NYPD Red

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 serial-killer rumors. You’d think that the threat of a murderer on the loose would keep people as far from the red carpet event as possible, but look at that mob out there.”

“Die-hard fans,” I said. “If their favorite celebrity is going to get gunned down, they don’t want to miss it.”

“Even if a couple of stray bullets come their way?” Cates said.

“Like I said, die…hard…fans.”

Cates left, and I sat down at the console with Jerry Brainard, a civilian dispatcher who knew every inch of Copzilla’s hundreds of miles of microfiber.

“My partner should be in the lobby of the Music Hall,” I said. “Can I get a picture?”

Brainard cued up the corresponding camera and zoomed in on Kylie. She was wearing a silky, cream-colored, jaw-dropping gown that hugged her waist, then flared out to the floor—an absolute fashion must for anyone wearing an ankle holster. I had no idea who the designer was, but the handsome guy at her side was definitely Spence Harrington.

I keyed the mic. “Command to Yankee One,” I said.

A big smile spread across her face and she shook her head in obvious protest to the code name I’d assigned her. “This is Yankee One.”

“What are you looking at so far?” I said.

“It’s like DEFCON One in here,” she said. “There are more cops than Rockettes. So far there have been metal detectors, radiation detectors, and four-legged bomb detectors. If the mayor is looking for security, he’s got it.”

“And if they gave out awards for best undercover wardrobe, you guys would win. You both look terrific,” I said. “How’s Spence doing? Is he okay with this?”

“Are you kidding? He does cop shows for a living. Now he feels like he’s in one.”

“Just make sure he doesn’t try to do any of his own stunts,” I said. “Command out.”

I turned to Brainard. “Pan the crowd,” I said.

Our truck is thirteen feet high. There’s a camera on the roof that’s mounted on a telescoping mast that extends another twenty-seven feet into the air. Brainard did a slow three-sixty of the people below. It was more than just a cursory sweep. The lens on the camera was powerful enough to zoom in on a license plate a city block away.

I studied the faces. Fans hoping to reach out and touch their favorite movie star, paparazzi hoping to get the one picture that the media would pay through the nose for, and cops, in uniform and plainclothes—nearly a hundred strong, working the crowd—New York’s Finest doing what they do best.

I had no idea where or how or even if the killer would strike, but sitting behind that console, looking up that wall of monitors, I knew one thing for sure. We were damn ready for him.