Page 17 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

CHAPTER 12

As we pulled awayfrom the house, I slouched in my seat so I could get comfortable while I mentally licked my wounds for five or ten minutes. But Kylie has this singular ability to joke her way through the worst of times.

“Well, that certainly sucked even more than I expected,” she said. “Let me just check the rearview mirror and see if they’re coming after us with torches and pitchforks.”

She got half a laugh out of me.

“Come on, Zach, we knew it was going to be ugly. We just didn’t expect that much rage andalcohol-infusedtestosterone to come at us at once. But hey, we did what the PC asked us to do. My only regret is that I didn’t grab a plateful of that baked ziti before we left. I’m fucking famished.”

I coughed up the other half of the laugh. “What’s your take on Evan?” I asked.

“Sonia Blakely can point herfifteen-hundred-dollar-an-hourfinger at him all she wants,” Kylie said, “but as far as I’m concerned, he didn’t do it.”

“I agree,” I said. “And it’s not about anything he said. It’s how he said it. You and I can smell a lie before it even comes out of the liar’s mouth. Evan’s denial was one hundred percent credible.”

“We’re in sync,” she said. “Call it in.”

I got Captain Cates on the phone. “Detective MacDonald and I interviewed Detective Evan Belmont, and we both concluded that he had nothing to do with killing either Warren or Curtis Hellman,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll pass that on to the PC.”

The call was over in less than fifteen seconds.

“I’ve been thinking,” Kylie said as we crossed the bridge into Brooklyn. “Why don’t we go over to Silvercup Studios tomorrow morning and ask Shelley Trager for some insider dirt on the Hellman brothers?”

“You think he knew them?” I said.

“Probably. Spence always used to say that everybody in the film business either knows, worked with, slept with, or fucked over everybody else in the film business.”

She caught me by surprise. She hadn’t mentioned Spence’s name in months. Spence Harrington is Kylie’s husband. Unless he’s dead.

A year ago, he was a successfulwriter-producer, one of the bright young stars in the industry. And having a powerhouse like Shelley Trager as his mentor made his future even brighter. But that all started to crumble when Spence went back to his old love, cocaine. Six months ago, Spence checked out of his most recent rehab and vanished in the wind. Kylie almost never talks about him. She’s moved on with her life.

My phone rang. “Oh, Christ,” I said, looking at the caller ID. “Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any worse. It’s Megan Rollins.”

“Don’t take the call,” Kylie said.

“That doesn’t work with Megan. The last time I let her go to voice mail, she rattled some cages atOne-PP, and I got a call from DCPIstrongly suggestingthat I get back to her forthwith.”

“Give me the phone. I’ll talk to her.”

“Fantastic idea,” I said. “She hates you. You hate her. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Fine. Put it on speaker. I won’t say a word.”

I took the call, but I kept my finger close to the mute button because Kylie is genetically incapable of keeping her mouth shut. “This is Detective Jordan.”

“Zach.” The voice was like warm honey—soft, smooth, and unabashedly sexy. “It’s Megan Rollins. Can we meet up? I’ve got something for you.”

Kylie silently flipped her the bird.

“Hold on a minute, Megan. Let me just put that through my bullshit translator app. Okay. It came out, ‘Hi, Zach, Iwantsomething from you.’”

“Oh, Zach. Why don’t you trust me?”

“You’re a reporter.”

“Investigative journalist, sweetheart. You really should watch the eleven o’clock news. Do you know how many people go to bed with me every night?”

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