Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [28]
Whoever he was, he wasn’t a regular. Nobody recognized him.
“Let’s talk to the uniform who pulled the gun on him,” Benzetti said.
“His name’s Ruben Kendall,” Rice said. “He’s over at the Seventeenth.”
“I don’t want to make a house call,” Benzetti said. “Too many people know us there and will ask why we’re nosing around. See if you can get him to meet us on the outside.”
Rice called the Seventeenth Precinct and got Kendall on the phone.
“Officer Kendall, this is Detective John Rice. Nice job the other night at Grand Central.”
“Um, thanks. What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to wrap up some paperwork on that whole bomb thing,” Rice said. “Got time for a few quick questions?”
“Sure. Come on over to the precinct.”
“If my partner and I set foot inside the Seventeenth, we’ll run into at least a dozen guys who will want to catch up and schmooze about the old days,” Rice said, faking a chuckle. “Would you mind popping outside? We’re in a black Chevy Tahoe around the corner at Fiftieth and Third.”
“No problem. I’ll be right there.”
At six four, two hundred and forty pounds, Officer Ruben Kendall was an intimidating presence. But his baby face and warm brown eyes transformed the tiger into a pussycat.
The two detectives got out of their car and introduced themselves. Rice handed him the surveillance photo. “You recognize this guy?”
The cop took a quick look. “That’s the doc from the other night at Grand Central.”
Benzetti jumped in. “How’d you know he was a doc?”
Kendall hesitated. He knew a loaded question when he heard one.
“He…he told me,” Kendall said.
“He told you?” Benzetti said.
Kendall put a hand across his eyes and slid it down his face. “I never got around to checking his ID. It was a madhouse. It was like nothing they teach you at the Academy.”
“I went to the Academy,” Benzetti said, “and I distinctly remember being told, if you see a guy standing over a dead body, check his ID.”
“Hey, man, people were insane, trying to get out of the station, and then I got a ten-thirteen call,” Kendall said. “‘Multiple looters. Officer needs assistance.’ This guy wasn’t a threat. I took off.”
“Listen, kid, nobody expects you to check IDs during a terrorist attack,” Rice said, putting a hand on Kendall’s shoulder and oozing Good Cop from every pore. “So the guy said he was a doc. What else can you tell us about him?”
The cop pulled a pad from his pocket. “I remember he said he worked at St. Vincent’s,” Kendall said as he flipped through the pages. “He gave me his name and I wrote it—here it is. Jason Wood. Dr. Jason Wood. Does that help?”
“If it’s his real name, it’ll make our job easier,” Rice said.
“And if it’s a phony, what happens to me?”
“Meter-maid patrol,” Benzetti said.
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Rice said. “He goes by the book, but we all make mistakes.”
“Is he going to write me up?”
“I’m not going to let him,” Rice said. “Nick, listen to me. We’re not turning this kid in. You made plenty of mistakes when you were a rookie.”
Benzetti shrugged. “Fine. But I don’t want to get nailed for not turning him in. So this conversation never happened. You never even met us. You got that, kid?”
“Yes, sir. It never happened. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“Get out of here.”
Kendall turned fast and headed back to the precinct house.
“Dumb bastard,” Benzetti said. “Call St. Vincent’s.”
“Why bother? Fifty bucks says they never heard of Dr. Jason Wood.”
“I wouldn’t bet fifty cents on it,” Benzetti said. “But you might as well go through the motions.”
They got back in the car, and Rice called the hospital. Two minutes later he hung up. “Never heard of him,” he said. “Now what do we do?”
Benzetti didn’t answer. He was too busy mind-humping a tall, leggy blonde who was walking down Third Avenue. “Take a look at that,” he said.
“Dream on, Beans. If that woman ever saw you with your shoes off, she’d laugh herself into a coma.”
They watched as the woman walked toward the car.
Benzetti