Free NYPD Red 4 by James Patterson Page B

room, and a wall covered with bright red high-velocity blood spatters that were the clues to the dirty little details of Raymond Davis’s last moments on earth. For Chuck it was the equivalent of forensic porn.
    Kylie and I left him to his fun and went out to canvass the area.
    We went back to the bloody trail that had led us to the apartment and followed it down the stairs, out the front door, and onto the street. A half block from the building it ended abruptly.
    “He must have figured out he was leaving bread crumbs,” Kylie said. “You think Teddy Ryder is our bleeder?”
    “I doubt if he’s our shooter,” I said. “These guys were BFFs.”
    “It wouldn’t be the first relationship that was dissolved by a bullet.”
    “But Teddy is gun-shy. His parents were con artists. In their line of work the only reason to carry a piece is if you’re hoping for a stiffer sentence when you get busted. Besides, we know that Raymond was trolling the bars, looking for a buyer.”
    “I guess he found one,” Kylie said. “So, two shots fired in apartment 3A. How many of the tenants do you think heard anything?”
    I laughed. New Yorkers in general are reluctant to come forward and get involved—especially in a crime of violence. And I was willing to bet that Raymond Davis’s neighbors would be even less inclined to talk to the cops. With twelve apartments in the building, at least somebody would have to have heard the two gunshots. And yet no one had called 911. We went through the motions anyway and knocked on every door in the building. As expected, nobody heard a thing.
    We went back to the apartment, where Chuck was waiting to give us his top line impressions.
    “Be careful where you sit,” he said as soon as we got through the door.
    “Gosh, thanks, Dr. Dryden,” Kylie said, “but they taught us crime scene etiquette back at the academy.”
    “I’m sorry, Detective MacDonald,” Dryden said. “Let me rephrase that. This place is riddled with bedbugs. Be careful where you sit.”
    We stood.
    Dryden went through his usual series of disclaimers reminding us that some of his conclusions were not yet scientifically chiseled in stone. Then he launched into the scenario the way he saw it.
    “If you two are correct, and Davis and his partner killed Elena Travers and stole an eight-million-dollar necklace, then this is where they tried to unload it. But, as you well know, there is no honor among thieves. Davis was dropped where he stood, but his partner managed to get out with what is most likely a flesh wound. The slug that caught him was in the wall. It’s a .38.”
    “And where’s the necklace?” Kylie asked.
    Dryden smiled. “Where indeed?”
    “But you searched the place.”
    “Top to bottom.”
    “Did you find anything?”
    “Yes, I did,” he said, his expression totally deadpan. “Bedbugs.”
    Kylie rewarded him with a smile. “Let me rephrase that,” she said. “Did you find anything that might help us in our investigation?”
    “Possibly,” he said. “Mr. Davis had a gun. He didn’t get to use it tonight, but it’s a 9mm—the same caliber as the murder weapon that killed Elena Travers. I’ll run it through ballistics and get back to you tomorrow.”
    I looked at my watch. “It’s already tomorrow,” I said.
    “Oh, good. In that case, I’ll have it for you today.”
    “Last question,” Kylie said. “Do you have anything on the shooter? A partial print? Hairs? Fibers? Anything?”
    “Sorry. He was either very good or very lucky, but I’ve got nothing except for the two .38 slugs he left behind.”
    “Then there’s only one way we’re going to catch him,” Kylie said, looking at me.
    “What’s that?” I said.
    “Find Teddy Ryder.”

CHAPTER 22
     
    I CALLED THE office and asked the desk sergeant to get out a BOLO on Teddy Ryder. “And I need a hospital check,” I said. “He took a bullet.”
    Within minutes, Ryder’s picture would be distributed city-wide, and every