Red Alert(NYPD Red #5)(69)

“News flash, Jordan,” Langford yelled. “Aubrey wasn’t blackmailing me. A few weeks ago I spent the night in her apartment, and she made the mistake of leaving her computer on with no password protection. I found the videos. Her introduction spelled it out. You saw it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. She had a backup of everything.”

“Then you know she wasn’t blackmailing anyone. She was making a documentary that would destroy as many men as she could, and I would be hurt the most.”

“You’re wrong,” I said. “Having sex with a patient wouldn’t have hurt your career.”

“Maybe not if Aubrey were the only patient. But there are others. Dozens. They’ve been silent till now, but going public with that film would have opened the floodgates. I had to kill her. It was a smart plan. I told her to meet me for dinner at a restaurant that just happened to be near Janek Hoffmann’s apartment. Then I picked her up, told her I changed my mind, and we drove out to Roosevelt Island together. You should have seen the look on her face when she realized I wasn’t going to release the choke hold.”

My cell rang. It was Kylie. I picked up. “I don’t think I can keep him talking much longer,” I said.

“Tell him to come out,” she said. “Make him come out.”

“I’ve been involved in a lot of homicides, Dr. Langford,” I said. “You’d be amazed at how easy some of them are to solve. This one was genius. If Aubrey hadn’t backed up those videos, I never would have caught you. But you couldn’t know she did that. You may wind up in jail, but I know the media. They’re all going to want you: 60 Minutes, the New York Times, Time magazine.”

The cab door opened, and Langford stepped out, gun in hand. “Did they teach you that at the academy, Jordan? If you’re negotiating with a narcissist, get him to give up by convincing him he can become a media darling, a rock star inmate. I told you: rotting away in prison is not an option.”

He pointed the gun in my direction and started walking toward me. “You or me, Detective. And trust me, I won’t hesitate to shoot.”

I raised my gun. “Don’t make me do this,” I said.

“One of us is going to pull the trigger,” he said, still advancing. “Your choice.”

And then Kylie stepped out from behind the far side of the yellow Nissan. Her shooting stance was textbook. Feet shoulder width apart, the firing-side foot slightly behind the support-side foot. Her knees were flexed, arms extended straight out, head level.

She fired.

The two barbed darts flew from the Taser gun, one hitting Langford in the back, the other in the right hamstring. The pistol dropped from his hand, his body pitched forward, and he let out a prolonged agonizing scream as Kylie unleashed fifty thousand volts into his body.

Two uniforms poured out from behind the cab. Within five seconds, Kylie killed the power, and the cops pulled Langford to his feet.

She walked up to him and squared off. “Morris Langford, you’re under arrest for the murder of Aubrey Davenport. You have the right to remain silent.”

When she finished reading him his rights, one of the cops holding Langford said, “Would you like to do the honors and cuff him, Detective?”

Kylie slapped her hand to her belt and smiled. “I’m afraid one of you will have to do it, officer,” she said. “My partner and I are out of cuffs. It’s been a busy day.”





CHAPTER 66



At four thirty, Mayor Muriel Sykes did what she does best. She showed up at the precinct unannounced.

Well, almost unannounced. Before she could get up to the third floor, I got a heads-up call from Bob McGrath, my eyes and ears at the front desk.

“Your prom date is here, Detective,” he said.

“Thanks. How does she look?”

“Ravishing as always.”

“I’m serious, Sarge. Pissed? Happy? What?”

“I’ve never seen her happy, and if you’re wondering did she bring a box of doughnuts to reward you for your takedown in Central Park, the answer is no. She just blew right by me and headed up the stairs like a heat-seeking missile.”

“Thanks, Sarge. I owe you one.”

“Everybody owes me at least one, Jordan,” McGrath said. “And you and your wackadoo partner owe me more than most.”

“Shit,” I said, hanging up the phone.

“What now?” Kylie asked.

“The mayor is on her way up.”

“Shit,” Kylie repeated. “Attaboys come by email. Personal appearances are never a good sign.”

There was no time for further discussion. The stairwell door opened, and the mayor’s heels clackety-clacked across the floor until she got to my desk.

“Congratulations on breaking the Davenport case,” she said. “It was a home run.”

The words were there, but the look on her face didn’t match. If we’d hit a home run, how come there was no joy in Mudville?

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “Is something wrong?”

“Everything is fucking wrong,” she said. “Morris Langford is a celebrity shrink—talk shows, news programs, magazines. Even people who never met a psychiatrist can tell you who he is. And now he’s going to be the focus of a murder trial where the key piece of evidence is a collection of videos that will give new meaning to the phrase ‘New York society’s most prominent members.’”