NYPD Red

Chapter 82



THE SECOND THAT KYLIE and I walked through the door of the apartment, Spence burst into tears.

“I thought you were dead,” he said, his body still in trauma, now shaking with gratitude and relief.

“That makes three of us,” Kylie said.

She grabbed an afghan throw from the sofa and draped it over his legs. Then she knelt beside him, cradling him in her arms, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, and finally his lips.

I squatted down behind him and cut away the duct tape that bound him to the chair.

As soon as his arms were free, he hugged her tight, and I watched as she quietly rocked him back and forth.

“You guys have got to stop Benoit,” he said, breaking the hug abruptly.

“We will,” she said. “But first we have to do something about getting those nails out of your feet.”

Spence sat back in the chair. “We,” he said, “do not have to do anything. I love you, Kylie, but I don’t need a cop with a crowbar and a claw hammer prying me loose.”

“I love you, too,” she said, “but I can’t just leave you sitting in the middle of the living room. My mother is coming next weekend, and you know what a neat freak she is.”

The love between the two of them was palpable. I couldn’t imagine how much pain he was in, but just having her near made him smile. She was also frustrating the hell out of him.

“Dammit, Kylie, listen to me. I’m fine. He didn’t hit an artery. I’m not going to bleed to death. I can wait till the fire department shows up. They can cut the floor out from under me and take me to the hospital. After that, all I want is the best foot surgeon in New York and maybe a week on the beach in Turks and Caicos. You have more important things to do than hold my hand.”

“Do you have any clue where Benoit was going next?” she said.

“I’ve got more than a clue. He has a shitload of explosives, and he’s headed for Shelley Trager’s yacht.”

Kylie was blindsided. She’d convinced herself that Shelley’s little sunset cruise was a low-priority target. “Why Shelley?” she said.

“Not just Shelley. Shelley and me. Benoit calls himself The Chameleon, and he thinks we stole his persona and used it for my TV show.”

“That’s insane,” she said.

“I think we’ve pretty much established that the guy is a psycho,” Spence said. “He knows Shelley is screening the pilot on his yacht tonight. Benoit is planning to get on board, wait till they’re somewhere out on the open water, and then blow it up.”

“Did you convince Shelley to bring any security on board?” Kylie said.

“You know how stubborn he is. He finally signed on two rent-a-cops just to humor me. I doubt if they’re any better than a couple of school crossing guards.”

“We have to warn him,” Kylie said. “Maybe we should radio the captain.”

“You do that,” Spence said. “I met him. His name is Kirk Campion. He’s a retired merchant marine, used to be chief mate on one of the Maersk container ships. And guess what—he pitched a movie to me about a yacht getting hijacked by a bunch of Somali pirates, and the captain and the crew take them on. You call him and tell him the madman everyone in New York is looking for is on his boat, and guess what he’ll do?”

“Spence is right,” I said. “The last thing we need is some civilian cowboy trying to save the day. You and I need to get on that boat. Spence, where’s the dock, and when does the boat leave?”

“South Street Seaport. Pier 17. What time is it?”

“A little after six.”

“By now they’ve shoved off, and Gabriel Benoit is somewhere belowdecks wiring it with enough explosives to blow it to Weehawken.”

“How does he expect to get off?” Kylie said.

“Beats me,” Spence said, “but after the way he escaped from half of NYPD at Radio City, I bet he won’t have a hard time figuring out how to—”

There was a pounding on the apartment door.

“Police,” the voice on the other side said. “Open up.”

I opened the door. There were at least ten people in the hallway. All of them in uniform, except one: Captain Cates.