NYPD Red 2 Part 8

"Did you take anything from the apartment?" I asked.

"Detective," she said, "that borders on insulting. You do know I was a former U.S. attorney? Taking anything from this apartment could be considered a criminal act-at the very least, it might be considered obstruction of justice. The answer is an unequivocal no."

"I apologize," I said. "Typical cop question."

"Except you're not a typical cop-neither of you are. You people at Red are trained to deal with high-profile situations like this one. You were front-page heroes a few months ago. I expect you to think twice before you ask me any more stupid questions."

The best defense is a strong offense, and Muriel Sykes had just pummeled us.

"Now where are you on Evelyn's murder?" she said.

"We wanted to go through her computer," I said. "Does she have a laptop here?"

"I have no idea. If she does, I can a.s.sure you that neither Leonard nor I touched it."

And if there were any lesbian p.o.r.n lying around, I'm sure you and Leonard didn't get rid of that either.

"Do we need a search warrant, or can we look around?" I asked.

"Of course. I'm here to help," she said, turning on the warm, grandmotherly smile that graced all her campaign posters. But from the neck down, her six-foot body was steeled for battle. As one columnist put it, "Sykes is a political enigma. You're never sure if she plans to beat the daylights out of you or bake you cookies."

"Can you think of anything that might have connected Evelyn to the three previous victims?" I asked.

"No, nothing," Sykes said. "The killer didn't know her either. He killed those three sc.u.mbags, but the mayor didn't give him what he wanted. Attention. So he targeted someone in power, beat a false confession out of her, and now he's an international media sensation. If I were mayor, he'd have been locked up before he ever laid a hand on Evelyn."

She stubbed out her cigarette and popped an Altoids. "Now let me get back to Leonard," she said, yanking the handle on the gla.s.s door. "You're free to look around all you want."

Kylie and I expected to find nothing, but we went from room to room, going through the motions.

"This is interesting," I said when we got to Evelyn's work s.p.a.ce. "No computer, no modem."

"Maybe she was Amish," Kylie said. "Good thing we know Sykes was a former U.S. attorney, otherwise I might suspect her of tampering with evidence."

We went back to the living room, where Leonard was pacing and yelling into his cell phone. "Hold on, Vernon," he said when he saw us. "I'll ask the cops."

"Hey, lady detective-is this a crime scene?" he asked, twirling a bony finger around the room. "The apartment? Is it a crime scene?"

"Technically," Kylie said, "there's no current evidence-"

"Just yes or no. Crime scene? Not a crime scene?"

n.o.body, no matter how old or how rich, steamrolls Kylie MacDonald. "Mr. Parker," she said slowly, deliberately, "to answer your question, the New York City Police Department does not currently consider your late daughter's apartment as a crime scene."

"We're good to go, Vern," Parker said into the phone. "List it at one point nine five and see if anyone bites."

And with that, the grieving father hung up, brushed past us, and strode out the front door.

Chapter 19.

"Well, that went swimmingly," I said when we were back in the elevator. "I practically accused a former U.S. attorney of tampering with evidence, you came this close to telling the victim's father to take a flying leap off the balcony, and Evelyn's computer, which is probably our best link to finding the killer, is mysteriously missing."

"There's nothing mysterious about it," Kylie said. "Plain and simple. Muriel Sykes took it."

"Try proving that one," I said.

"You think I can't?" she said as the elevator door opened. "Watch this."

She headed straight for the doorman.

"How'd it go up there?" he said, all cheery, as though Christmas were right around the corner and she was the heavy tipper who lived in the penthouse.

"What's your name?" she demanded, all bada.s.s cop, no charm.

"Nestor," he said meekly.

"You have video surveillance in this building, Nestor?"

"Just closed-circuit," he said, pointing to the eight tiny monitors on his console. "It doesn't tape anything. It just lets me keep an eye on things as they happen."

"So you're pretty alert," Kylie said.

"That's my job."

"Then you'd remember if you saw Mrs. Sykes go upstairs to Mrs. Parker-Steele's apartment early this morning."

"If she did, I didn't see her," he said all too quickly.

"Nestor, do you know why we're here?" Kylie demanded.

"Mrs. Parker-Steele," he said. "Somebody killed her."

"Correct. We're investigating a murder. So if I ask you a question and you lie to me, you are guilty of obstructing justice, which is a felony. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"Then let me restate the question," she said. "Did you see Mrs. Sykes go upstairs to Mrs. Parker-Steele's apartment early this morning? And before you answer, ask yourself if whatever she tipped you to keep it quiet is enough to get you through the next two years, because that's the minimum you'd pull for lying to a homicide investigator."

"Mrs. Sykes came by this morning," he said. "A little after seven. I know the time because I start my s.h.i.+ft at seven, and I was still drinking my coffee. She pulled up in a town car, and she told the driver to wait for her. She went upstairs-she didn't have anything with her when she went up, but when she came down five minutes later, she had Mrs. Parker-Steele's laptop. I recognized the carrying case. It has one of those Apple stickers on it. She gave me a hundred bucks."

