Page 3 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

“His name is Jonas Belmont,” I said to Blakely. “He was a police officer.”

“I know who he is, Detective, and don’t try to hide that man behind a badge,” she said. “He’s a deranged psychopath.”

I knew her reputation. I’d seen her in court. She’s a barracuda who attacks perfectly reliable witnesses, chews them up, and decimates their testimony. Her favorite defense tactic is to vilify the victim, and she wasted no time in creating the myth that my dead friend was a monster.

I stood up. “Counselor,” I said, my jaw clenched, “Jonas Belmont was a decorated cop.”

“Of course he was. That’s the culture at NYPD. Kill someone, get a medal. So why stop just because he retired? Yourhero copcame here to murder my client.”

She was baiting me to do or say something I’d regret, and I might have if Kylie hadn’t stepped in.

“Is your client okay?” she asked. “Does he need medical attention?”

Kylie almost never plays the good cop. It doesn’t matter who she’s up against. She doesn’t kiss ass; she butts heads.

“We can have an officer drive him to a hospital,” she said, gilding the lily.

“That won’t be necessary,” Blakely said. “He’s in the living room trying to regain his composure.”

“I’m sure he’s in shock, and the last thing he wants to do is rehash what happened,” Kylie said. “But as you know, the best time to talk to him is now while the details are still fresh in his mind.”

“Right,” Blakely said, leading the way. “But make it brief.”

Warren Hellman was sitting in a wing chair, regaining his composure with the aid of a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.

“It wasself-defense,” he said as soon as we entered the room. “He came at me with a gun. He was going to kill me.”

“Calm down, Warren,” Blakely said. “Let the detectives ask the questions, and then you answer them to the best of your ability.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” he said, which I took to mean he’d already forgotten the ground rules she laid out for him earlier.

“Let’s start with how you discovered the man was in your house,” Kylie said.

Hellman gave her a vacant look. “I didn’t discover him. He rang the doorbell, said he was a cop and he wanted to talk to me, so I let him in.”

“Oh, I was confused,” Kylie said, “because you told the 911 operator that he was an intruder. Now you’re saying you invited him in.”

“Stop right there, Detective,” Blakely said. “The man rang the bell, flashed a badge, and my client did what anylaw-abidingcitizen would do. Hegrantedhim entry. But he was a total stranger, not an invited guest. He used his police credentials the same way a burglar would use a crowbar. Hewasan intruder.”

“I understand,” Kylie said. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“Yes. He was here to serve me papers. He was suing me for the wrongful death of his daughter. I... I was dumbfounded. I said that’s impossible. Who is your daughter? He told me her name—Vivian Belmont.”

“Did you recognize the name?”

“I did. She was a wannabe actress. Not very good at all, but I didn’t want to tell him that, so I said I never heard of her. That was my mistake. He went berserk and started screaming, ‘You killed my daughter, and now you’re going to deny even knowing her?’ He pulled a gun from his waistband. He was standing between me and the door. I had nowhere to run. I was in fear for my life, but I knew I had a gun in my desk drawer.”

“It’s perfectly legal,” Blakely said. “I can get you the permit.”

Kylie ignored her. “Go on, Mr. Hellman.”

“I backed away and sat down in my desk chair, sobbing, begging for my life. I said, ‘You’re a police officer. How can you do this?’ He said, ‘The best thing about being a cop is getting away with murder,’ and he began to move toward me. I reached into the drawer, pulled out my gun, and I shot him.”

“Which drawer was your gun in?” Kylie asked.

“Bottom right drawer of my desk.”

“And you keep it loaded?”