Page 56 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

Without hesitation, Colin Radcliffe responded. “Absolutely, Madam Mayor.”

“Then do it,” she said. She pushed a button on her desk, and her office door opened electronically.

Minutes later, the four of us were standing on Centre Street, City Hall at our backs.

The PC looked at us. “You heard her,” he said. “Do it.”

Not a single word about his career hanging in the balance. Just those two words.Do it.A tall order, but we knew that they were backed up with the faith, trust, and conviction that we could.

We responded with an emphatic “Yes sir.”

He turned and walked across the street to1-PP.

Cates left, and Kylie and I stood there trying to decide what to do first.

My phone rang. Someone was making the decision for us.

“Detective Jordan, this is Gene DeStefano. My partner and I are here with young Theo at Montefiore.”

“Everything okay?” I said.

“Everything’s great,” DeStefano said. “In fact, they’re so good that the kid wants to check himself out of the hospital.”

“Is he out of his fucking mind?”

“I’m not a medical professional, but I’m going with ‘What kid his age isn’t?’”

“Cuff him to the fucking bed,” I said. “We’ll be right there.”

“Heads up. You’re going to run into one mightilypissed-offreporter who can’t take ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but this room is off limits’ for an answer.”

“Thanks,” I said. I didn’t have to ask her name.

CHAPTER 38

Theo had been checkedinto Montefiore Hospital under an alias. After the doctors cleaned up his road rash and scanned him for internal injuries, he was sequestered in a private room in the pediatric wing, with two cops guarding the door. It was all part of our effort to keep people from tracking him down.

But Megan Rollins has informants everywhere. As soon as Kylie and I got off the elevator on Theo’s floor, she was waiting for us.

“Megan,” I said, doing my best to look surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Covering the story.”

Kylie jumped in. “The story is at the funeralhome.”

“Not for me,” she said. “I’m from the gravedigger school of journalism.”

“Never heard of it,” Kylie snapped. “Enlighten us.”

“When President Kennedy was assassinated, every journalist from around the world covered his funeral. Except one. Jimmy Breslin. He interviewed Clifton Pollard, the man who was paid three dollars an hour to dig the president’s grave. The column was brilliant. Sometimes, the best place to go when there’s a major story breaking is where the rest of the media isn’t.”

Another time, another place, Kylie might have been more tolerant, but she was still raw from watching the PC get skewered. “Megan, the best place for you to go is home,” shesaid.

“Fuck you, Detective. We had a deal. I tipped you to the fact that someone tried to kill Curtis Hellman by switching his insulin. Maybe the lead didn’t pan out for you, but don’t blame me because you’re inept.”

I held up a hand before Kylie could take it up a notch. “Megan,” I said, “like I told you at the funeralhome—”

“Fuck you, too, Zach,” Megan snapped. “You told me nothing. You said we had a quid pro quo. But so far, all I’ve seen is quid prono. Are you going to let me talk to the kid, ornot?”

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