NYPD Red

Chapter 41



“DRIVING LIKE A maniac isn’t going to make our murder victim any less dead,” Kylie said as I drove balls out through the Central Park–65th Street transverse.

“I know,” I said, not slowing down. “I think it’s like getting addicted to a bad soap opera. I want to know what happens in the next episode.”

“So do I, but not enough to die in crosstown traffic. And for the record, ‘bad soap opera’ is redundant.”

We made it to West 62nd in under five minutes. There was a squad car from the 20th Precinct parked alongside the production trailer. A uniformed cop, Frank Rankin, was waiting for us outside the trailer.

“My partner and I got here two minutes ago,” he said. “The permit on the trailer says they’re part of the movie company that’s shooting at Fordham. The victim, according to the guy who called it in, is Jimmy Fitzhugh.”

“Did you or your partner go inside the trailer?”

“I did, but not too far. I didn’t want to contaminate the scene, but I wanted to make sure he was dead.”

“And?”

“Gunshot wound to the chest at close range. The Crime Scene Unit isn’t here yet to make the call, but I know dead, and this guy definitely is. There’s also a safe in there—door wide open. I didn’t check it out, but I figure if the door is open, whatever was in it is gone.”

“Who called 911?” Kylie asked.

“His name is Michael Jackman. Said he’s the assistant director. He didn’t see or hear anything. He came over for a meeting with the victim and found the body. He’s sitting in the back of our unit with my partner.”

“Keep him there,” I said. “We’re going to take a look at the scene.”

Fitzhugh was slumped in a desk chair, his gray T-shirt stained dark brown from the collar to the waist. There was a fresh bloody gash on his right cheek.

“Pistol-whipped,” Kylie said.

I shined a light inside the open safe. “The uni called it on the safe. It’s empty.”

“Except for the movie connection, this doesn’t feel like any of the other homicides,” she said.

“I had the same gut reaction,” I said. “The other three murders were planned out, artful almost. This just looks like a robbery gone bad. Vic working at his desk, perp walks in and says open the safe. Fitzhugh says no; perp gives him a convincer with the gun butt. Fitzhugh opens it, and the perp pockets the cash.”

“That’s a robbery gone good,” Kylie said. “If the perp got the money, why did he shoot Fitzhugh? Why up the ante from robbery to murder?”

“Fitzhugh recognized him,” I said.

“There’s only one hiccup, Zach. The man we’re looking for is a master of disguise. We have him on video, and we can’t even ID him.”

“So if it’s impossible to recognize this guy,” I said, “why’d he pop Fitzhugh?”

“That’s the question I just asked you.”

“In that case, it’s unanimous,” I said. “We’re both clueless.”

We backed out of the trailer and walked over to the squad car where Rankin’s partner, Robin Gallagher, was waiting for us.

“Mike Jackman, the guy who found the body, is all shook up,” she said. “He not only worked with the victim, he’s his brother-in-law.”

“Did he say anything worth repeating?” Kylie asked.

“‘Who’s going to tell my sister and the kids?’” Gallagher said. “Which you kind of expect. And one other thing which you wouldn’t.”

“What’s that?” I said.

“‘F*cking Levinson.’ He said it maybe half a dozen times.”

“Did he say who f*cking Levinson is?”

“No, sir,” she said.

“Ask Mr. Jackman to step out of the car, Officer. If he’s up to it, we’d like to ask him a couple of questions.”

The CSU wagon pulled up. I was hoping I’d get to see the enticing Maggie Arnold two days in a row.

No such luck. The driver’s side door opened and out stepped the humorless Chuck Dryden.

“Hello again, Chuck,” I said. “You remember my partner Kylie MacDonald, don’t you?”

“Where’s the body?” he said.

I pointed, and he lumbered toward the trailer.

“What a pill,” Kylie said.

“Hey,” I said, “you’re lucky you didn’t know him before the department sent him to charm school.”