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

up on that,” I said. “But I thought we were going out to dinner.”
    “Who said anything about going out? I asked you how you felt about Italian food. You said ‘Fantastico,’ so that’s what I’m making. There’s a lasagna in the oven. It’ll be ready about seven thirty.”
    “This is amazing,” I said.
    “It’s not amazing,” she said. “It’s called dinner. Normal couples do it every night.”
    I came around behind her, cupped her breasts in my hands, and let my lips and tongue nibble the back of her neck. “And what do normal couples do if they have thirty-five minutes to kill before their lasagna is ready?”
    “Keep your pants on, Detective Horndog,” she said, wriggling away. “At least until after dinner. For now, why don’t you open a bottle of wine and turn on the TV? It doesn’t get any more normal than that.”
    I put my badge, my gun, and my cell phone down on the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the dining area, pulled a bottle of Gabbiano Chianti from the wine rack, and poured two glasses.
    I found the TV remote, flipped on Jeopardy!, and sat down on the sofa. Five minutes later, Cheryl joined me, and the two of us spent the next half hour vying to see who was the fastest at coming up with the right answer. It was a lopsided contest. She trounced me.
    It was pure, unadulterated domestic boredom, and I loved it.
    “Loser does the dishes,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.
    I turned off the TV and went to the bathroom to wash up. I was looking in the mirror when my eye caught the pink bathrobe hanging next to my white one on the back of the door. Cheryl was not the first woman I had lived with. But this was the first time in my life that I wasn’t having second thoughts.
    By the time I got back, the overhead lights in the dining area were dimmed, two flickering candles lit the room, and dinner was on the table: a steaming pan of lasagna, a salad bowl filled with greens and cherry tomatoes, and a basket of garlic bread.
    “Are you sure this is normal?” I said. “Because it looks pretty fantastico to me.”
    Cheryl was standing next to the breakfast bar. “Don’t sit down,” she said. She had my cell phone in her hand. “It rang while you were in the bathroom.”
    “Whoever it is, tell them I’m eating dinner. I’ll call back.”
    “It’s your partner,” Cheryl said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “She needs a cop.”
    I took the phone. “Kylie, unless someone has a gun to your head, it’ll have to wait.”
    “Zach, I’m at a gas station up in Harlem.”
    “Doing what?”
    “I tracked down one of Spence’s dealers.”
    “Why? After everything the counselors at the rehab told you, why the hell would you—never mind, I know why you do the crazy shit you do. What I don’t know is why you’d go up there on your own without any backup.”
    “Because I thought I could handle it on my own.”
    “But you can’t.” I looked at Cheryl and mouthed the words “I’m sorry.” I turned back to the phone. “Okay, just tell me what’s going on.”
    “The dealer’s name is Baby D. I confronted him and told him I was looking for my husband. He said he hasn’t seen Spence in months, but he’s lying. I know because he’s wearing Spence’s new watch.”
    “You can’t bust him for that, Kylie.”
    “For fuck’s sake, Jordan!” she yelled. “Are you going to give me a lecture on all the things I can’t do? I thought you said you’d help. Forget it.”
    She hung up.
    I stood there, seething.
    “What’s going on?” Cheryl said.
    “Same old, same old. She’s in over her head, she’s out of control, and she needs help.”
    “Did you tell her to call for backup?”
    “She can’t. It’s not police business. It’s her own crazy shit. I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said, tilting my head at Cheryl, hoping she’d pick up the baton.
    “Don’t give me that puppy-dog look,” she said. “You know exactly what you’re going