Red Alert(NYPD Red #5)(27)

“Would you like to sit at the counter, or would you like a private confessional in the back?”

I smiled and found a quiet booth at the rear of the diner.

“I see you made an arrest in the Davenport case,” she said when she delivered the food. “But that’s probably not what you want to talk about.”

She sat down across from me, and in between bites of my breakfast, I gave her the highlights of last night, starting with the phone call from Shelley and ending with what I had learned about C.J.

She didn’t blink.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” I asked.

“What’s the question?”

“Someone should tell Kylie that the guy she’s dating is married. I can’t do it, so I thought maybe—”

“She already knows he’s married, Zach. She told me a week ago.”

“She…she told you?”

“You think you’re the only cop who comes to me for relationship advice? That week before Valentine’s Day I have to open up early and close late just to handle the seasonal demand.”

“And she doesn’t care that she’s sleeping with a married man?”

“In case you forgot, Kylie is married, too. She doesn’t live with her husband, and C.J. doesn’t live with his wife. Consenting adults, Zach. Let it go.”

“I could use some more coffee,” I said.

“And a side order of antipsychotic drugs,” she said. “Why the hell are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Trying to solve a crime that isn’t your crime to solve. Or maybe you’re just trying to prove to Kylie that she’s making the same mistake all over again by picking some jerk whose name is Not Zach Jordan.”

“Forget the coffee,” I said. “I’ll just take the check.”

She leaned across the table and put her hand on mine. “That’s what I love about you, Zach. You’re always so open to good advice…until you hear it.”

She stood up. “Breakfast is on me.”

“Thanks…for everything.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yeah. Don’t give up on me.”

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” she said. “I love a challenge. Stay where you are. I’ll bring you some more coffee.”

She headed back toward the kitchen, and I checked my watch: 6:05. Kylie would be in by 6:15. I had time for one more cup before we tackled another impossibly long day.

“Just wait right here,” I heard Gerri say from the front of the diner. I looked up, and she was headed straight for me. No coffee. All business.

“Zach, someone up front is looking for you,” she said.

“Who?”

“Never saw him before. Civilian. Overweight. Jumpy as grease on a griddle. Smells like a cigar factory. Do you know him?”

“Hell, yeah. Send him back.”

A few seconds later, Nathan Hirsch, the happily married dad from Queens with the high-priced hooker in Jersey, loomed over me.

“Sorry to bust in on your breakfast,” he said, “but I went to the precinct, and they said you’d probably be here.”

“No problem. Kylie and I were going to call you this morning. We are so sorry about Mr. Zimmer. We’ve been on the case since it happened.”

“Well, I can tell you who did it,” he said. “It was the same guy who killed Del.”

He shoved his body into the booth and sat across from me. His breathing was labored, and his hands were trembling. He leaned forward and whispered, “And I’m next.”





CHAPTER 26



I called Kylie and filled her in. By the time I brought Hirsch back to the house, she was waiting for us in an interview room.

As soon as I opened the door, he balked. “Lose it,” he demanded, pointing at the video camera.

“It’s just for internal use,” Kylie said. “Our captain’s not in yet, and she’s been very involved in the—”

“Can it, Detective,” he said. “I’m about to give you the name of a mass murderer. If he finds out I’m the one who gave him up, he’ll have me killed even if he’s rotting away in prison. The only way we’re going to do this is if I have total anonymity.”

Kylie nodded and capped the lens. He took a seat at the table, and she sat down across from him. I stood.

“In your own words, Mr. Hirsch,” she said.

“Look, I broke a few laws when I was a kid, but whatever I tell you, the statute of limitations ran out long ago.”

“Statutes run out,” Kylie said. “Grudges are forever. Who’s coming after you?”

“Did you ever hear of Zoe Pound?”

After years of dealing with the superrich, I’ve come to appreciate a certain subtle sophistication about them. They live inside a bubble, and the veneer of privilege and class always seems to remain intact, even when they’re caught up in the most nefarious crime imaginable.

There is nothing subtle or sophisticated about Zoe Pound. Spawned in the Little Haiti section of Miami in the nineties, they’ve evolved from a violent street gang into one of the most ruthless and feared criminal enterprises in the United States. I couldn’t imagine how this middle-aged, puffy, pasty white man could be a target of an organization known for drug trafficking, arms dealing, robbery, and contract killing.