NYPD Red 4 Read Online Free PDF Page B

if she can run it against the manifests of cargo ships that sailed within a few days of each heist. She can cross-check by weight. If they stole
x
pounds of equipment, she can flag every shipment that weighs about the same.”
    “That wasn’t my idea,” Kylie said. “I was thinking we could go down to the shipyards and talk to the dockworkers. Those guys have eyes and ears everywhere, and a few of them owe us.”
    “Sounds like a plan,” I said. “And then our pictures would be in the paper as the first two cops fired by the Sykes administration.”
    Kylie’s cell phone rang. We were doing fifty on the Drive, so she tapped a button and the call went directly to speaker.
    “This is Detective MacDonald,” she said.
    “This is Mike Danehy at Better Choices,” the voice on the other end said. “Is Mrs. Harrington there?”
    She grabbed the phone and took it off speaker. “This is Mrs. Harrington.”
    She dropped her voice after that so that I could barely hear her end of the conversation, but I could tell by the look on her face that it was bad news. Something was going on with Spence.
    A lifetime ago, when Kylie and I were new at the academy, we had a throw-all-caution-to-the-wind sexually liberating affair that lasted twenty-eight days. And then, like the lyrics to a bad country song, her boyfriend got out of rehab, all shiny clean and sober, and she dumped me and married him.
    For eleven years, Spence Harrington didn’t pick up a drink or a drug. But then he did. Since then he’d been in and out of rehabs trying to get the monkey off his back. Connecticut, Oregon, and now Better Choices, a day program right here in New York.
    “Mike, I know the rules, but they suck,” she said, getting louder as she got more frustrated. “Surely I can do something. Anything.”
    She obviously didn’t like Mike’s answer because her response was to hit the gas and blow her horn at the yellow cab in front of her.
    “I’m sorry, Mike, but that’s not
enabling
,” she said. “It’s called being his wife.”
    The taxi in front of us refused to move over, so she swerved around him on the right, almost running him into the divider.
    “Okay, thank you,” she said. “Keep in touch.”
    She hung up the phone.
    “What’s going on?” I said.
    “Wrong number,” she said, pulling the car off the Drive at the East 53rd Street exit.
    It took less than a minute for us to get to Mercy Hospital on First Avenue. She parked in a no standing zone, killed the engine, turned to me, and said, “Spence is missing.”
    It didn’t quite process. “What do you mean, missing?”
    “That was his counselor, Mike Danehy. Spence hasn’t shown up at rehab for three days.”
    “Did they try calling him?”
    “Oh yeah. They called to kick him out of the program, but they couldn’t find him to tell him, so they finally called me.”
    “What do they want you to do?”
    “Oh, Mike was very explicit. He told me to do nothing. He said Spence has to hit rock bottom before he can find his way back up.”
    “That’s good advice,” I said. “But of course you’re not very good at taking good advice.”
    She gave me half a smile.
    “Do you want help?” I said.
    She didn’t answer.
    “Kylie, your drug addict husband is missing. Do you want help?”
    “Yes, goddamn it, Zach, but I’m too stubborn to ask.”
    “That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to.”

CHAPTER 9
     
    WALKING INTO HIS office, you’d never know that Gregg Hutchings was a hero. I’d worked with him and knew he’d racked up a chestful of medals, but here at Mercy Hospital, there was no trace of his service with NYPD.
    “Hutch,” I said, “where are all the pictures of PCs hanging ribbons around your neck?”
    “This is corporate America, Zach. Nobody cares about my past glories. They’re more interested in my golf scores and how many hundred thousand dollars’ worth of equipment I let slip through my fingertips over the weekend.”
    “We heard you had a