The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [1]
In the electrified darkness of Florida Street, car trunks sprung open with almost no sound. Out came .357 Magnums, twelve-gauge shotguns, N.Y.P.D.- and Nassau County-issue guns. Also, full ammo pouches.
The beachfront neighborhood felt as if it were about to explode.
The dope raid was going to be bigger than the celebrated French Connection. As much as two hundred kilograms; over a million and a half fixes for New York’s 250,000 addicts.
They were closing in on Alexandre St.-Germain, the animal called the Grave Dancer; the man who had been Stefanovitch’s obsession during the past twenty-two months. That was no accident either. Stefanovitch regularly got the most important narcotics cases in the N.Y.P.D. He was talented, and he thrived on challenges. For the past few years he’d been the department’s “big play man.” Nothing but the fast track for him.
Stefanovitch finally turned to his second in command, a 260-pound detective named Bear Kupchek. “You all ready, Charlie Chan?” he asked.
“Ah. Wise man never ready to walk down dark alleyway at night.” Kupchek grinned like the portly Chinese detective.
“Fuck you, Charlie,” said Stefanovitch.
2
John and Anna Stefanovitch; Brooklyn Heights
HOURS BEFORE, Stefanovitch and his wife, Anna, had gone out to dinner. He had taken her to the glittery River Cafe, tucked like an expensive tiara beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.
After dinner, they had gone back to their apartment in Brooklyn and snuck up to the indoor pool on the roof. It was closed after nine, but Stefanovitch had a key. He brought a tape deck, and they danced on the rooftop, first to Robert Cray and his blues, then to the romantic Brazilian Laurindo Almeida.
“We’re breaking the law that you’re sworn to uphold,” Anna whispered against his cheek. She was so soft and fine to hold; a great slow dancer, too. Elegant and totally desirable.
“Bad law. Unenforceable,” Stefanovitch whispered back.
“Some policeman you are. No respect for authority.”
“You bet. I know too many authority figures.”
He started to unbutton Anna’s dress, which picked up the green of her eyes, the gold of her hair, and which felt like the smoothest silk under his fingers.
“You going to try for indecent exposure now?” Anna smiled softly.
“For starters maybe. I have some other felonies in mind, too.”
After they slipped out of their dinner clothes, they did a few slow laps; then they floated languorously in the moonlit pool, under the glass rooftop, the twinkling stars.
With Anna, Stefanovitch had a way of doing wonderfully romantic things. He’d become a master of the unexpected: a dozen American roses arriving at the grade school where Anna taught fourth grade; a weekend ski trip to Stowe, in Vermont; gold shell earrings he spent an hour at Saks picking out himself.
He reached out and pulled her body closer in the deep end of the pool. Her green eyes were warm and wise—spectacular eyes. Her body seemed glazed in the moonlight. She was a fantasy he’d had since he’d been a kid in school. The two of them fit together perfectly.
“Sometimes I can’t believe how much I love you,” he whispered, his breath catching slightly on the words. “Anna, I love you more than all the rest of my life put together. I’d be lost without you. Sad but true.”
“Not so sad, Stef.”
They made tender, then passionate love in the still, blue-green water of the swimming pool. In the middle of the coldest March in years.
At the moment, John Stefanovitch was sure he had everything he had ever wanted out of life. Getting St.-Germain would be the icing on his cake.
3
The Grave Dancer; Long Beach
UNTIL PAST MIDNIGHT, Alexandre St.-Germain had been at a black tie affair given at a Fifth Avenue penthouse in Manhattan. The party-goers were mostly investment bankers and other Wall Street power brokers; their wives; assorted young playthings. A very good black combo played, and seemed particularly out of place in the setting.
St.-Germain himself fit in splendidly: he was sophisticated; wittier than any of the bankers; a wealthy and respected