Free NYPD Red by James Patterson

serial-killer rumors. You’d think that the threat of a murderer on the loose would keep people as far from the red carpet event as possible, but look at that mob out there.”
    “Die-hard fans,” I said. “If their favorite celebrity is going to get gunned down, they don’t want to miss it.”
    “Even if a couple of stray bullets come their way?” Cates said.
    “Like I said, die…hard…fans.”
    Cates left, and I sat down at the console with Jerry Brainard, a civilian dispatcher who knew every inch of Copzilla’s hundreds of miles of microfiber.
    “My partner should be in the lobby of the Music Hall,” I said. “Can I get a picture?”
    Brainard cued up the corresponding camera and zoomed in on Kylie. She was wearing a silky, cream-colored, jaw-dropping gown that hugged her waist, then flared out to the floor—an absolute fashion must for anyone wearing an ankle holster. I had no idea who the designer was, but the handsome guy at her side was definitely Spence Harrington.
    I keyed the mic. “Command to Yankee One,” I said.
    A big smile spread across her face and she shook her head in obvious protest to the code name I’d assigned her. “This is Yankee One.”
    “What are you looking at so far?” I said.
    “It’s like DEFCON One in here,” she said. “There are more cops than Rockettes. So far there have been metal detectors, radiation detectors, and four-legged bomb detectors. If the mayor is looking for security, he’s got it.”
    “And if they gave out awards for best undercover wardrobe, you guys would win. You both look terrific,” I said. “How’s Spence doing? Is he okay with this?”
    “Are you kidding? He does cop shows for a living. Now he feels like he’s in one.”
    “Just make sure he doesn’t try to do any of his own stunts,” I said. “Command out.”
    I turned to Brainard. “Pan the crowd,” I said.
    Our truck is thirteen feet high. There’s a camera on the roof that’s mounted on a telescoping mast that extends another twenty-seven feet into the air. Brainard did a slow three-sixty of the people below. It was more than just a cursory sweep. The lens on the camera was powerful enough to zoom in on a license plate a city block away.
    I studied the faces. Fans hoping to reach out and touch their favorite movie star, paparazzi hoping to get the one picture that the media would pay through the nose for, and cops, in uniform and plainclothes—nearly a hundred strong, working the crowd—New York’s Finest doing what they do best.
    I had no idea where or how or even if the killer would strike, but sitting behind that console, looking up that wall of monitors, I knew one thing for sure. We were damn ready for him.

Chapter 23
    EXT. RADIO CITY MUSIC HALL—NIGHT
    The Chameleon understands the power of a uniform. Dressed in blue, badge pinned to his shirt, he walks past the food carts doing a brisk business on 51st Street and works his way to the front of the crowd on the west side of Sixth Avenue.
    He’s twenty years older now, with a fringe of gray hair sticking out from under his cap and a neatly trimmed gray goatee. Thick horn-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses, with the lenses tinted amber, and a bulbous prosthetic nose are all he needs to make sure anyone who sees him on the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper won’t recognize him.
    A bored cop, standing in front of the police barrier and wishing he could be home sucking down a beer, sees him. The Chameleon flashes his photo ID. The cop lifts the barrier and waves him through.
    The Chameleon gives him a nod and heads for the thirty-foot-high TV camera tower across the avenue from the red carpet.
    Let the fun begin.
    THE SCENE DIDN’T go exactly as writ. It went better. There were two cops at the barricade, an older white guy and a young Latina woman.
    “What’s that mean on your ID,” she said. “‘Best Boy’? You don’t look like no boy.”
    “It’s a film term,” The Chameleon said. “It means I’m the main