Page 54 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

There were noidentifiable bruises on Sheffield’s body, but like most homicide detectives, Kylie, Cates, and I could recognize the hemorrhaged blood vessels in his eyes, his swollen tongue, and the other signs of asphyxiation. It wouldn’t take the ME more than thirty seconds to label his demise a probable homicide.

Eldon Winstanley, the man who murdered him, was upstairs in the lobby of the funeral home, hands cuffed behind his back, his ankles shackled. Ronnie Lee, an ESU paramedic, had just examined him.

“Who the hell is this old rooster?” Lee said. “He’s pushing seventy, put up a hell of a fight, has a broken collarbone that has to be causing him excruciating pain. But I took his vitals, and his BP isone-tenover seventy and his pulse isfifty-six. Look at him. He’s just sitting there all cool, calm, and go fuck yourself. No sign of stress.”

“Let’s see if I can change that,” Kylie said.

She read Winstanley his rights. “You almost got away with it, Eldon,” she said. “Or can I call you Emily?”

Winstanley didn’t blink.

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” she said. “You’re as fierce as they come. If I hadn’t managed to blindside you by snapping that cuff on your right wrist, Zach and I would probably be downstairs in your toaster oven with the dial set to two thousand degrees.”

“Sixteen hundred and fifty,” he said.

“It’s hard to charge someone with a homicide without an autopsy,” she said. “So with all due respect to your preeminent standing in theMurder-for-HireHall of Fame, I have to ask, why didn’t you cremate Sheffield as soon as you brought him here?”

“You look like someone who appreciates irony, Detective,” he said with a wry smile.

“Oh, I do. Lay it on me.”

“We ran out of fuel,” he said.

“Oh my God, that is practically Shakespearean,” she said. “How does a crematorium run out of gas?”

He shrugged. “The propane truck broke down yesterday. He’ll be here to fill up the tanks around noon.”

“Well, you won’t be here to sign for it, and if you’re as smart as I think you are, by noon you’ll be cutting a deal with the district attorney.”

“It’s not my nature to make deals, Detective,” he said.

“Your nature, my ass!” Kylie snapped. “The government trained you, chewed you up, spit you out, and you’re still living your life bytheircode? If you get caught, don’t talk? Spend the rest of your life in prison? You don’t work for those people anymore. You don’t owe them shit. How old are you, Eldon?”

“Sixty-eight.”

“You’ll gettwenty-fiveeasy. Let me see, that makes youninety-threewhen you get out. That sucks. You know what sucks less? Fifteen. Maybe ten. You give the DA what’s in your head, you’re a free man atseventy-eight. Maybe sooner if you’re a model prisoner.”

“I appreciate the offer, Detective,” Winstanley said.

“It’s the same offer we’re going to make to your friend Barbara when we arrest him. And trust me, we’re damn close. You’re all senior citizens. First one to cut a deal with the DA is the only one who doesn’t have to die behind bars.”

“It’s tempting, Detective MacDonald,” he said. “But you have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Sheffield talked. Told that kid about his past. They don’t know what he said, but they know he talked. And he’s dead.”

“Who arethey?”

“If I tell you that, I’m a dead man. And here’s another bit of irony. If I tell you nothing, they won’t know if I talked or not, and they’re not going to take a chance, so I’m still a dead man. Don’t you get it? You could reduce my sentence to two years, two months, or two days. It wouldn’t matter. I’m never getting out of this alive.”

Kylie looked at me and then at Cates. She was done. At least for now.

“All right, Eldon,” she said. “We’re going to take you to the hospital, patch you up, and give you some time to come to your senses. Let’s go.”

Two ESU cops helped him to his feet and escorted him from the dark, somber funeral home into the bright, vibrant world outside.

He walked haltingly, restrained by the irons around his feet and the unrelenting pain of his shattered clavicle.