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 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.”