NYPD Red

Chapter 97



KYLIE AND I spent all of Thursday and Friday buried in paperwork and psych evaluations. Having killed one person with her service revolver and blown another one to bits with her Taser, Kylie got to spend a lot more quality time than I did with Cheryl Robinson, but I was looking forward to a different kind of quality time on the weekend.

“Are you still game for the opera on Saturday?” she asked me when I ran into her at the office.

“Sure. What does one wear to the Met anyway?”

“Black tie, top hat, and maybe you could bring along a pair of those opera glasses on a stick like Mrs. Thurston Howell III had on Gilligan’s Island,” she said.

“You don’t know anything about the dress code either, do you?”

She shrugged. “I’ll just wear what I wear to the office. I’m planning an evening of Giuseppe Verdi and Chinese food. Why don’t you meet me at Shun Lee Café on Sixty-fifth across from Lincoln Center at seven o’clock.”

“I’ll be there,” I said. Let the post-Fred renaissance begin.

Saturday afternoon, I went to Kylie’s apartment to visit Spence. Both Laight Street and Washington were lined with double-parked vans and trucks.

“Emergency repairs,” Spence said. He was in a wheelchair, and his broken nose was taped, but all things considered he seemed pretty chipper. “The real renovation doesn’t start till the insurance guys figure out who pays for what.”

“Do you think the insurance guys will pay for a new flat-screen TV for your upstairs neighbor?” I said.

“If they don’t, it’s on me,” Kylie said. “Along with a new bedroom wall and dinner for Dino and Coralei at the restaurant of their choice.”

“Zach, do you mind if I pick your brain?” It was Shelley Trager. He had been sitting there, uncharacteristically quiet. No doubt he was still in some pain after breaking his ribs.

“There’s not much left of it,” I said, “but sure.”

“With Benoit dead, nobody owns the rights to his story, which means that anybody can take it and adapt it. Spence here wants to turn it into a movie.”

“It’s a natural,” Spence said. “We could get Kevin Spacey as Benoit. Nobody does crazy like Kevin.”

“I flat out refuse to do it,” Trager said. “Benoit always planned for someone to turn his script into a film, and if we do it, then he wins. What do you think?”

“It all depends on who plays me in the movie,” I said.

“I’m serious,” Trager said.

“Shelley, I’m not a producer, but I can tell you this—if you make the movie, a lot of people will go to see it.”

He shrugged. “True.”

“But I definitely will not be one of them.”

He smiled. “Me either. Thanks.”