NYPD Red

Chapter 45



“I THINK WE finally hit pay dirt,” Kylie said.

We had two lists—the one Shelley Trager had given us with the names of everyone who had been on the set when Ian Stewart was shot, and Mike Jackman’s printout of all the people connected to the Levinson production.

We cross-checked the names, more than four hundred in all. Twelve people were on both lists, eight of them men.

“We could get this done a lot faster if we split the list in half and gave four to another team,” I said.

“We could get it done even faster if we got seven other teams to jump in and we all took one name,” Kylie said.

“I’m guessing my quest for departmental efficiency does not sit well with you,” I said.

“Absolutely not,” Kylie said. “First of all, you and I were at both crime scenes and it would take us way too long to get another team up to speed. Second of all, I’m consumed with ruthless ambition, and I refuse to let another team steal the biggest case of my career right out from under me. Now, just tell me which one of those answers you’re more likely to buy, and I’ll do my best to ram it down your throat.”

“No need to press any harder,” I said. “I think ‘consumed with ruthless ambition’ sums it up nicely.”

“Good. Make sure you put that in your report to Captain Cates. I don’t think she’ll hold it against me.”





By midafternoon we had struck out five times. Two of the possibles had been on the Ian Stewart set since seven in the morning, which ruled them out for poisoning Sid Roth at the Regency. Two others had solid alibis for Monday night’s bombing at Radio City.

The fifth guy was black. He laughed when he figured out why we were there to question him. “Didn’t you guys watch the video of the guy who firebombed Brad Schuck’s limo? That dude was white. You may want to adjust the color on your monitor.”

We laughed along with him, apologized, and left.

“Where to next?” I asked Kylie.

“Middle Village, Queens. Furmanville Avenue off Seventy-ninth Street. I’ve got a street address, and next to that in parentheses it says ‘Paradise Garden.’”

“Sounds like a Chinese restaurant.” I said.

“Or a massage parlor. Give me a sec. Let me Google it.”

She poked at her iPhone.

“Holy shit,” she said. “This is encouraging. It’s a mental health facility.”

“That’s the funny thing about trying to hunt down a homicidal maniac,” I said. “The last place you’d ever think of looking for him is in a loony bin.”

She gave me the exact address. We were twenty minutes away, and I headed for the Long Island Expressway.

“What do we have on this guy?” I said.

“He was an extra on the set of the Ian Stewart movie yesterday, which means one of our guys would have questioned him. Then last week he worked for three days as an extra in the Levinson production, so he could have found out about the drug money Fitzhugh had stashed in the trailer.”

“What’s his name?” I said.

“Benoit. Gabriel Benoit.”