Red Alert(NYPD Red #5)(21)

CHAPTER 19



Kylie and I thanked Bill Neill and started walking back toward our car, which we’d been forced to abandon on 70th Street because York Avenue had been clogged with emergency vehicles.

By the time we got back to the blast site, some semblance of order had been restored. At least half of the fire trucks and patrol cars had been released, news vans were relegated to the side streets, and all civilian traffic from 61st to 72nd had been diverted to First and Second Avenues. That left two lanes open on York for official vehicles. I immediately recognized the black SUV parked in front of the 68th Street gate. It was the most official vehicle of them all.

“Detectives!” a voice boomed.

It was Charlie, the mayor’s driver. He waved us over to the car, opened the back door, and Kylie and I slid into the back seat next to Muriel Sykes.

“Yesterday, when I called you and asked you to get Arnie Zimmer off my back, this is not what I had in mind,” she said. “He has now managed to become a bigger pain in the ass to me dead than he was alive. I realize that the dust hasn’t even settled, but do you have anything? One murder is a tragedy. Two is a conspiracy.”

“Madam Mayor,” Kylie said, “when Zach and I met with the three surviving Silver Bullet founders yesterday, Arnie Zimmer tried to convince us that Del Fairfax was killed by a disgruntled contractor. If there’s a conspiracy against them as a group, I’m sure it came as as big a surprise to Zimmer as it did to us.”

“So you have nothing. No suspects. No leads.”

“Not yet.”

“What about Aubrey Davenport? She got bumped off the front page because of the bombing, but she’s a big-name filmmaker, and the whole autoerotic asphyxiation thing is going to sell a lot of newspapers. Where are you on that?”

We told her.

“So this Janek Hoffmann,” she said, going over the high points, “he’s her cameraman, and there’s evidence of a tripod at the crime scene. The brother-in-law tells you that the guy is mentally and physically abusive. Davenport’s car is parked a block from Hoffmann’s apartment, and he has no alibi for the time of the murder. It sounds to me like you have an incredibly viable suspect.”

“But we can’t arrest him,” I said. “We don’t have enough evidence to take to the DA.”

“Zach, I know the rules. I was a U.S. attorney, and when I ran for mayor, I pushed every law-and-order hot button I could. How is it going to look to the voters if I have two unsolved high-profile cases hanging over my head in my first four months? I need an arrest, and you’re closer on this than you are on the bombings.”

“Madam Mayor, if we go to Mick Wilson and tell him we want to charge Janek Hoffmann, he’ll kick us out of his—”

“I’ve got two words for our illustrious district attorney,” she barked.

I braced myself for the inevitable mayoral f-bomb.

“Selma Kaplan.”

“Ma’am?”

“Selma is the smartest ADA in New York County. If anyone can help me get a win on the front page, it’s her. Plus she’s got the balls to stand up to Wilson, and she’s loyal—we went to Brooklyn Law together. Talk to her and see what she can come up with.” She leaned over and yanked the door handle. “Please…”

Thirty minutes later, Kylie and I were in the Louis J. Lefkowitz State Office Building, reconnecting with one of the best prosecutors in the business.

Kaplan came around from behind her desk and shook our hands. “Detectives, I wish we could spend twenty minutes together rehashing past glories,” she said, “but the villagers are breaking the law faster than I can lock them up. The only reason you got past the wolf at the door is because my old friend Muriel has my cell number, and she’s not ashamed to beg. She gave me an overview, but tell me what you’ve got on this Janek Hoffmann.”

Kylie and I filled her in, and when we were done, Kaplan shook her head and frowned.

“If I’m going to get a conviction, I need more than some juicer playing Fifty Shades of Weird with the victim and no alibi,” she said.

“We told the mayor we didn’t think you could hang a case on it,” I said.

“I can’t.” She paused. “But—and this is a big but—my gut tells me you’ve got enough circumstantial evidence to convince a grand jury to lock him up. Especially once they’re told he’s a flight risk who could hop a plane to Warsaw at any minute. Bring him in. I can get an indictment. That’ll buy you enough time to either build a case against Hoffmann or, to quote O.J., ‘find the real killer.’”

“Thanks, Selma,” Kylie said. “We owe you one.”

“No, sweetheart,” Kaplan said. “Muriel owes me one. And make sure you let her know that I plan to collect.”





CHAPTER 20



The Miranda warning is eloquent in its simplicity. And yet a few seconds after we advised Janek Hoffmann that anything he said “can and will be used against you in a court of law,” he assured us that he understood his rights and then blurted out, “I didn’t kill her. But if I did, I didn’t mean it.”

Kylie tossed me a grin that summed up what we were both thinking: We may not have enough evidence to convict this idiot, but with a little luck, he’ll hang himself.