Page 18 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

Kylie stuck her finger down her throat and mimed a gag.

“Megan, I don’t trust reporters, investigative journalists, politicians—it’s a long list, but you get the picture. It’s a cop thing, so don’t take it personally.”

“I’m serious, Zach. I have something that can help you and your partner, who I’m sure is listening, with this dual homicide.”

“You’re damn right I’m listening,” Kylie said, grabbing the phone out of my hand. “If you’ve got something, call DCPI. If they tell us to talk to you, we will, but not without putting up a fight.”

“Detective MacDonald,” Megan said, “if I tell DCPI, they’ll go straight to the commissioner, and then the two of you will wind up on the nasty end of a clusterfuck.”

“Been there, not worried,” Kylie said.

“Put Zach back on.”

“I hate to disappoint you, Lois Lane, but you’ve got us both. Take it or leave it.” Kylie looked at me with aself-satisfiedexpression that said, “Thisis how you deal with reporters.”

“Okay,” Megan said. “Full disclosure. I can’t call DCPI.”

“Why not?” I said.

“I’ve got information that can help you crack the Hellman case. But how I came by that information is not something I’m proud of.”

“I’m sure it’s not the first time,” Kylie said. “Elaborate on this one.”

“I know something, Kylie. It’s big. If I take it to DCPI, they’re going to want to know how I came by it, and if that gets out, mypicture-perfectupstanding journalist image will be fucked. If I tell you and Zach, you’ll protect your source. It’s Quid Pro Quo 101, kids. Are you interested?”

Kylie handed me the phone. “Maybe,” I said. “Give us a taste.”

“Six months ago, Brooke Hellman tried to murder her husband, Curtis.”

Kylie mouthed a silentF-bomb.

“Yeah,” I said. “We’re interested. Where can we meet?”

CHAPTER 13

Megan gave me anaddress on EastTwenty-EighthStreet. It was atwo-bedroomcorporate apartment leased by the station, where its senior reporters could hold private meetings, crash for a few hours between news cycles, or, in the case of Megan Rollins, share a bottle of tequila and a bed with a cop who couldn’t say no to adark-haired, beautiful woman whose body was every bit as spectacular as I imagined it would be after watching her on camera.

I was off duty, not in a relationship at the time, and we never once talked about my work, so for me, it was pure sex. No remorse, no guilt, just anotherone-nightstand. And while I’d like to think she found me irresistibly attractive and gave me at least four and a half stars for performance, I don’t kid myself. Megan’s speed dial is filled with men—and women—who take her calls because she is no longer just another anonymous face in a sea of reporters.

I haven’t told a soul, especially Kylie. And while many would question Megan’s professional integrity, as a willing victim I’m comforted that she still stands behind the journalistic credo of never revealing her sources.

The apartment was functional and uninspired, a cross between a Best Western and Office Max. Megan, on the other hand, was a cross between an intrepid reporterhell-benton winning a Pulitzer, and Scarlett Johansson in any movie ever.

The three of us sat down at a roundlaminate-toptable. There was no tequila, no foreplay. Megan just did what she does every night at eleven. She looked straight at us and started talking.

“Brooke Hellman is smarter than you think. She studied economics at Barnard. In her junior year, she got apart-timejob as acoat-checkgirl in abig-ticketrestaurant, and the customers—and by customers, I mean men—loved her. By the time she graduated, she realized she could make more money working inhigh-endrestaurants than she could on Wall Street.

“She took to the business fast and worked her way up even faster. In a few years, she was managing one of thoseif-you-have-to-ask-how-much-it-costs-you-don’t-belong-heresteak houses downtown. She instinctively knew the value of schmoozing every night with CEOs, EVPs, and other captains of industry. The more they drank, the faster they parted with corporate secrets. Brooke, in turn, researched, analyzed, capitalized on the insider information, and put together a tidy little nest egg.

“And then she met the Hellman brothers. Bigger nest. A lot more eggs. Warren made it clear from theget-gothat he wanted to fuck her, but he was too much of a pig and she was too much of a feminist, so it never happened. Curtis was another story. He had just as much money as his brother, and I think she genuinely liked him—at least in the beginning. There were other guys worth nine figures, but she liked the glam of the film business, so she married him. It worked for about twenty years, and then one day she realized that Warren’s sexual escapades were costing the company a fortune in hush money.”

“What about the woman who died in the desert?” Kylie said. “That was Curtis.”

“Curtis was one and done. Two million dollars and he learned his lesson. Warren was a serial predator. Over the past ten years, it probably cost fifty million dollars to pay off the women he forced himself on. And it didn’t come out of his pocket. The business paid for it. I checked—it’s legal. All you need is a smart lawyer. Curtis could accept his brother’s sex addiction, but Brooke did the math.Twenty-fivemillion out of her pocket, and there were more lawsuits on the horizon. She wanted out. She begged Curtis to sell his half of the business to Warren while there was still something worth selling. But Curtis said no. That, Detectives, is what is known in the business asmotive.”

A lot of the backstory on Brooke was new to us, and Megan knew it. She flashed aclose-upcamera-worthysmile and went on.

“Did you know that Curtis Hellman was a diabetic?”

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