"For what?" Kylie asked.

"She said, 'If anybody asks if I was here, you say no.'"

"And that's what you said, so you earned your hundred bucks. And then you told the truth, so now you won't be getting into the back of that police car with me," Kylie said. "Have a nice day, Nestor."

She grabbed the bra.s.s handle on the door and yanked it open. She waved me on through and followed me to the car. Nestor just stood there, sh.e.l.l-shocked.

"As I was saying," Kylie said as she slid into the driver's seat, "there's nothing mysterious about it. Muriel Sykes beat us to the punch. And now that I know she's out to sandbag us, I've changed my mind."

"About what?" I asked.

She eased the Ford into traffic. "Next Tuesday I'm voting for Spellman."

Chapter 20.

We were back in the car, heading downtown. "You realize of course that Evelyn's laptop is only missing temporarily," Kylie said.

"You think it will turn up next Wednesday morning as soon as the election is over," I asked, "or do you think Sykes will keep it under wraps until she's sworn in on January first?"

"Either way, NYPD Red is not waiting. Let's go pay Evelyn a visit. Maybe she can tell us something. Give Chuck Dryden a call and ask if he minds seeing me twice in one day."

"I don't think he'd mind if you moved in with him," I said. "In case your keen cop mind hadn't picked up on it, the boy has the hots for you."

"Oooooh," she said breathlessly, tossing her blond hair in a spot-on imitation of Marilyn Monroe. "He's so smart and I'm so dumb, I can't imagine what he sees in me."

"My guess is he's smitten by your humility," I said.

The Office of Chief Medical Examiner is on East 26th Street, just around the corner from one of their primary sources, Bellevue Hospital. As expected, Chuck was more than happy to see us, and when I say us, I mean not me. I let Kylie do the talking.

"Chuck, we're running into roadblocks left and right. We definitely need your help," she said.

He smoothed out his white lab coat with both hands. "This way," he said, and walked us into an autopsy room where Evelyn was on a slab.

"We're not usually this fast," he said, "but she went right to the front of the queue. We just finished st.i.tching her back up."

"Tell us what you found," she said.

"This is not a copycat murder. In life, this victim may have come from an entirely different social stratum than the first three, but they all died the same death. Asphyxiation. Probably suffocated by putting a plastic bag over their heads. All four were in captivity for at least seventy-two hours, their bodies were all scrubbed down with ammonia, and they all had the same stomach contents-pizza. And not just any pizza. Same dough, same sauce, same quality cheese. This was authentic, homemade-not commercial like Domino's or Pizza Hut."

"You can tell that?" Kylie said. She looked at me. "He's amazing."

Chuck stood there soaking it up, most likely trying his darnedest not to get an erection.

"What about defensive wounds?" Kylie asked. "Bruised knuckles, skin under the nails-something they might not be able to get rid of with ammonia?"

"Nothing," he said. "It would appear that none of the victims ever got a chance to put up a fight."

Kylie leaned over the table to get a closer look at Evelyn's face. "Why is her mouth all busted up like that?" she asked. "Do you think the killer used a ball gag?"

"No, that would keep the victims quiet, but whatever this was did a lot more damage. Broken teeth, lacerations inside the mouth, and torn jaw muscles. A ball gag wouldn't rip them up like that."

"What would?"

"I don't like to hypothesize," Dryden said with a wry smile.

"But you have an educated guess, don't you," Kylie said.

"Not in the official report. Nothing goes into my reports unless it's completely verified. I deal in facts, not whimsy."

"Then give me thirty seconds of whimsy," she said. "Please."

Dryden smiled as I'd never seen him smile before. "Off the record," he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Cross my heart," she said, drawing an imaginary X on her left breast.

With a twinkle in his eye, Chuck said, "How familiar are you with medieval sadomasochism?"

"A little," Kylie said, looking at him with newfound respect. "But apparently, not nearly as much as you."

Chapter 21.

"I think we just saw a side of old Cut And Dryden that very few people get to see," Kylie said as soon as we were back in the car. "That boy knows more about medieval torture devices than Kellogg knows about cornflakes."

"I always figured Dr. Straight Arrow had a kinky side," I said.

"He probably has a rack in his bedroom and a guillotine in his bas.e.m.e.nt," she said, laughing out loud.

And just like that, the glow was back. Whatever shroud of gloom had been hanging over Kylie's head was gone, and she was bubbling with energy.

"I don't care who wins the election," she said. "We are going to nail this Hazmat b.a.s.t.a.r.d before next Tuesday and level the playing field."

She stopped at a red light and turned to me, a bloodhound straining at the leash. "First thing we're going to do," she said, "is pull Matt Smith in on this."

It was like a punch to the gut. Before I could spit out What the h.e.l.l do we need Matt Smith for? Kylie explained.