NYPD Red

Chapter 29



FIRST THEY WATCHED the video, ate the pizza, and drank the champagne. All of it. Then they made love—gentle, sweet, innocent—more like teenagers exploring the mysteries of sex than a pair of cold-blooded serial killers.

When it was over, they lay naked in each other’s arms and played their favorite game. Acting out the worst cliché-ridden movie scenes they could invent.

“Oh, Professor Cunningham,” Lexi said in her thickest southern drawl. “Ours is a forbidden love. Whatever shall we do if we get caught?”

“We shan’t get caught, my Fair One,” Gabriel said with mock British earnestness. “Unless…”

“Unless what, my darling?” Lexi pleaded. “Unless what?”

“Unless I’m dumb enough to give you an A in Eighteenth-century Lit. People see that—they’ll figure the old prof must be shagging young Pamela Ward.”

They laughed their asses off, filled their champagne glasses with beer, unmuted the TV, and surfed the news channels.

“Holy shit,” Gabriel said. “CBS, NBC, ABC, Fox, CNN—it’s all us all the time. Let’s see if we’re on ESPN.”

“Wait, wait, the mayor is coming on,” Lexi said.

They were tuned to ABC Eyewitness News, and the director cut away from the anchor to a shot of the mayor standing at a podium in front of the NYPD command post. The police commissioner stood to his right.

“Who’s that behind them?” Lexi said.

“Those are the two cops from Silvercup. He’s Detective Jordan and she’s Detective MacDonald. They’re the ones who ignored me. I don’t know the black chick in the uniform. I think she could be one of their bosses.”

“Detective MacDonald looks like she’s kind of a bitch, but Detective Jordan, he’s kind of cute,” Lexi said.

“Shh,” he said. “You wanna hear the mayor or not?”

“A vicious and violent crime was committed on the streets of our city tonight,” the mayor said, “and our hearts go out to Brad Schuck’s family and fans. Mr. Schuck is in a coma at the Burn Center of New York Hospital, and I have no further news on his condition other than that it is critical.”

“Mr. Mayor!” a reporter shouted.

“Let me finish,” the mayor snapped. “NYPD has mounted its most elite task force to track down the person or persons responsible for this hideous crime, and we in New York are saddened not only by the injuries inflicted on Mr. Schuck, but because this has marred what should have been a celebratory event tonight here at Radio City, where New York has opened its heart and its doors to the Hollywood filmmaking industry.”

“What a crock of shit,” Gabe said.

“Let me assure our colleagues from Los Angeles,” the mayor continued, “that while this may well be a hate crime targeted at the Hollywood community, it happened here on our watch, and the city of New York and the NYPD will not rest until the perpetrators are brought to justice. Thank you.”

He started to walk off camera.

“Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!” a chorus of reporters called out.

“Now is not the time for questions,” the mayor said.

“Is this connected to this afternoon’s shooting of Ian Stewart and the sudden suspicious death of producer Sid Roth this morning?”

The mayor stopped in his tracks, said something in private to the police commissioner, and returned to the podium. “NYPD is in the middle of a criminal investigation. We can’t elaborate on what we’ve learned so far, and we can’t speculate about whether any of the incidents you cited are in any way connected to the brutal attack on Mr. Schuck. But the commissioner has assured me that the department is working around the clock to prevent any further violence and to bring about a swift conclusion to this tragedy. Right now, I think that instead of speculating, we all should pray for Brad Schuck to recover from this horrible ordeal. No more questions. Thank you and good night.”

This time, the mayor walked off and the entourage followed.

The station cut back to the anchorman, and Lexi muted the TV. “Shall we pray for Brad Schuck to recover from this horrible ordeal?” she said.

“I don’t pray when I’m naked,” Gabe said, rolling over on his back.

She straddled him, lowering herself gradually, and moaned as she felt him slide inside of her.

He thrust his pelvis upward, and she arched her back. The pace was slow at first, unhurried, but as they moved in perfect rhythm together, the passion built. She cried out his name, and he reached around and dug his fingers into her buttocks.

They were both seconds away from an explosive climax when the phone rang.

It jolted him to the core.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” she said.

But he did stop.

The phone rang again.

It was after midnight. Nobody called them this late. The agency called when they had a job for him as an extra, but never after five or six in the evening.

The phone rang a third time, and he picked it up.

“Hello, who’s this?”

“This is a fan of yours,” the voice on the other end said. “I just watched the mayor’s press conference. Congratulations.”

“Congratulations on what?”

“Come on, Gabe. I know you’re behind all this.”

He sat up, the passion completely gone. Lexi flopped off of him and sat cross-legged on the bed trying to figure out what was happening.

“Behind all what?” he said.

“Cut the shit,” the caller said. “If Roth and Ian Stewart didn’t tip me off, the Molotov cocktail sure did.”

The Chameleon could feel his chest constricting and panic welling up in his throat.

This was not in the script.