Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 6

The crowd applauded, and Jamie stood there looking like he’d died and gone to heaven as Erin walked off the stage to a standing ovation.

“Go time,” Bobby said, tossing the iPad onto the passenger seat.

He reached inside his shirt and pulled out the .357 Magnum bullet that was hanging on a chain around his neck. The powder had been replaced by one cubic inch of his father’s ashes.

He rubbed his finger gently over the words the old man had had etched into the steel casing: Succeed, or die trying. Semper Fi .

Yeah, he thought as he started the truck and tucked the bullet back inside his shirt. That was the plan.

TWO

STANDING IN FRONT of the door to Erin Easton’s dressing room, Lenny Ringel felt like one of those guards with the red jackets and the big black furry hats crammed into the sentry box outside Buckingham Palace. Nothing to do, no one to talk to.

It was the ass end of the security detail for the wedding, and Ringel had asked McMaster flat out why he had to protect an empty room for five hours while the other four guards were working the ballroom, listening to the music, ogling the women, and sneaking off to the kitchen to stuff their faces.

“The room’s not empty,” McMaster informed him. “It’s got Erin’s wardrobe, her jewelry, and her personal belongings, which, trust me, people would be happy to steal. It has to be secured at all times.”

“So why can’t we whack it up between us?” Ringel said. “Five guys, we could each take an hour instead of me parked out here like—”

“Ringel,” McMaster said, “the place is crawling with important people, and you don’t have what I’d call important-people skills. If you don’t want the job, just say so, and I’ll book another rent-a-cop.”

Of course Ringel wanted the job. And not just for the money. When he first told his girlfriend he was working security at the Wedding of the Century, she went batshit, she was so happy.

“Lenny,” she said, “you gotta mingle like crazy and come back with as much juicy gossip as you can.”

He had to explain that his job was to protect the guests, not stalk them, but at least he’d come back with some cool stories she could tell her friends, and if she wanted to make them sound even cooler, that was fine by him. But now all he could tell her was that McMaster had put him in charge of watching a giant closet full of clothes.

And then, halfway through the gig, Erin showed up, knockers practically popping out of her wedding gown. She gave Ringel a drop-dead-gorgeous smile and said, “Wardrobe change, sweetie. Got a show to do. Don’t let anyone in.”

He couldn’t believe it. Nobody told him about any wardrobe change. “Don’t worry, Miss Easton,” he said. “Nobody gets past me. Just one thing—my girlfriend, Darcy, is a big fan. She’d kill me if I didn’t tell you. I’m Lenny, by the way.”

“Well, Lenny, you tell Darcy—hell, don’t tell her anything,” Erin said. “Let’s blow her mind. Where’s your camera?”

Five seconds later, Lenny Ringel, the man with no important-people skills, was taking selfies with the most important person at the whole damn wedding. Suck on that, McMaster .

“Remember, Lenny,” Erin said after he’d clicked off a burst of shots with his cell phone, “don’t let anyone in, especially that pain in the ass Brockway, the guy with the camera crew. A girl needs her privacy.”

She slipped into the dressing room, snapped the lock, and left Ringel to dream what it would be like to be on the other side of the door watching Erin Easton change out of her wedding gown.

Forty minutes later Ringel was still reveling in the fact that one of the biggest stars in the world had called him by name. How cool was that?

And then the pain in the ass with the camera crew showed up.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ringel said, every inch the professional. “Miss Easton said no visitors.”

“I’m not a visitor,” Brockway said. “I’m the guy whose network put up a million dollars to shoot this fiasco, which means I’m paying your salary and hers. She’s got a show to put on, and she’s late.”

Brockway rapped hard on the dressing-room door. “Come on, Erin. Your public is waiting. Time for you to knock ’em dead.”

No answer.

He turned to Ringel. “You sure she’s in there?”

“Positive, sir, but she said she needed her privacy.”

“I’m not paying her to stay private,” Brockway said, grabbing the doorknob and rattling it.

“It’s locked, sir,” Ringel said.

“Not for long,” he said, storming off.

Thirty seconds later he was back, this time with McMaster and two of the other guards.

“Ringel, what’s going on?” McMaster said. Only it didn’t sound like he was asking. It was more like he was blaming Lenny for the fact that Erin apparently didn’t want to come out. McMaster banged on the door. “Erin, it’s Declan. Are you okay?”

No answer. Within seconds he produced a key, unlocked the door, and swung it open.

“Sweet Jesus,” Ringel said. “What the hell happened?”

McMaster didn’t know, but after thirty-five years with the NYPD, he knew enough to block the doorway to keep Ringel from charging in and contaminating what was clearly a crime scene.

The chair in front of Erin’s dressing table was overturned. A wineglass lay unbroken on the carpet, its contents spilled. On the floor next to it was Erin’s wedding gown, the beaded bodice stained a dark red. The wine was white.

McMaster’s eyes went to the far end of the dressing room. The clothing racks that had been flush to the rear wall had been pushed aside, revealing a back door. It was closed, but he’d be willing to bet a year’s salary that it was no longer locked.

“Stay where you are,” he ordered Ringel. Taking the silk square from his breast pocket, he crossed the room; he put the fabric on the doorknob, opened the door, and peered down the hallway that led to the loading dock. “She’s gone,” he said, storming back. “Lock this place down. I don’t care how important these people are. Nobody gets out.”

“What about the cops?” Ringel said. “Should we call them?”

“Right behind you,” a voice said.

McMaster looked up. The speaker was blond with sparkling green eyes, decked out in a blue cocktail dress and flashing a gold shield. He recognized her even before she identified herself.

“Detective Kylie MacDonald,” she said. “NYPD Red.”

Part One

CRAZY ABOUT ERIN

CHAPTER 1

I REACHED ACROSS the table and handed Cheryl the envelope.

“What’s this?” She smiled. Perfect white teeth against flawless caramel skin. “Are you putting me on notice?”

“Hardly,” I said. “It’s been a year since you seduced me with Chinese food, Italian opera, and your hot Latina body. Happy anniversary.”

“Today is June ninth,” she said. “Our first date was the twenty-third. Aren’t you jumping the gun here, Detective?”

“Open the gift before you judge the giver,” I said.

She opened the envelope and took out the reservation confirmation from Bentley’s by the Sea, a bed-and-breakfast in Montauk.

“June twenty-first to the twenty-third,” she said. “Nicely done, Zach.”

“And it’s paper, which, according to Wikipedia, is the traditional first-anniversary gift,” I said.

“I don’t have anything for you,” she said.

“We’ll be alone for two days and two nights,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

She leaned across the table and kissed me. “Behave yourself, here comes our host.”

Cheryl’s cousin Shane Talbot made his way from the kitchen to the far end of the restaurant where we were sitting. At six foot two, with a thick crop of red hair, he was easy to track as he zigzagged from table to table, shaking hands, bussing cheeks, and smiling graciously at the bloggers, reviewers, and foodies-with-a-following he’d invited to the opening-night party of his new restaurant.