Page 1 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

CHAPTER 1

My phone chirped, and I looked down at the gray text bubble on my screen. It was from Selma Kaplan at the District Attorney’s Office. The message was one I had seen or heard hundreds of times over the course of my career as a cop. Six words that I knew had the power to change people’s lives. What I didn’t know—what I could not even have possibly imagined—is that this time those words would change my life. Forever.

the jury has reached a verdict.

I looked up at my partner, Detective Kylie MacDonald, who had gotten the same text. “It’s about goddamn time,” she said. “How long have they been sequestered? A week? A month? A year?”

“Four and a half days,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter, Zach,” she said. “You know how it goes. The longer the jury deliberates, the worse it is for our side. Convictions come fast. Acquittals take forever.”

“Four and a half days isn’t forever.”

“It is this time. Our testimony was airtight. Selma’s closing was brilliant. The case was a slam dunk. If they were going to find him guilty, they could have done it in four and a half hours.”

“Ye of little faith,” I said, grabbing a radio. “Let’s go. Judge Hollander isn’t going to wait for us.”

“Twenty bucks says Hellman walks,” Kylie said.

“You’re bettingagainstus?”

“I’m betting with my head, Zach, not my heart,” she said as we headed down the stairs. “Warren Hellman is filthy rich and has the power to turn ordinary mortals into superstars. There were five women on the jury, and he waseyeball-fuckingevery one of them. Juror number seven barely looked at me when I testified. She just gawked at him. She probably went home every night, flipped on the TV, and masturbated to his reruns. If anybody turned the jury, it was her.”

A minute later we were speeding toward the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse at 100 Centre Street. Normally we’re too busy to drive downtown and sit through the proceedings just to hear the verdict read. We wait for a call from the DA’s Office and win or lose, we move on without missing a beat.

But this was different. This time it was personal, and we both wanted to be there when Warren Hellman went down. He’d killed a cop.

The first time I met Jonas Belmont, I was working in theThree-Twoup in Harlem. I was a rookie, and he was a legend—a detective first grade with more medals of honor than anyone in the history of the department.

That night, I brought a homeless guy into the station. The desk sergeant got one whiff of the man and asked me what the charges were.

“He was jaywalking, sir.”

The sergeant exploded. “Are you fucking serious, Jordan? Give that bag of shit a summons and get him the hell out of here.”

“I will, sir,” I said, “but if I could just talk to a detective for two minutes.”

“Get him out of here,” the sergeant repeated. “Now.”

I started to leave when a voice boomed out. “Hold it right there, Officer.”

I turned around. A hulk of a man was walking toward me. Six six, ginger hair, muscled chest straining against his suit jacket, andsteel-blueeyes that were lasered in on me and my homeless persona non grata.

“Detective Jonas Belmont,” he said.

I knew who he was. Everybody knew who he was. “Jordan, sir. Zach Jordan.”

“How much time do you have on the job, kid?” he said.

“Two years next month, sir.”

“And how manyfoul-smelling,raggedy-assjaywalkers have you arrested?”

“This is my first, sir.”

“And I’m betting you’re smart enough to know he doesn’t have the means to pay for a summons even if you slapped him with one.”

I felt a smile coming on, but I held it back. Belmont was on my wavelength. He knew what I was up to, and he was ready to inform the sergeant that he was about to join the party.

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