Page 59 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

“Just fucking with you, old man,” he said laughing.

I don’t know whenthirty-sevenbecame old, but Theo Wilkins’s zest for life was infectious, and I had to laugh along with him. Even so, I didn’t let the fun cloud the fact that my mission was to keep this kid from getting killed.

“Only pack what you need,” I said once we were inside his apartment.

“So, then, just clean underwear, condoms, and weed,” he said, cracking himself up again.

He pulled a YETI backpack out of his closet, unzipped it, opened his dresser drawers one by one, and began randomly tossing clothes in the bag. It took him less than ninety seconds to pull together his entire getaway wardrobe.

He had his own bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. I looked inside. The wastebasket was overflowing, and the floor was strewn with towels, dirty laundry, and film magazines.

I waved my hand in front of my nose and backed away from the door. “Don’t forget your beauty care essentials, Cinderella,” I said.

“Way ahead of you, dude,” he said, opening the top dresser drawer and pulling out a black canvas bag. “Everything I need is in here, all packed and ready to go. That way, I can’t forget any—”

Something on top of his dresser caught his eye. “Aww, fuck,” he said.

“What is it?”

“It’s aP-38,” he said, picking it up. “It belonged to Mr. Sheffield. He carried it around with him since...I don’t know, forever.”

He handed it to me. It was a short piece of metal about an inch and a half long. A hinged metal tooth folded out from the side. I knew it well. It was the can opener that was first issued to our troops during World War II.

“My uncle still has one,” I said. “He was a marine. The jarheads called it a John Wayne. He got it in Nam, and I guarantee you he’s still got it tucked in his pants pocket today.”

I gave it back to Theo, and he plopped down heavily on the bed. “Mr. Sheffield gave this to me the last time I saw him. He said, ‘hang on to it, kid. You never know when you’re going to have to pop the top on a can ofmeat-and-potatohash.’ I was going to put it on my key chain, but I never got around to it.”

His eyes got watery, and he wiped them dry with his sleeve. “Sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be,” I said, sitting next to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “You just lost him this morning, and with all the craziness, you haven’t had time to grieve. You need a few minutes alone?”

“No. Thanks. I’m good,” he said, standing up. “I just have to grab two more things.”

He crossed the room to aglass-toppedcomputer desk, folded his laptop, and put it in a leather case. Then he picked up aneight-by-tensilver picture frame and brought it to where I was sitting.

“You said pack only what I need,” he said. “I need this. It’s the last picture of me and my mom. She died not too long after this was taken.”

He handed me the frame.

“The funeral was a week before her thirtieth birthday,” he said. “I was only six years old but I remember everything about it.”

I could hear Theo talking, but my eyes and my brain had locked on to the photo. It took my breath away.

I finally spoke. “She was very beautiful,” I said. “What was her name?”

“Sylviane. Sylviane LeBec.”

“French,” I said.

He smiled. “Totalement français.She grew up in Saint Étienne in theAuvergne-Rhône-Alpes. She came to New York as an au pair working for this couple with three kids out in Southampton. She met some guy, got pregnant, and here I stand, Theole bâtard, the unexpected outcome of a glorious summer romance.”

I smiled. Even in his sadness, Theo could do that to people. He was every bit the charismatic character his father had said he was.

“Are you in touch with your biological dad?” I asked. “I know you’d rather have Travis here right now, but if you have a relationship with your birth father, we could contact him, and—”

“Zach, I don’t even know who the fuck he is. I’m sure if my mom had lived, she’d have told me by now, but not when I was six.”

“Does Travis know?”

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