NYPD Red

Chapter 16



YOU MIGHT THINK that a wide-eyed, superalert, extremely talkative person would be an ideal witness to interview. Not when all that hyperactivity is induced by cocaine.

Henry Muhlenberg, the young hotshot director, was useless. Even if we’d missed the dilated pupils and the runny nose, all it took was one question to realize he was too coked up to help.

The question was “Can you tell us what happened?”

“What happened was somebody put real bullets in the gun,” he said, talking at race-car speed. “Bang. Edie shoots Ian. He’s dead. I’m dead. You know what I mean when I say I’m dead? She might as well have pointed the gun at me, because I’m finished. Over. Kaput.”

We couldn’t shut him up, so we sat him down and walked out of earshot.

“He wasn’t nearly this whacked-out when I first got here,” Reitzfeld told us. “He probably decided to get rid of whatever blow he had on him before the cops showed up, and why waste it by flushing it down the toilet?”

“Forget about him,” Kylie said. “Here comes the real boss.”

Shelley Trager strode through the doors of Studio X. He’s that rare breed of producer who’s made it big in New York. A scrappy Jewish kid who used his fists growing up in the rough-and-tumble Irish neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen and his brains navigating the ego-driven world of show business.

“The only difference,” he’s fond of saying, “is that in Hell’s Kitchen, they stab you in the front.”

He was strikingly handsome in his prime, but now, closing in on sixty, he’s fighting a losing battle with both his waistline and his hairline. But time has only improved his reputation. He’s one of the acknowledged good guys in the entertainment business, and his company, Noo Yawk Films, has provided jobs for tens of thousands of actors, writers, and production people who would otherwise be waiting on tables.

A longtime friend of the mayor, Trager is one of the biggest supporters of bringing more of LA’s film business to the city. And since he owns a piece of Silvercup Studios, what’s good for New York is good for Shelley.

“Zach,” he said when he saw me.

I met him a year ago when I put away a wacko who was stalking one of his young stars. It came as no surprise that he remembered exactly who I was.

Kylie, of course, knows him personally, but there were no hugs, no air kisses—just a brief exchange of head tilts, and Trager got right down to business.

“How can I help?” he said.

“The armorer says somebody got to the gun and switched the blanks for live ammo,” I said. “For starters, we’ll need the names of everyone on the set. And I know they’re on the clock, but I’ll have to ask you not to release anybody till we get statements from every one of them.”

“Done,” he said immediately. “What else?”

“We’re told the shooting was all caught on film,” Kylie said. “We need to see it.”

He took a little longer on this one. Finally, he said, “Under one condition. NYPD and nobody else. When you’re done, I want the footage locked up. God forbid it should show up on YouTube.”

“Thank you,” Kylie said.

“I heard you arrested Dave West,” Shelley said. “Is it really necessary? The poor guy’s got a sick wife.”

“We had to,” I said. “I doubt if the DA will be tough on him, but it would help if he had a lawyer.”

“I’ve already hired one,” Shelley said. “Perry Keziah—you know him?”

I nodded. Everybody knew Perry Keziah. He wasn’t just a lawyer; he was the best of the best. Dave would be home in time for dinner.

“Excuse me,” Trager said.

He walked onto the set and stood over Ian Stewart’s body. Everything else stopped. Nobody on the stage moved. Nobody talked. All eyes were on him.

He lowered his head and mouthed a silent prayer.

Then he walked back and stood face-to-face with Kylie and me.

“This is a tragedy,” he said. “But if what they’re saying about the death of Sid Roth is true…” He paused, as if speaking the words out loud would make them real. “If what they’re saying about the death of Sid Roth is true,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper, “then it’s a conspiracy.”