Read Online NYPD Red 4 by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson
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Knowing her, this had been all about NYPD putting the squeeze on a bad guy. She’d completely forgotten that the entire operation was personal.
“Oh,” she said. “Right. It won’t happen again.”
I doubted it.
We were at 86th and Lexington, nine blocks from my apartment, when the phone in my lap went off.
“You see?” Kylie said. “She can’t be that mad if she’s calling you.”
I looked at the caller ID. Private caller.
“It’s not her,” I said. I answered the phone. “This is Detective Jordan.”
“My man, Zach,” a familiar voice on the other end said. “This is Q. You looking for a couple of scrubs who are holding a necklace so hot they’re almost ready to pay someone to take it?”
“Everybody is looking for them,” I said, “and I’m at the top of the pile.”
“That’s why I called you first. I’m upstairs at the Kim.”
My adrenaline was pumping. “We’re less than five minutes away,” I said.
“
We’re
less than five minutes away?” he said. “Does that mean you’re with that knockout partner of yours?”
“Yes, I’m with Kylie.”
“At this hour? Sounds like you two are pulling the night shift. I hope I’m not interrupting any undercover work,” he said, following up with a lecherous laugh just in case I didn’t get the joke.
“You’re a pig.”
“That’s funny, Zach,” he said, still chuckling. “First time a cop ever called
me
a pig. I’ll see you in five.”
He hung up, and I turned to Kylie. “Change of plans. We’re meeting Q Lavish at the Kimberly Hotel.”
She hit the gas, and we sped past a familiar brick building on 77th and Lex. My apartment is on the tenth floor.
I craned my neck, looking up, trying to see if the lights were still on, but we were going too fast.
“What are you doing?” Kylie said.
“Nothing. I’m just checking to see if Cheryl’s home.”
“Of course she’s home. Do you think she moved out because you bailed on one dinner?”
“No. I’m just antsy. We’re still working out this living together thing.”
“Zach, it’s going to work out just fine. And Cheryl’s not going anywhere. She’s a smart woman. She knows the score.”
“Yeah, she does,” I said.
Old girlfriend, one. New girlfriend, zero.
CHAPTER 19
QUENTIN LATRELLE, A.K.A. Q Lavish, is our best confidential informant. And our least expensive. I’ve worked with him for two years and have never paid him a dime. That’s because Q isn’t in it for the money.
Q is a pimp. But it’s a word he never uses. “It would be like calling Yo-Yo Ma a fiddle player,” he says. “I’m a purveyor of quality female companionship for gentlemen of breeding and taste.”
Many of those gentlemen traveled in the same social circles that Red was created to protect and serve. That’s where Kylie and I came in. Q knew that if any of his elite clientele got arrested in flagrante delicto, he had someone on his speed dial who could make the unfortunate incident go away.
If that sounds like the wealthy horndogs have an unfair advantage over the average johns, they do. But if Q could help us find the perps who murdered Elena Travers, I’d be happy to help out some Wall Street power broker who got caught with his pants down.
The Kimberly, on 50th between Lexington and Third, is an upmarket hotel that manages to combine traditional European elegance with trendy New York nightlife. Q was waiting for us at Upstairs, the Kim’s opulent-to-the-max rooftop bar with a spectacular 360-degree view of Midtown.
Fluent in the language of fashion, Q knew how to dress whether he was having dinner at a four-star restaurant or hanging at a dive bar. Tonight he was wearing a pearl-gray suit and an open-collar navy shirt. Not very clubby, but perfect for the business-casual code at the Kim. Bottom line: he fit right in.
We sat down at his table, declined a drink, skipped the foreplay, and told him to get straight to business.
“Teddy Ryder and Raymond Davis,” he
“Oh,” she said. “Right. It won’t happen again.”
I doubted it.
We were at 86th and Lexington, nine blocks from my apartment, when the phone in my lap went off.
“You see?” Kylie said. “She can’t be that mad if she’s calling you.”
I looked at the caller ID. Private caller.
“It’s not her,” I said. I answered the phone. “This is Detective Jordan.”
“My man, Zach,” a familiar voice on the other end said. “This is Q. You looking for a couple of scrubs who are holding a necklace so hot they’re almost ready to pay someone to take it?”
“Everybody is looking for them,” I said, “and I’m at the top of the pile.”
“That’s why I called you first. I’m upstairs at the Kim.”
My adrenaline was pumping. “We’re less than five minutes away,” I said.
“
We’re
less than five minutes away?” he said. “Does that mean you’re with that knockout partner of yours?”
“Yes, I’m with Kylie.”
“At this hour? Sounds like you two are pulling the night shift. I hope I’m not interrupting any undercover work,” he said, following up with a lecherous laugh just in case I didn’t get the joke.
“You’re a pig.”
“That’s funny, Zach,” he said, still chuckling. “First time a cop ever called
me
a pig. I’ll see you in five.”
He hung up, and I turned to Kylie. “Change of plans. We’re meeting Q Lavish at the Kimberly Hotel.”
She hit the gas, and we sped past a familiar brick building on 77th and Lex. My apartment is on the tenth floor.
I craned my neck, looking up, trying to see if the lights were still on, but we were going too fast.
“What are you doing?” Kylie said.
“Nothing. I’m just checking to see if Cheryl’s home.”
“Of course she’s home. Do you think she moved out because you bailed on one dinner?”
“No. I’m just antsy. We’re still working out this living together thing.”
“Zach, it’s going to work out just fine. And Cheryl’s not going anywhere. She’s a smart woman. She knows the score.”
“Yeah, she does,” I said.
Old girlfriend, one. New girlfriend, zero.
CHAPTER 19
QUENTIN LATRELLE, A.K.A. Q Lavish, is our best confidential informant. And our least expensive. I’ve worked with him for two years and have never paid him a dime. That’s because Q isn’t in it for the money.
Q is a pimp. But it’s a word he never uses. “It would be like calling Yo-Yo Ma a fiddle player,” he says. “I’m a purveyor of quality female companionship for gentlemen of breeding and taste.”
Many of those gentlemen traveled in the same social circles that Red was created to protect and serve. That’s where Kylie and I came in. Q knew that if any of his elite clientele got arrested in flagrante delicto, he had someone on his speed dial who could make the unfortunate incident go away.
If that sounds like the wealthy horndogs have an unfair advantage over the average johns, they do. But if Q could help us find the perps who murdered Elena Travers, I’d be happy to help out some Wall Street power broker who got caught with his pants down.
The Kimberly, on 50th between Lexington and Third, is an upmarket hotel that manages to combine traditional European elegance with trendy New York nightlife. Q was waiting for us at Upstairs, the Kim’s opulent-to-the-max rooftop bar with a spectacular 360-degree view of Midtown.
Fluent in the language of fashion, Q knew how to dress whether he was having dinner at a four-star restaurant or hanging at a dive bar. Tonight he was wearing a pearl-gray suit and an open-collar navy shirt. Not very clubby, but perfect for the business-casual code at the Kim. Bottom line: he fit right in.
We sat down at his table, declined a drink, skipped the foreplay, and told him to get straight to business.
“Teddy Ryder and Raymond Davis,” he
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