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Authors: James Patterson
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said. “I can’t just talk into thin air.”
“Actually, he’ll be good cover for you,” I said. “You can talk to the Command Center, but it’ll look like the two of you are just having a normal conv—”
I heard her heels click-clacking on the tile floor, and then I saw her walking toward my desk. Cheryl Robinson. She saw me see her, and she smiled—second time today, that killer smile that lights up a room, even one as drab as this.
“Hi, Zach,” Cheryl said. “This must be your new partner, Detective MacDonald.”
She reached out, and the two women shook hands. I don’t know why I felt uncomfortable, but I tried not to let it show.
“Cheryl Robinson, department psychologist.”
“Kylie MacDonald, NYPD Red probie. I hope you’re not here to pick my brain, because it’s on serious overload, plus I have to get home and make sure the gown I’m wearing tonight covers my ankle holster.”
“I’m guessing you’re working the crowd at Radio City,” Cheryl said.
“The in crowd,” Kylie said. “It was part of my plan for the evening anyway—one of the joys of being the wife of a TV producer. Now I’m getting paid to do it, and if we’re lucky, Zach and I will catch our first madman together. Win-win. It’s nice to meet you, Cheryl, but I’ve got to run home and suit up.”
“Break a leg,” Cheryl said.
We watched Kylie leave. “In case you hadn’t noticed,” I said, “she loves being a cop.”
Cheryl just nodded.
“Come on, Doc, if you’re going to make a house call, give me a little more than a head nod.”
“I’m off duty,” she said. “I just stopped by to see you personally.”
“Oh…well, here I am.” Still uncomfortable. Still not sure why.
“When we had coffee this morning, we were both looking at a tough day. I did pretty well with mine. And you helped. I just wanted to say thanks for the advice.”
“It was good advice. I wish I’d thought of it myself.”
“I know I’m the one who said it, but you’re the one who helped me hear it. So thanks.”
“Any time.”
“I really did stop by just to say thank you,” Cheryl said, “but as long as I’m here, how’s the new-partner dynamic going?”
“We had two homicides in less than eight hours, so even if I wanted to dwell on the past, I don’t have the time.”
“I guess there’s an upside to everything,” Cheryl said. “Maybe that means you’ll get a good night’s sleep.”
“We’re on high alert tonight,” I said. “The way things are shaping up, I’m not sure if I’ll get any sleep.”
“In that case,” she said, turning on the million-dollar smile, “I’ll see you at the diner in the morning.”
Chapter 22
NYPD HAS DOZENS of command posts on wheels. The one parked on the corner of 50th Street and Sixth Avenue is the biggest, baddest one in the fleet. It’s a joint product of American, British, and Israeli ingenuity—a two-million-dollar, forty-eight-foot-long rolling nerve center affectionately known as Copzilla.
“Hard to believe we need all this hardware to catch one guy,” Captain Cates said.
“If it is one guy,” I said.
Cates had changed from her civvies to her dress blues and stopped by before heading out to spend the rest of the night within screaming distance of the mayor, who wanted to be—quote— kept in the goddamned loop every goddamned step of the goddamned way.
“I just spoke to Mandy Sowter at the Public Information Office,” Cates said. “Ian Stewart led the evening news. Mainstream media is still calling it a ‘tragic incident that’s under investigation,’ but the tabloids are hitting hard on the Jealous Wife Shoots Cheating Husband in Front of Hundreds of Witnesses angle.”
“Technically, they’re both right,” I said.
“Sid Roth’s autopsy isn’t public yet, so most people haven’t connected his death with Stewart’s. But the bloggers have picked up on TMZ’s poison story, and now the social networks are buzzing with
“Actually, he’ll be good cover for you,” I said. “You can talk to the Command Center, but it’ll look like the two of you are just having a normal conv—”
I heard her heels click-clacking on the tile floor, and then I saw her walking toward my desk. Cheryl Robinson. She saw me see her, and she smiled—second time today, that killer smile that lights up a room, even one as drab as this.
“Hi, Zach,” Cheryl said. “This must be your new partner, Detective MacDonald.”
She reached out, and the two women shook hands. I don’t know why I felt uncomfortable, but I tried not to let it show.
“Cheryl Robinson, department psychologist.”
“Kylie MacDonald, NYPD Red probie. I hope you’re not here to pick my brain, because it’s on serious overload, plus I have to get home and make sure the gown I’m wearing tonight covers my ankle holster.”
“I’m guessing you’re working the crowd at Radio City,” Cheryl said.
“The in crowd,” Kylie said. “It was part of my plan for the evening anyway—one of the joys of being the wife of a TV producer. Now I’m getting paid to do it, and if we’re lucky, Zach and I will catch our first madman together. Win-win. It’s nice to meet you, Cheryl, but I’ve got to run home and suit up.”
“Break a leg,” Cheryl said.
We watched Kylie leave. “In case you hadn’t noticed,” I said, “she loves being a cop.”
Cheryl just nodded.
“Come on, Doc, if you’re going to make a house call, give me a little more than a head nod.”
“I’m off duty,” she said. “I just stopped by to see you personally.”
“Oh…well, here I am.” Still uncomfortable. Still not sure why.
“When we had coffee this morning, we were both looking at a tough day. I did pretty well with mine. And you helped. I just wanted to say thanks for the advice.”
“It was good advice. I wish I’d thought of it myself.”
“I know I’m the one who said it, but you’re the one who helped me hear it. So thanks.”
“Any time.”
“I really did stop by just to say thank you,” Cheryl said, “but as long as I’m here, how’s the new-partner dynamic going?”
“We had two homicides in less than eight hours, so even if I wanted to dwell on the past, I don’t have the time.”
“I guess there’s an upside to everything,” Cheryl said. “Maybe that means you’ll get a good night’s sleep.”
“We’re on high alert tonight,” I said. “The way things are shaping up, I’m not sure if I’ll get any sleep.”
“In that case,” she said, turning on the million-dollar smile, “I’ll see you at the diner in the morning.”
Chapter 22
NYPD HAS DOZENS of command posts on wheels. The one parked on the corner of 50th Street and Sixth Avenue is the biggest, baddest one in the fleet. It’s a joint product of American, British, and Israeli ingenuity—a two-million-dollar, forty-eight-foot-long rolling nerve center affectionately known as Copzilla.
“Hard to believe we need all this hardware to catch one guy,” Captain Cates said.
“If it is one guy,” I said.
Cates had changed from her civvies to her dress blues and stopped by before heading out to spend the rest of the night within screaming distance of the mayor, who wanted to be—quote— kept in the goddamned loop every goddamned step of the goddamned way.
“I just spoke to Mandy Sowter at the Public Information Office,” Cates said. “Ian Stewart led the evening news. Mainstream media is still calling it a ‘tragic incident that’s under investigation,’ but the tabloids are hitting hard on the Jealous Wife Shoots Cheating Husband in Front of Hundreds of Witnesses angle.”
“Technically, they’re both right,” I said.
“Sid Roth’s autopsy isn’t public yet, so most people haven’t connected his death with Stewart’s. But the bloggers have picked up on TMZ’s poison story, and now the social networks are buzzing with
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