Page 70 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

“Sir,” Kylie said, “Barbara is a professional. He knows we’re looking for him. If you do something out of the ordinary like that, he’ll know we’re onto him.”

Rayborn was also a professional. He nodded. He knew Kylie was right. “Then I at least have to give the CEO of the hospital aheads-up.”

“Please... inspector,” Kylie said. “You can’t—”

“Damn it, MacDonald, don’t tell me what I can or can’t do. I am not a cop. I have a responsibility to my bosses. Or do you want them to read about it in tomorrow’s papers—Hospital blood drive turns into Citi Field bloodbath?”

“Clay,” I said, “you may not be a cop, but I am, and I guarantee you that if you tell your bosses, one of them will pick up the phone and fire this man on the spot, thinking whatever he does now is not the hospital’s responsibility. Not only will they blow our chances to catch him, but Barbara will know he’s a cornered rat, and he’ll do anything to get away. And that means taking hostages.”

“Jesus,” Rayborn said. “God forbid.”

“Give us a few hours to call in the Violent Felony Squad,” I said. “You know them, sir. They’re smart; they’re cunning; they can surround him and take him down before he even knows we’re there. Kylie and I will call you as soon as we have cuffs on him. You have our word.”

“You make a lot of sense, Detective, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here in my office waiting for the phone to ring. I’m going with you.”

“Clay, please,” I said. “You’re a civilian.”

“Maybe so, but I’ve been to dozens of these blood drives. I know exactly how everything is set up. I know where all the players are. I know the entire operation inside that bloodmobile and out. I’m not just a civilian. I’m an asset.”

Kylie and I exchanged a quick look. Rayborn was right. He could help us in the field. Maybe just as important, we’d be able to keep tabs on him just in case he had a change of heart and decided to call his boss.

“All right,” I said. “You can come with us and be our eyes. But you are not a cop, and you have absolutely nothing to do with the action.”

“Trust me, Zach,” he said. “I’m not tagging along so I can do your job. I’m going so I can save mine.”

CHAPTER 47

Less than an hourafter Barbara’s face popped up on the Elmhurst Hospital employee database, the operation to take him down was in full swing.

“I forgot how much I missed doing this shit,” Clayton Rayborn said as the three of us pulled into one of the visitor parking lots at Citi Field.

I’d been reluctant to bring him along, but he swore he’d be an asset, and he kept his word. The entire team—eighteen of us in all—had a tactical meeting at Arthur Ashe Stadium, about a mile from Citi Field. Sergeant Ed McSpirit of the Violent Felony Squad was running the show, and he hung on every word as Rayborn took us through the blood donation process.

As he spoke, it was clear that at almost every step, the nurses would be too close to the civilians for the team to move in on him. And then Rayborn gave us what we needed.

“There’s only room for three donors at a time in the bloodmobile. This event is going to draw a big crowd, so the Mets are going to set up a tent with a dozen donation stations. The bloodmobile will be off to the side, plugged into a light pole so that we can power the refrigerators, but it will be off limits to the public. The only ones in and out will be the nurses carrying in the bags of blood.”

“Hold on,” McSpirit said. “You’re saying that the subject will separate from everyone else and walk to the bloodmobile alone?”

“Absolutely,” Rayborn said.

“How long will he be in there?”

“A minute or two. Just long enough to put the blood in the fridge and log it into the computer.”

“That’s all the time we need to move in on him,” McSpirit said. “Shabel, Dupré, and Bock, when I give you the green light, you get in position. As soon as he steps out of that mobile unit, take him down. The rest of the team and I will keep an eye on the crowd. He may have an accomplice with him. Plus, we’re all wearing plain clothes. We want to make sure people know we’re the good guys.”

The tactical meeting took less than fifteen minutes. The game plan McSpirit laid out was smart, simple, solid.

Detectives Louie Ziffer and Sarah Herman would be our eyes and ears. Decked out in Mets gear and wired so they could broadcast on a closed channel, Louie would pose as a donor, and Sarah would be his girlfriend. They’d get close enough to the subject to confirm that he was there, report on his movements, and then get out of the way when McSpirit and his team went in for the capture.

The rest of us would be nowhere near the action. Tommy Barnwood from the Hostage Negotiation Team had been called in just in case things went south and Barbara grabbed a bystander. Captain Cates would be in her car, giving the commissioner aplay-by-playas the operation went down. Rayborn, Kylie, and I were relegated to watching the action from a distance. She wasn’t happy about it, but she kept quiet until we took up our position at Citi Field.

“I hate sitting on the sidelines and missing out on all the fun,” she said.

“And I hate getting blood all over my Paul Stuart suit,” I said. “This is what Violent Felony does, and they’re better at it than we are. Besides, didn’t you have enough fun yesterday when Winstanleydrop-kickedyour ass across the room?”

She responded with her middle finger.

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