NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,77

up her ID. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“About the MetroCard you’re using. Where did you get it?”

She looked confused. “Where does anybody get a MetroCard? I bought it from the machine.”

“Ma’am, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking where you got the MetroCard you used last night at this station and then again this morning at Seventy-Seventh and Lexington Avenue.”

I watched her eyes. The panic set in as the answer came to her. She knew exactly where she’d gotten the card, and she wasn’t eager to tell us.

“I don’t remember,” she said. “Is that a crime?”

Kylie was stone-faced. “Let me see some identification, please.”

The woman’s hands trembled as she dug into her purse and pulled out a driver’s license that ID’d her as Catherine Leicester.

“This picture looks like it was taken a few years ago, Catherine,” Kylie said, looking at the license. “The one I’ve got of you is more recent.”

Kylie produced one of the screenshots Transit had sent us and held it close to Leicester’s face. “Now, where did you get the MetroCard?”

Being accosted by two cops who shove a time-stamped mug shot of you in your face can be intimidating. And if you’re a basic law-abiding citizen, like Catherine Leicester turned out to be, it can be downright terrifying.

She blurted out the truth. “I didn’t do anything wrong. My boyfriend gave it to me.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gary. Gary Banta. Is he in trouble?”

Kylie pressed hard. “Where is Gary right now?”

Leicester was shaking now. “He’s at work.”

“Where? Where does he work?”

“He’s FDNY.”

“So he’s a firefighter? What engine company?” Kylie demanded.

“No,” Leicester said.

“No what?”

“Gary’s not a firefighter. He’s an EMT.”

CHAPTER 68

WE TOOK CATHERINE LEICESTER’S phone, drove her to the station, and arrested her for possession of stolen property. It was a bullshit charge. Her real crime was being Gary Banta’s girlfriend, but we needed a legal excuse to lock her up so she didn’t tip him off that we were looking for him.

Since Banta worked for the fire department, logic might dictate that we ask for their help in tracking him down. But the FDNY is a tight-knit organization, and we knew from experience that if we reached out to them, they would immediately circle the wagons to protect their own.

So we called the DOI. All governments have their share of crooks, and in New York City, the job of weeding out the bad apples falls to the Department of Investigation. The name is deceptively innocuous. In reality, it’s an all-powerful agency with the authority to investigate any city department, elected official, or employee.

There were six NYPD detectives working at the DOI. Any one of them could have helped us track down Banta, but when you’re investigating a uniformed member of the FDNY, you want a detective who will ask very few questions. That was Joe Donahue.

Five years ago Joe had been shot in the line of duty. At least a dozen detectives were assigned to look for the shooter, but I’m the one who collared him. I remember the day I walked into Joe’s hospital room and gave him the good news. He never said, I owe you one. He didn’t have to. The gratitude was in his eyes, and the bond was formed. After Joe recovered, the PC offered him a safe spot at DOI, and he grabbed it.

I dialed his direct line. As usual, he was happy to hear from me. I did about ten seconds of the usual long-time-no-see foreplay, and then I asked if he could run a check on EMS tech Gary Banta.

I listened as his fingers tapped away on the keyboard.

“Got him,” he said. “He’s with division two out of the Bronx. Been on the job sixteen years. Decorated twice, once for rescuing a woman and two kids from a submerged vehicle after a flash flood.”

“You got a photo ID and maybe a home address?” I said.

There was only so far I could push before Donahue did his job and pushed back.

“Zach, every keystroke I make on this computer is recorded. I didn’t have a problem with searching for a name, but I start digging deeper, and I’ve got to justify it to my boss. What are you looking at him for?”

I told Joe about the home invasions that had led to a homicide and the stolen MetroCard that had led us to Banta.

“Shit, man,” Donahue said. “This guy’s a hero. Are you positive it’s him?”

“The only thing I’m positive of is that if word gets out that NYPD is