Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 6

“What about an order of protection?”

“If Erin filed an order against every looney tune who stood in the crowd professing his love for her, she’d spend a hell of a lot of time in court. Celebs know they live in a fishbowl. They don’t get litigious unless it gets physical or if there are kids involved. They just beef up security and move on with their well-documented lives.”

“What else can you tell us about Mr. Dodd?” I said.

“He’s forty years old, grew up in Clarksville, Tennessee. His grandfather was a stonemason and started teaching the kid the tricks of the trade when he was only ten. He was quite the craftsman, but his father was a Marine, and Bobby wanted to follow in Daddy’s footsteps. He enlisted in the Corps when he was eighteen and served twelve years, so he’s well trained in self-defense, weaponry, concealment, and survival techniques. He’s smart. Not like Jeopardy! smart; more like Rambo smart. If he decides to go underground and squirrel Erin away in some cabin in Idaho or Montana or God knows where, we’ll never find her.”

“You have a file on him?” I asked.

“A fat one. I can access it from my phone and send it wherever you want.”

“For starters, e-mail it to me and Kylie. We’ll open up a case with Real Time Crime and get people down at One PP digging up anything and everything they can find on Dodd. The private correspondence you have from him to Erin won’t be on their radar, so thanks—that’ll help.”

“We should call in the Violent Felony Squad,” Kylie said.

The computer cops at Real Time feed us valuable data, but they never leave their desks. The Violent Felony Squad is an elite team that will visit Dodd’s known hangouts, comb through his social media activity to track down possible accomplices, check his credit card usage, and try to find him by analyzing dozens of his other daily habits, patterns, and routines.

“I agree,” I said. “Violent Felony will give us eyes, ears, and feet on the street.”

“Are you sure that’s as deep as you want to go?” McMaster said. “We’ve got Dodd’s picture. If you release it to the media, you’ll have eight million pairs of eyes looking for—”

Kylie cut him off. “Dodd doesn’t know we know who he is. If we release his picture to the media or even just circulate it through the department, he’s going to find out. And if he’s as cunning as you say he is, once he knows we’re onto him, he may drop off the face of the earth completely. Violent Felony is the best way to do an intense search and keep it contained.”

“Your call,” McMaster said. Clearly he didn’t agree. But at least he was finally coming around to the understanding that he didn’t get a vote.

Kylie and I had bent the rules by bringing him up here. It had paid off because as Erin’s chief of security, he’d recognized the perp. But without that bird on his shoulder anymore, this was as far as he was going to go. I figured it would be easier on him if Kylie cut him loose. I gave her a head nod, and she caught it.

“Thanks for everything, Declan,” she said. “I got the e-mail you sent. Zach and I are going to shoot up to the Bronx and check out Dodd’s last known address.”

“I don’t suppose I could come along for the ride,” McMaster said. “I’d be willing to take a vow of silence.”

“Sure thing,” she said. “But since we’ll be out there trying to pick up information that will be used in court, I really should give the DA’s office a call and see if they still have that pesky rule about not letting civilians tag along on an active investigation.”

He laughed. “I’ll grab a cab back to the Hammerstein. Keep me in the loop.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “As much as I can.”

The three of us knew that wouldn’t be much, but it was better left unsaid.

CHAPTER 14

THE PELHAM BAY section of the Bronx is a safe, desirable, historically Italian-American neighborhood whose streets are lined with mature trees, moderately priced family cars, and post– World War II architecture.

“Welcome to 1955,” Kylie said as she pulled the car onto Zulette Avenue, where many of the homes were red brick with metal awnings and wrought-iron railings. She parked in front of a house that fit the mold, right down to the American flag in the window.

The lights were on in several rooms upstairs, but the downstairs, with its separate entrance to a basement apartment, was dark.

“The landlady is awake, the perp is in the wind,” Kylie said as we walked up a flight of brick stairs and rang the doorbell.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice demanded from inside.

“Police,” Kylie said as we both held up our shields to the peephole. “We’d like to speak to Lucille Speranza.”

“About what?”

“Your tenant.”

Most people can’t hide the way they feel about cops, and they usually give themselves away immediately. I can break them down into three basic groups: those who are spooked by anyone in law enforcement; those who basically respect us and appreciate what we do; and those who distrust, don’t like, or downright hate us on sight.

As soon as Mrs. Speranza opened the door, I could tell she fell squarely into that last group. She was a seventy-seven-year-old widow who stood five-foot-nothing high and weighed in at about two hundred pounds. She had a hawk nose, a mop of Cheetoscolored curly hair that clashed with her red-flowered dress, and a chip on each shoulder.

Instead of a concerned Is everything okay? , she hit us with “What’s your problem?”

“Do you have a tenant by the name of Bobby Dodd?” Kylie said. “What kind of stupid question is that?” Speranza said. “You know I do, otherwise why else would you show up here in the middle of the night? What did he do?”

“We’d just like to ask him a few questions.”

“I’m not surprised the cops are after him. I never trusted him.” “Is there a reason?”

“He’s got no wife, no kids, no girlfriend. I never see him with people. How many more reasons do you need?”

“He rents the apartment downstairs, correct?” I asked.

“Of course he rents the downstairs. You think he lives up here with me?”

“The apartment is dark.”

“Then I guess he’s not home, and I have no idea where he is. Is that all?”

“No, ma’am. When was the last time you saw him?”

“A few days ago.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Tuesday. No, Wednesday. He was carrying some laundry bags.”

“Does he have a car?”

“I don’t know. If he does, he doesn’t park it in front of the house.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” I asked.

“I already told you. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

“Do you mind if we search his apartment?” Kylie asked.

Speranza thought about it. “And if I say no?”

“We’ll be back at three a.m. with a search warrant.”

“Wait here. I’ll get a key.” She closed the door hard.

“The middle of the night?” Kylie said. “It’s a quarter to eleven, her lights were on, and she’s still dressed.”

“The case is only a few hours old,” I said, “but clearly she’s out of the running for Miss Congeniality.”

Speranza returned wearing a lime-green cardigan over her red dress and carrying an oversize purse. We followed her down to the entrance of the basement apartment. She dug into the purse for a key, found it, and unlocked the door.

“Stand back,” Kylie said as we entered. I turned on a light.

“I told you he’s not there,” Speranza said. “The furniture is mine, so don’t mess the place up with fingerprint dust and all that crap.” She followed us in, and there was no point in trying to keep her out.