NYPD Red 4 by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page A

that I was the best cop for the job,” Cates told me one night when we were having a drink. “But when most of your constituency is overprivileged white men, it’s smart politics to put a black woman in charge.”
    The truth is, she was the best cop for the job, and most days I love having her as my boss. This day was not one of them.
    “That’s all you’ve got?” she said when Kylie and I told her where we were on the Travers murder. “You two haven’t done squat since you met with the Bassett brothers last night.”
    “We’ve got cops canvassing the area, looking for eyewitnesses,” Kylie said. “And there are at least twenty-five traffic and private security cameras at 54th and Broadway, where the shooting happened. We have Jan Hogle going through those.”
    “And how about that extensive network of CIs you told me about this morning?” Cates said. “How’s that working out?”
    “You’re right, Captain,” I said before Kylie could mount a defense. “We haven’t done squat on the Travers case. No excuse.”
    Cates laughed. “Of course you have an excuse. It’s called politics over police work. The mayor and her husband want you on these hospital robberies. You’re stuck with it. But I can’t take you off this homicide. Which means you have to do both.”
    “We can,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster, “but we could use some help. We have a person of interest—a hospital volunteer who may have been the inside person on four of the nine jobs. She may lead us to bigger fish, but we need to tail her. Do you think you can snag us another team to throw against it?”
    “I’d be happy to,” Cates said. “Do you think you can snag me the perps who killed Elena Travers?”
    “We’d be happy to,” Kylie said.
    Cates ignored the wisecrack and looked at me. “You’ve got Betancourt and Torres,” she said, waving us out of her office without another word.
    Five minutes later, we were sitting down to brief our backup.
    Before they came to Red, Detectives Jenny Betancourt and Wanda Torres had more collars than any team in Brooklyn South. Betancourt is a pit bull when it comes to details, and Torres—well, she’s just a pit bull. Kylie and I had worked with them before, and we liked them—partly because they were new and eager to make their bones, and partly because they reminded us of us. They bickered constantly, like an old married couple.
    “I agree with Kylie,” Betancourt said after we briefed them. “Lyon spent her formative years watching a lot of people die because of substandard medical care. That’s enough to give her a motive.”
    “Bullshit,” Torres said. “I spent my formative years in the South Bronx. Five kids in my grade school died of asthma. Asthma, for God’s sake. How’s that for shoddy medical care? People who grow up in poverty steal steaks from the supermarket, TV sets, maybe—not medical equipment.”
    I told them to hash it out on their own, reminded them how critical the case was to the mayor’s husband, and turned them loose.
    “What are your plans for the night?” Kylie asked me as soon as Betancourt and Torres left.
    “Cheryl and I are going out for Italian food,” I said. “How about you?”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s been a long day. I think I’ll go home, take a bubble bath, order up some dinner, open up a bottle of wine, and watch anything with Mark Wahlberg in it.”
    “Sounds like a restful night,” I said.
    “That’s my plan,” she said. “Rest up.”
    She was lying through her teeth. I had no idea what her plan was, but I knew one thing for sure: a bubble bath, a bottle of wine, and a Mark Wahlberg movie had nothing to do with it.

CHAPTER 15
    I got home at 6:52, eight minutes under the deadline. Cheryl was in the kitchen, spreading a pungent buttery mix on both sides of a split loaf of ciabatta.
    “What’s going on?” I said.
    “I’m making garlic bread.”
    “My keen detective instincts picked