Page 32 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

Kylie laughed. “What the hell are you talking about, old man?”

“Sweetheart, the way they died—it was pretty fucking cinematic. Warren gets shot by a sniper on live TV. Curtis gets shanked in broad daylight—no clues left behind. That’s great cop drama. You two catch the people who killed them, and I guarantee you someone is going to want to turn it into a movie. Especially if the bad guys are as smart as I think they are.”

“What do you mean?” Kylie said.

“The villains. They can’t be bumbling idiots. Think about it. The Joker, Hannibal Lecter, Keyser Söze—they’re not just evil; they’re brilliant. The audience loves it when the cops are up against a worthy adversary.”

“We prefer bumbling idiots,” I said, “but in this case, these adversaries seem pretty damn worthy.”

“You’re looking for professionals, right?” Shelley said.

I nodded. “It looks that way.”

Shelley put a hand to his chin, got lost in thought for about ten seconds, started to say something, and then changed his mind.

“What?” Kylie said. “Tell us what you’re thinking. Don’t hold back.”

“It’s nothing. You said you’re looking for professionals. It reminds me of a pitch I took a few months back.”

“What pitch?” Kylie asked.

“It was for a TV series. The heroes, if you want to call them that, were hit men. I’ve seen it before, but I did like the spin this writer took on it.”

“What spin?” Kylie said.

“The hit men,” Shelley said. “They were old. Pushing seventy. It was clever, but I passed on it. I want my protagonists to be more like you—young, attractive men and women who fight crime. Not a bunch of geezers who run around the globe whacking people for money.”

Kylie and I looked at each other.Geezers whacking people for money. It sure felt like a nugget.

She turned to Shelley. “I think Zach and I will have some of that coffee after all,” she said. “It looks like we just might be here for a while.”

CHAPTER 22

“You’re right,” Kylie said,taking a sip of Shelley’s Guatemalan dark roast. “This is excellent coffee.”

“Thanks, but that’s not why you’re sticking around,” Shelley said. “I just said something that piqued your interest.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” she said. “We’re curious about these aging hit men. I thought most guys who retire take up golf.”

“Are you kidding?” Shelley said. “Contract killing is more popular with my generation than shuffleboard. I got myHow to Murder for Fun and Profitpamphlet as soon as I signed up for AARP.” He gave her astone-coldstare. “Don’t give me this ‘maybe yes, maybe no’ bullshit. I struck a nerve, didn’t I? Your hit man is no spring

chicken.”

“You know we can’t say anything,” Kylie said. “But we need all the help we can get.”

Shelley nodded. He was happy to help. He just didn’t like being played.

“Remember Travis Wilkins?” he said. “He was one of ourwriter-producersonK-Mac.”

Kylie winced.K-Mac was a TV series created by Kylie’s husband, Spence. It was about a female detective who solves the toughest cases but doesn’t always go by the book. Spence had given his fictional cop, Katie MacDougal, the same bad habits and the same nickname as his wife—K-Mac.

“I remember Travis,” Kylie said.

“Remember how he used to bring his son to the set whenever he could?” Shelley said.

Shelley is a storyteller with a fondness for deviating from the subject at hand and nattering on about something unrelated. Kylie refers to it as histhroat-clearingprocess.

“Yeah, I remember the kid,” Kylie said.

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