NYPD Red

Chapter 65



GETTING IN TO see Mickey hadn’t even been a challenge, The Chameleon thought to himself.

The cop at the front desk was busy, but it’s amazing how fast you can go to the head of the line if you’re wearing a black shirt, white collar, and gold cross.

“I’m Father McDougal,” Gabriel said once he read the name tag on McGrath’s uniform. “One of my parishioners called me. Mickey Peltz. He was recently released from prison, and he’s been very careful to stay on the straight and narrow, and now he’s concerned that he’s in trouble with the police. What did he do, if I may ask?”

“As far as I can tell, Father, nothing,” McGrath said. “He’s not under arrest. He’s just in here to answer a few questions for the detectives investigating an ongoing case.”

“Oh, he’ll be so relieved. He really is a good man. I truly believe his past is behind him. He found the Lord while he was in prison.”

“A lot of them do, Father.”

“My job is to make sure something like this doesn’t shake his faith. Do you mind if I sit with him for a few minutes and give him some spiritual guidance, and perhaps something to quench his thirst?”

Gabriel held up a clear plastic bottle of Poland Spring.

“Is that holy water, Father?” the cop said.

“No,” Gabriel said, “but at two bucks for a sixteen-ounce bottle, you would think that His Holiness Himself had blessed it.”

The cop laughed out loud. What Irishman doesn’t love a funny priest? “Donna, please take Father McDougal back to Room Two.”

The Chameleon gave the cop his most sincere Christian smile. Permission to kill Mr. Peltz granted. Hallelujah.

Mickey, of course, was thrilled to see him. He swore up and down he wouldn’t say a word about anything to anyone.

“You wouldn’t lie to a priest, would you my son?” Gabe said.

Mickey let loose one of his signature raspy laughs and sucked down half a bottle of the Poland Spring.

“I’m just here for moral support,” Gabriel said, “and to let you know that if you need a lawyer, don’t take one of their court-appointed hacks. I have the money to spring for a real one.”

“Thanks,” Mickey said. “You’re a good friend, Gabe.”

And those were probably the last words Mickey Peltz ever uttered.

Getting out of the station was cake. Gabriel fell in behind a trio of cops and breezed right past the desk sergeant and out the front door. Less than thirty seconds later, he had peeled off his neat little goatee, the clerical shirt and collar, balled them up along with the Bible and the cross he wore around his neck, and shoved them all into a trash basket.

There was a street vendor on the southeast corner of Third Avenue and 67th Street hawking sunglasses, batteries, and “genuine pashmina” for only five dollars. His beat-up Dodge van was parked behind the stand, and Gabriel positioned himself so he could look west toward the precinct yet remain completely out of sight.

Now he was wearing a red and white Rutgers T-shirt and trying on a pair of wraparound shades as half a dozen cops came storming out of the precinct. MacDonald was in the lead. She looked left, then right, then whacked a fist into her palm once she realized she’d lost him.

She was the bitch who killed Lexi. The press didn’t give her name—just “plainclothes female cop”—but that was all Gabriel needed.

He had walked right past her, no more than a few inches away. But even if he could have strangled her right there on the spot, he wouldn’t have. Hot-shit Detective Kylie MacDonald was about to live through the same pain and agony she’d put him through.

This one’s for you, Popcorn Girl.