NYPD Red

Chapter 64



IT WAS A half hour before shift change when we finally got back to the station house, and a steady stream of people were either coming, going, or waiting to speak to the desk sergeant.

The One Nine is one of the busiest precincts in the city, and it takes an old pro like Bob McGrath to man the front desk.

When we got there, he was dealing with two women in their early twenties—one of them an amazingly beautiful Latina. Four more civilians were stacked up in a holding pattern.

Kylie and I went to the front of the line.

“Sorry to interrupt, Sarge,” I said, “but Captain Cates sent a patrol car to pick up this guy Mickey Peltz in Queens. Did they?”

“Yeah, Detective, hold on, I got his intake sheet here somewhere,” McGrath said. “Either of you two guys habla español?”

“I can habla un poco,” Kylie said.

“No good,” McGrath said. “All cops can habla un poco. This lady here is from Colombia. She speaks zero English, and her friend speaks no Spanish.”

“I’m not really her friend,” the woman said. “She was staying in the apartment next door, and I just brought her here. I was only trying to be a Good Samaritan. Somebody stole her passport and—”

“Lady, stop,” McGrath said. “I got the English part down. Give me two seconds to rustle up a cop who speaks Spanish.”

“Can I get through, Sergeant?”

It was the Pepsi deliveryman pushing a dolly stacked high with cases of soda for the vending machines.

“Your truck better not be blocking any of my squad cars out there, Vernon,” McGrath said as he waved him through with one hand.

“And your cops better not be putting any more slugs in my soda machine,” the Pepsi man said, laughing.

McGrath turned the wave into a single finger and used the other hand to rummage through the pile of paper on top of his desk, looking for the one on Peltz.

“Excuse me, but I have to pick up my son from school in a half hour,” the Good Samaritan lady said.

“I understand, ma’am,” McGrath said. Looking over his shoulder, he yelled, “Donna, did you give a shout out for Rodriguez or Morales? I still need a Spanish translator over here.”

A civilian in the glass-walled office behind him rolled her chair to the door so she could yell back. “They’re both busy, Sarge!”

“I’m not buying it,” McGrath said, still digging through the mountain of paper. “They’re on a meal break. Call them back, and this time make sure you tell them what this young lady looks like.”

I was getting annoyed by all the interruptions, and one look at my partner let me know she was even more aggravated than I was. I could see her clenching her jaw, which helped keep her mouth shut.

McGrath caught the frustration. “Sorry, guys, Peltz has been here awhile. His paperwork got buried.”

He kept looking while a small parade of people left the station, pushing their way through the swinging half gate that separates the front desk from the waiting area—three cops carrying oversized duffel bags; Victor, the delivery guy from Gerri’s Diner; a priest; and a battle-weary older man in a rumpled blue suit who had poor man’s lawyer written all over him.

McGrath’s head bobbed up and down eyeballing everyone who entered or exited. Finally, he yanked a single blue sheet of paper from the pile. “Peltz, comma, Mickey,” he said triumphantly. There was a yellow Post-it note stuck to the top. He squinted at it. “And his PO called at one-oh-five. He’s still tied up in court. Asked you guys to hold off till he gets here.”

“Not a chance,” Kylie said, taking the blue sheet. “Not after what went down this morning. Where’s Peltz?”

“Yo, Sarge. ¿Dónde está la hermosa mujer?”

It was Officer Morales, his dark eyes already zeroing in on the beautiful Colombian woman. He tightened his abs and puffed out his chest, all hot to translate.

Officer Rodriguez was right behind him. “Sarge, he’s Puerto Rican. They don’t even speak real Spanish down there. My father was from Colombia. I’ll talk to her.”

“Morales was here first, but as long as you’re not busy,” McGrath said, digging into his pocket and handing Rodriguez two dollars, “run upstairs and get me a Diet Pepsi.”

“Sergeant,” I said. “We’re in a crunch. Where’s Peltz?”

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s a zoo in here. He’s…”

I heard a crashing noise, and then the Spanish woman screamed. “Dios mío…” She pointed over my shoulder.

McGrath’s head snapped around. “What the f*ck?”

I turned and saw a man staggering toward us, his arms flailing, his body in spasms, banging into walls, spewing vomit as he went. Ten feet from the desk, he pitched face-forward to the floor. Officer Rodriguez was the first one at his side, his fingers searching for a pulse.

“Peltz,” McGrath said.

“He’s dead,” Rodriguez added, both of them confirming what I already knew.

“Shit,” McGrath said, pounding his fist on the desk. Then he pointed to the front door and bellowed out an order. “Somebody stop that f*cking priest!”