Page 63 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

“I think he’s still scared, but he seems happy to be here.”

“I’ll bet. He’s got to feel good about having an armed cop around 24/7.”

“I don’t know. He’s aneighteen-year-oldwith raging male hormones. I’m pretty sure Cheryl puts a bigger smile on his face than I do.”

I hung up and found Theo at thedining-roomtable, his laptop in front of him.

“Are you and Kylie still on the case?” he asked.

“A hundred percent. Why wouldn’t we be?”

“That tape of Kylietrash-talkingthe reporter.”

“Trust me, she’s done a lot worse, and we haven’t been fired yet.” I sat down. “It turns out you were right.”

“About what?”

“Mr. Sheffield’s death was ruled a homicide. Best guess is that the guy from the funeral parlor did it.”

He took it in, not saying a word. Finally, he cracked a smile. “Can I call Mrs. Millstein and tell her that Mr. Sheffield did notdie peacefullyin his sleep?”

“No.”

“Somebody should rub her nose in all her bullshit,” he said.

“Somebody will let her know. It just won’t be someone who will enjoy it as much as you would,” I said. “There’s one other thing. Mr. Sheffield left you an envelope with his lawyer. Do you have any idea what’s in it?”

He shrugged. “No. He already gave me theP-38can opener. He didn’t have much of anything to give away. He always used to say, ‘When you’re on the way to the grave, it’s smart to travel light.’”

“He also left a will, and you’re in it.”

“Are you kidding? He put me in his will?”

“More than that. You’re the main beneficiary. It could amount to a lot.”

“Thanks. But I’m not interested.”

“What do you mean, you’re not interested?”

Theo flipped his laptop shut. “I know. You’re going to think I’m crazy,” he said. “I’m young, I’m broke, I want to make movies, and I really loved Mr. Sheffield. But whatever money he left behind he got for killing people. It’s blood money, Zach. I won’t take a penny of it.”

I was, to borrow a word Theo had used on me the day we met, gobsmacked. I don’t think I’ve ever been that impressed by someone that young in my entire life.

Theo Wilkins, barely out of high school, ahappy-go-luckykid still snacking on Yodels and Mountain Dew, crazy enough to chase after acold-bloodedkiller, had developed a moral compass at the age of eighteen that was straighter and truer than most people will achieve in a lifetime.

His resolve took my breath away. But then, maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. He was just like his mother.

CHAPTER 42

Cheryl and Ispent the next three hours with Theo. First we ate, and then instead of themodern-dayafter-dinnerritual of going our separate ways and curling up with our favorite electronic devices, we went old school. We sat around and talked.

Actually, Theo did most of the talking. Cheryl, who is so beguiling to look at that you forget she’s an accomplished psychologist, primed him with her usual brand of insightful questions. Me, I’m a cop. I did a lot of listening.

By ten o’clock, Theo was sitting at thedining-roomtable screening the footage he’d shot on Clinton Road the day before, and Cheryl and I were in bed with the lights on and the TV off, because the last thing either of us wanted was anotherhyped-upnews bulletin about the sniper who was terrorizing the city.

She tapped three times on the mattress, and I reached over and took her hand, knowing that it was the only physical contact we’d have for as long as we had a teenage boy living on the other side of our bedroom door.

“What’s going on inside your head?” she asked.

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