NYPD Red

Chapter 57





ALT. SCENE:


EXT. FRANK E. CAMPBELL FUNERAL CHAPEL, MADISON AVENUE AND 81ST STREET—DAY


PANDEMONIA PASSIONATA looks so pretty in her little black mourning dress as she waits patiently behind the police barricade at Ian Stewart’s memorial service. The mourners file slowly out of the chapel, but she ignores the little fish. She’s here for the Big One. This is Pandemonia’s moment. Redemption time.



LEXI WANTED TO scream.

Her calves were on fire, her toes were crushed, and every muscle in her lower back was in knots.

She hadn’t worn heels in years, and these four-inch, half-a-size-too-small black thrift-shop pumps were killing her. But she had no choice. Not only did they complete her disguise as a soulful Upper East Side mourner, but they gave her the added height that she needed to see the front of the funeral chapel.

As it turned out, her line of vision was perfect. The police had set up metal crowd-control barricades on the sidewalk just to the right of the funeral home entrance. And the crowd was much thinner than she expected—fewer than thirty fans—so she found a spot right in front.

She’d been standing there for ninety minutes, and she couldn’t even begin to count how many times Gabe had called or texted. She was dying to answer, but she couldn’t. She’d have to wait till the scene was over. Too bad he wasn’t open-minded enough to log onto TMZ so he could find out about these things right away. But just as well. She’d rather tell him herself over a couple of beers and maybe a nice foot massage. He’d be so crazy happy, he’d forget that whole stupid mess that happened in Jimmy Fitzhugh’s trailer.

The double doors to the funeral parlor swung open, and the uniformed doorman hooked them into place. The funeral director came out first, walking backward, hands gently guiding the highly polished mahogany coffin.

Lexi tensed. Almost on cue, her cell phone vibrated and she flinched. It was Gabriel trying to reach her for the trillionth time. No way she could pick up. She opened her purse, took out a tissue, and dabbed her eyes. She left the purse open and stood in solemn tearful tribute to the departed as he rolled toward the waiting hearse.

A few mourners exited the chapel behind the coffin. But they were nobodies. Like it said in the script—little fish.

And then the old Jewish guy stepped out. Shelley Trager. Edie Coburn was to his left, dressed to the eyeballs in her designer grieving widow’s finery. Bullshit. She hated Ian Stewart as much as anybody did. To Trager’s right was the young director, Muhlenberg. Lexi had seen his early indie work and thought, Damn, this guy is good, but he’d been making crap ever since he stepped up to the big leagues.

The trio stopped in the doorway, just out of line with the angle she needed for the perfect shot.

She reached into her purse, put her hand on the grip of Gabriel’s gun, and waited.

And then the cop showed up. The pretty one she had seen on TV. MacDonald. Right behind her was her husband, the TV producer. She knew them both on sight. Google images had hundreds of pictures of the happy couple.

She had planned on shooting only Trager. But now there were five of them. Oh my God, can you imagine if I killed them all? Gabriel would be over the moon. That would more than make up for screwing up the robbery.

The lady cop and her husband caught up with Trager in the doorway. Lexi had no idea what they were talking about. Logistics, maybe. Like who’s going in which car.

The conversation lasted only a few seconds, and then Trager stepped out onto Madison Avenue. The others followed. Five of them, side by side, headed her way. She didn’t even know how many bullets were in the gun, but she’d bet there had to be at least five.

And action, she said to herself.

Pandemonia Passionata pulled the Walther PPK out of her purse and opened fire.