Page 49 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

“And who would that be?” I said casually.

“The guy from the sketch, Zach! Mr. Sheffield’s friend. Barbara!”

CHAPTER 32

“Thanks for calling, Mrs. Abernathy,” I said. “Why don’t you wait for Detective MacDonald and me at the station.”

“Mrs. Abernathy,” Theo repeated. “I get it. You can’t talk.”

Kylie got it, too. “Mrs. Abernathy” was code. We locked eyes. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was ready.

“Zach, wait,” Theo blurted out. “Barbara stopped outside the front door. He’s making a phone call.”

A few seconds later, I heard the buzz of a vibrating cell. It was Winstanley’s. My stomach dropped. Barbara was making a phone call; Winstanley was getting one. I’m a cop. I don’t believe in coincidences.

“Pardon me,” Winstanley said, taking the phone from his jacket pocket.

I took a good hard look at him—late sixties,keen-eyed, physically fit, mentally alert. He had fit my preconceived notion of a mortician so perfectly that I’d never stopped to consider another possibility.

Aging hit man.

He checked his caller ID. “I have to take this,” he said, rewarding our patience with a deferential smile.

“This is Eldon Winstanley. How can I help you?” he said in a singsong voice that I decided had to be an alert to the person on the other end. “No, I won’t be much longer. I’m just finishing up with two hardworking detectives from New York’s Finest.”

Well played, Winstanley. You just let Barbara know that the cops arehere.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” Winstanley said, ending the call.

“Zach,” Theo said. “Barbara changed his mind. He’s walking back to his pickup truck. It’s a black Toyota RAV4.”

“Got it.” I hung up, put my phone in my pocket, and smiled at Winstanley. “Sir, we appreciate your help,” I said. Then I turned to Kylie. “It looks like we’ve got ourselves aninety-twoCharlie here.”

Despite his extensive training, Winstanley had no idea what I’d just said. But every cop in the city knows that a10-92Cis the radio code for arrest. As soon as I said “ninety-twoCharlie,” Kylie flashed a smile and extended her hand. “Thank you so much for your time,” she said.

Winstanley responded like a funeral director. He graciously grasped her right hand. In one swift, practiced move, she reached behind her with her left, grabbed her cuffs, and slapped one on his wrist.

But this old pro wasn’t going down without a fight. And despite his age, he had plenty of fight left in him. He wheeled around, arcing his right leg toward Kylie’s head. He had the skills, but the years had sapped him of some of the speed and power.

She twisted her body, and he connected with her shoulder, launching her into avelvet-coveredpedestal that was displaying a mahogany casket. She hit the floor hard, and I knew I was next. I reached behind me for my ASP—asixteen-ounceextendable steel baton that can split open a coconut in a single blow.

I brought it down hard on Winstanley’s clavicle and heard the crack of bone as he went down.

“Fucking cocksuckers!” he screamed, the obsequioushumble-servantfacade gone as he writhed in agony, spewing venom and vowing to kill us and every member of our families. I cuffed his other wrist behind his back and dragged him across the floor.

“You okay?” I asked Kylie as she stood up.

“Shit, man,” she said. “I thought Mrs. Millstein was going to be the nastiest person I had to deal with all day. This old fuck has a roundhouse kick like Jackie Chan. I’m glad I didn’t run into him while he was in his prime.”

I took out my cuffs and shackled Winstanley to the rail of a bronze casket.

“Theo followed us,” I said. “He called to warn us that the guy from the sketch was about to come in here, but Winstanley gave him aheads-up.”

Guns drawn, we ran through the funeral home and charged through the front door.

There was no sign of Barbara. No sign of his black RAV4. And no sign of Theo.

“Theo!” Kylie called out. “Theo!”

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