She didn’t use the gun, but as soon as we got to the lobby, Kylie slammed the doorman against a wall. “Where did he go, you dickless bastard?” she screamed.
“Who?” he said.
Wrong answer. She jammed her forearm into his windpipe and drove a knee into his groin. He doubled over, gagging, fighting for air, but he was no match for a trained cop whose adrenaline was firing on all cylinders after a near-death experience.
I looked left and then right, hoping nobody was watching a high-profile detective use excessive force on a civilian whose only crime was that he was a flaming asshole.
“Where did he go?” Kylie repeated as soon as Eddy caught his breath.
“Cab,” the doorman squeaked. “Yellow…boxy cab…Nissan.”
“Where is he going?” She dug hard into the pressure point on the webbing of his hand over his thumb.
He dropped to the floor, sniveling. “They drove south. That’s all I know. I swear. Please stop. I’m sorry.”
She cuffed him to a brass handrail just as the first squad car came to a screeching stop on West End Avenue.
“Officers,” Kylie yelled, “make sure the lady in 7G gets immediate medical attention, then arrest this piece of shit for obstruction of justice. Take him down to Central Booking and make sure his paperwork gets the full bureaucratic monty. With any luck, he’ll get lost in the Tombs for a week.”
It was a bogus charge. But by the time Eddy got untangled from the city’s clogged justice system, he’d never mouth off to another cop again. Hell hath no fury. We raced to the car and headed south.
“Call Natty,” Kylie said, her spleen vented, her full attention on tracking down the fugitive psychiatrist.
Natalie Brown is a sultry-voiced singer with a progressive rock band. She has luxurious ringlets of red hair down to her shoulders and a kick-ass body down to her toes. But sexy and talented doesn’t always pay the rent, so by day she works for the Taxi and Limousine Commission.
If a detective wants to know where a certain cabbie was at a certain time, the TLC can track down that information. But not right away. That’s because they’re also busy tracking down lost briefcases, cell phones, and umbrellas for the six hundred thousand passengers who hail cabs every day. Natty Brown is our go-to person when Kylie and I need answers in a New York minute.
“Hey, Red,” I said as soon as she picked up. “Zach Jordan and Kylie MacDonald. This is a screaming emergency.”
“It always is,” she said. “Hit me.”
“A yellow cab, probably a Nissan, picked up a single white male on West End Avenue near the corner of Eighty-Fourth Street about five minutes ago. Passenger is a murder suspect on the run.”
“Gimme a minute,” she said, and I could hear the clacking of her nails on a keyboard. “Guys, I’ve got great news.”
“What is it?” I said, raising the volume on the speaker.
“The band is going to be on the cover of Prog magazine in October.”
“My cab, Natty! My cab!”
“Relax, Zach. I was just making small talk while I was waiting for the board to light up. Here we go. I’ve got two possibles. No, wait, this one is a Prius. I got your Nissan. License number is 8Y47. The driver’s name is—”
“I don’t care what his name is. Just tell me where he is.”
“Central Park West. He just turned onto the Seventy-Ninth Street transverse.”
“Seal off the other end,” Kylie said, making a hard left onto 82nd Street.
I grabbed the radio and barked orders at the dispatcher. “I need all available units to block off the transverse at Seventy-Ninth and Fifth. Officers in pursuit of a murder suspect riding in the back of an eastbound yellow cab, license 8Y47. Suspect is white, male, midforties, and may be armed.”
“Zach! Zach!” It was Natalie.
“We can take it from here, Natty,” I said. “Thanks for your—”
“Don’t hang up,” she said. “This guy has a gun, and you’re sending in the cavalry? You’re putting my driver right in the middle of a shoot-out.”
“Natalie, these cops are trained. They’re not going to start shooting with innocent bystanders in the line of fire.”
“And how about the murderer in the back of 8Y47? Is he also trained not to shoot bystanders? Sorry, Zach, but I’m calling the driver and warning him.”
“Wait: you can call him?”
“Of course I can. I started to give you his name and cell number, but you weren’t interested.”
“Change of plans,” I said. “I’m very interested. But if a cop calls him, he’s either going to freak out or he won’t believe me. Does this guy know you?”
“I’m the hot redhead singer at the TLC. All the drivers know me, honey.”
“Then tell him to stop his cab where he is, take the keys out of the ignition, and run as far from his passenger as he can. Tell him his life depends on it.”
“His life and my job,” she said. “Hold on.”
Kylie ran a red on Central Park West and turned into the transverse. The entire stretch of road through the park is a little over half a mile. About a quarter of a mile into it, the traffic started to back up. And then it came to a dead stop. The roadblock was in place. No cars were getting in or out.
“Zach, the driver is out of his cab and running in your direction,” Natalie said. “He’s bought all of our albums, so don’t shoot him.”
Kylie and I jumped out of our car and started running down the roadway, badges on chains around our necks, guns drawn, yelling, “Police! Stay in your vehicles. Get down and stay down,” as we ran. I could see the roof of the boxy yellow cab jutting up about a foot and a half above the passenger cars behind it.
A man ran toward us. It was the cabdriver. “He have gahn,” the man said in a thick Russian accent.
“Gone where?” I said.
“No, no, not gone. He have gahn.” He pointed a finger at me. “Bang. You dead.”
“He has a gun?”
“Yes. Small vun. Pistol.”
“Are you sure?” Kylie asked.
“Am I sure? The man point gahn at me. He says tell cops I have gahn.” The cabbie threw his hands up in the air. “You don’t believe me? Go see for yourself.”