”
Warlock slapped both palms on the table. “This interview is over.”
“Not if we charge him with assault on a school employee engaged in the performance of his duties,” Kylie said, lobbing her last marshmallow at the roaring flamethrower.
The Warlock laughed loud and hard. “I thought I was talking to the Red team—an elite unit trained to resolve issues for people of wealth and influence,” he said. “And you plan to slap the heir to the Alden fortune with a misdemeanor? That smells like the Brown team to me. Write the boy an appearance ticket, Detective, and we’ll be on our way.”
He stood up. Tripp didn’t move.
“Come on,” Woloch said. “I’ll drop you at your grandfather’s house.”
“Just a minute,” Tripp said. He looked at us. “You caught him, right? Madison—is he…?”
“We tried to take him alive,” I said. “But we couldn’t.”
“Thank you,” he said. “He killed Peter, and I know I was next. Thanks.”
He stood up and f
ollowed Woloch out of the room.
Cates had watched it all from behind the two-way. She walked in as soon as they left. “Dr. Chevalier asked me to thank you as well. He’s flying back to Haiti as soon as the snow lifts in the morning.”
“Did you hear the last thing Tripp said?” Kylie asked.
“He thanked you for saving his life,” Cates said.
“Hunter Alden told us that he agreed to pay Madison. The plan was to wire the money to him tomorrow.”
“So?”
“So why would Tripp think Madison was going to kill him if his father was a day away from paying the ransom?”
“I don’t know,” Cates said. “What I do know is that you wrecked a million-dollar car and you caught a murderer. On balance I’d say you had a good day.”
“Not good enough,” Kylie said. “Hunter Alden is dirty, and we’re trying to figure out at what.”
“Welcome to Red,” Cates said. “Some of our best customers are dirty, but your job is to be there for them when they’re victimized, not spend your time trying to figure out what felonious and immoral shit they’re doing under the radar.”
“Wow,” Kylie said. “That’s…”
“Cynical?” Cates said. “Yeah, that happens to a lot of cops. The system has a way of beating you down. But don’t worry, MacDonald. You’re immune.”
“Why’s that?”
“You can’t get frustrated by the rules if you refuse to play by them.”
Chapter 73
“I need food and alcohol, not necessarily in that order,” Kylie said as soon as Cates left. “You game?”
I’ve arrested a lot of smart people for doing stupid things, and sometimes I want to grab them and say, “What the hell were you thinking?” But I already know the answer. People don’t always think.
Which is why twenty-four hours after Cheryl walked out of my apartment, and fifteen hours after Gerri warned me that Kylie was playing fast and loose with her marriage and my libido, I decided that a third night of drinking with my ex-girlfriend was just what the doctor ordered.