NYPD Red

“Yeah, all the stories say ‘apparent heart attack.’ But TMZ just said he was poisoned.”

“TMZ is full of shit. They’re a bunch of tabloid trashmongers. Everything they print is a lie.”

“But it’s true.”

“They don’t know that it’s true,” he said in a harsh whisper. “They won’t know anything till the autopsy. But they don’t care. They just put out whatever garbage will get eyeballs on their website.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s not your fault. It just screws up the flow of my script. The way I wrote it nobody is supposed to know about the poison till tomorrow. It’s a bigger payoff for the Ian Stewart-Edie Coburn thing.”

“How’s that going?”

“Lexi, I can’t talk now. I’m on the set.”

“Not fair,” she said, turning on her pouty voice. “If I can’t be there with you, at least keep me in the loop.”

“I am keeping you in the loop. I texted you a picture of me in wardrobe.”

“Oh, great. So now I have a screen saver of you dressed up like one of those goombahs in The Godfather. But I still don’t know what’s going on.”

“That’s the problem, Lexi. Nothing is going on. Nothing. Nada. There’s like a hundred extras sitting around since nine o’clock, but we haven’t rolled a single frame of film.”

“Did they tell you why?”

“They don’t tell us anything. But I heard Muhlenberg, the director, bitching to somebody on the phone. Edie refuses to come out of her trailer.”

“Probably because she’s pissed at Ian. It was all over TMZ that he’s been cheating on her.”

The Chameleon took a deep breath. Lexi was smart. Dean’s list four years running at USC. But brains took a backseat to her constant obsession with trivial crap like horoscopes, Hollywood gossip, and Internet chatter.

“It doesn’t matter if he’s cheating or not,” he said. “If Edie doesn’t come out, Ian won’t come out either.”

“They have to come out,” Lexi said. “It’s in our script.”

The Chameleon laughed. “I think Muhlenberg is in Edie’s trailer right now telling her it’s in his script.”

“Hey, asshole. You with the cell phone in your ear.”

The Chameleon looked up. It was the prick AD.

“No phones on the set means no phones on the set.”

“Sorry. I’ve been sitting around here forever. I got bored.”

“You’re an extra,” the AD said. “You get paid to be bored. Lose the phone or get off the lot.”

“Yes, sir.” He cupped his hand around the cell and whispered, “Lex, I’ve got to hang up. No more phone calls, okay?”

“Oh, crap,” she said. “Then how am I supposed to know when you’ve finished the scene?”

“It’ll be all over TMZ,” The Chameleon said. “Guaranteed.”

BOOK ONE

THERE’S NO PEOPLE LIKE SHOW PEOPLE

Chapter 1

I woke up angry as hell. It was still pitch-black except for the glowing 3:14 on the digital clock. I would have liked to catch another three hours, but the only sleep aid I had in the apartment was the loaded revolver on my night table, and I’d much rather have used that on the dumb son of a bitch who put my partner in the hospital.

I turned on the light. There was a rolled-up purple yoga mat under the dresser, and I decided thirty minutes of sukhasanas and downward-facing dogs would stretch my muscles and ease my stress.

It worked.

By 4:15 I was showered, dressed, and nursing a cup of green tea. It’s not my drug of choice, but Erika, my yoga instructor, swears it will heal my chakras and help my body handle the physical and psychological pressures of life. I told her I’d give it a shot for a month. But only behind closed doors. If anybody at work even smelled tea leaves on my breath, I’d get laughed off the job.

I’m Detective First Grade Zach Jordan, NYPD.

There are thirty-five thousand cops in New York City, and I’m one of the lucky seventy-five assigned to the High-Profile Victims Response Team.

The unit was our mayor’s idea. He’s a hardcore business guy who believes running a big city is like running an airline-you cater to your Platinum Frequent Flyers. In New York that means the superrich, the supremely powerful, and the ridiculously famous.

Every day I get to serve and protect Wall Street billionaires; sports stars with seven-figure contracts; and the movers, shakers, and divas of show business. That last group keeps us the busiest. Probably because most of them are either so desirable they’re stalked, so rich they’re robbed, or so despicable they’re murdered.

Of course the name High-Profile Victims Response Team practically screams out that we have a special task force dedicated to the needs of the city’s creme de la creme. True, but politically damaging. So the mayor has asked-make that ordered-us not to use it.

They call us NYPD Red. And for a cop in New York, it’s the ultimate cool job.

My tea had gone cold, so I added sugar and put it in the microwave. Thirty seconds later it was hotter and sweeter, but it was still tea. I sat down at my computer and checked my email. There was one from Omar. All it said was Hey, Zach-today’s the BIG DAY. Break a leg. LOL. Omar.

I hit Reply and wrote back. I’m glad one of us thinks this is funny.

Omar Shanks is-make that was-my partner, until last week. The NYPD softball team was playing the fire department in our annual fund-raiser when some asshole fireman slid into second trying to break up a double play. What he broke was Omar’s left ankle, and he tore up his ACL. According to the docs, Omar will be off the grid for at least four months. So this morning I’m getting a new partner.

Her name is Kylie MacDonald, and we’ve got something most partners don’t have. Baggage. More than I want to get into now, but I can offer a snapshot.

It was my first day at the academy. I was sizing up the other recruits when a tan, golden-haired goddess walked out of a Beach Boys song and into the room. There was a defibrillator on the wall, and I was pretty sure I was going to need it. She was too beautiful to be a cop. She’d do much better as a cop’s wife. Mine.

At least half a dozen guys had the same thought, and in seconds she was in the middle of a sea of testosterone. I ignored her on the theory that girls like Kylie are more attracted to guys who don’t fawn, pant, or drool. It took a week, but it worked.

“I’m Kylie MacDonald,” she said to me one day after class. “We haven’t met.”

I grunted. “Yeah. I’ve been avoiding you.”

“What? Why?”

“The shirt.”

“What shirt?”

“The one you wore the first day. The one with the Mets logo.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “You’re a Yankees fan.”

“Die-hard and lifelong,” I said.

“I wish I’d known,” she said. “I’d have worn my Yankees T-shirt for you.”

“I seriously doubt you have a Yankees shirt,” I said.