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The camera cut back to Brockway. “And then, while she was getting changed so she could go to sing for her loved ones, her friends, and her new husband, all of whom were gathered in a ballroom several hundred feet away”—he took a deep breath and visibly composed himself, lest anyone doubt his distress. Composure convincingly regained, he continued—“a madman forced his way into her dressing room and took her by brute force.”

The camera cut to a shot of Erin’s dressing room after the kidnapping. I knew that Brockway had taken photos of the crime scene before we could stop him. I also knew that every shot he took was a perfect digital image. But the picture on the screen was grainy, black-and-white, doctored to look like one of those lurid photos from the annals of the National Police Gazette , the forerunner to today’s supermarket tabloids.

Kylie leaned close and whispered angrily in my ear, “That slimy bastard isn’t just milking it. He’s turning it into a freak show. When the brass sees that, we’re screwed.”

Again the camera went back to Brockway. “Our network has been besieged by phone calls and e-mails from concerned fans. Many of you have held prayer vigils. The nation—in fact, the world—has been waiting for an answer to those prayers, and tonight I have some news. We just received video footage from someone purporting to be the person who is holding Erin in captivity. I reached Erin’s husband, Jamie Gibbs, who confirmed to me personally that he had spoken to the kidnapper earlier today and requested a proof-of-life video. We believe this to be just that.”

He took another long dramatic pause. “The good news is Erin is okay. For now. But her life is at great risk. The kidnapper insisted that we air this video or, and I quote, ‘You’ll never see her alive again.’ After careful consideration we’ve elected to share that footage with the police and the public. The video is being prepared for transmission on air and across all our social media platforms. It will be ready shortly. Please stay with us. Till then, I’m joined by my wife, Anna Brockway, who is Erin’s dear friend, trusted confidante, and longtime manager.”

The camera pulled back to reveal Mrs. Brockway sitting to her husband’s right. I tuned her out and turned to Kylie. “Do you see what’s going on here? This prick Brockway is giving people time to call their friends, to tweet, to post it on social media. He’s trolling for a bigger audience.”

“You and I may hate Brockway and everything he stands for,” Kylie said, “but just take a look around you.”

There were about twenty cops in the room, some standing, some perched on furniture, some sitting on the floor. At least half of them were either texting or talking on their cell phones.

And then mine chirped. It was a text from Cheryl asking if I knew that the Erin Easton proof-of-life video was about to be broadcast on ZTV. Clearly Brockway’s strategy was working.

He had taken a high-profile crime, packaged it as a heartbreaking national tragedy, and was in the process of successfully turning it into a ratings bonanza.

CHAPTER 32

I TURNED MY attention back to the TV. Brockway was now doing the talking.

“Anna, millions of people have been riveted by Erin’s ordeal,” he said, addressing his wife as if they had just met and not woken up in bed together that morning. “But many of them may not watch her show on a regular basis, and they may only know her as the beautiful woman they see on the covers of magazines.”

“Or the woman whose sex tape they whacked off to back in the day,” one cop called out.

“You’ve known Erin for almost twenty years,” Brockway went on. “While we’re waiting to screen the kidnapper’s life-altering videotape, why don’t you tell our new viewers a little about the real Erin Easton.”

“The real one’s got small tits, crooked teeth, and no talent,” another cop yelled out. “Run the videotape, asshole.”

Anna Brockway launched into the story of Erin’s meteoric early career. As soon as she started talking, the camera cut away to still photos and film clips that highlighted everything she said.

I had expected the Brockways to vamp aimlessly while they bought time to drum up an audience. But I’d been wrong. They weren’t winging it. They were perfectly scripted.

Anna deftly touched on all the hot buttons to win over her audience. She left out the sex tape and Erin’s first two marriages, but when she got to the tragedies—Erin’s parents killed in a plane crash when she was nineteen and her brother’s fatal skiing accident a year later—the camera cut to photos of Erin valiantly coping in her designer mourning couture.

I was hoping that Bill Harrison would get a court order to quash the broadcast, but ten minutes into the production, with #ErinsHostageTape trending, Harris Brockway made the announcement.

His face without expression, his voice somber, he said, “We apologize for the disturbing nature of what you are about to see, but all of us here at ZTV take heart that our brave friend and colleague is still alive and well and that despite all she has been through these past twenty-four-plus hours, her indomitable spirit remains unbroken.”

A chorus of profanity was hurled at the screen from every direction. Brockway might be able to con the public, but every cop in the room saw right through him.

The screen went dark and then faded up on a close-up of that morning’s edition of the Daily News . Erin’s picture and the single word taken were on the front page.

The camera pulled back as the newspaper was lowered. And there stood Erin Easton, hair disheveled, no makeup, eyes puffy from crying, wearing a pair of baggy gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt.

“She looks like shit,” Kylie said.

“I think that’s what he’s going for,” I said. “The worse she looks, the more likely Jamie is to pull the ransom money together.”

“I don’t know who’s watching this,” Erin said. “Probably my husband, and the police, and maybe someone at the network. Whoever it is, I want you all to know that I’m … I’m … ” She started to sob. “I’m okay.”

She put her hands over her eyes, and we watched in silence as her shoulders heaved and her body shook. After about thirty seconds she lowered her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m not okay. I mean, he didn’t hurt me, but I want to go home. I have to go home. I’m …”

She looked down at the floor. When she looked back at the camera, she inhaled and stood tall.

“Jamie … sweetheart … I was going to tell you this at the wedding after I performed my song. I’m pregnant.”

Part Two

ERIN IN EXILE

CHAPTER 33

THE CAMERA DRIFTED in on Erin as her eyes welled up, and a tear, glistening like a single pearl, rolled down her cheek. She brushed it away and took a deep breath. She was about to say something else when the screen went dark. Dodd had cut the video. If Jamie Gibbs wanted to see more, he’d have to pay for it.

“And now,” Brockway said as the camera cut back to him and his wife, “we learn that the stakes are doubled. The fate of two people hangs in the balance—Erin Easton and her unborn child. Anna, what do you have to say about that heartbreaking video we just witnessed?”

I didn’t care what either of the Brockways had to say. I headed toward the door and signaled Kylie to follow. She didn’t budge. She had her phone to her ear, and she held up her other hand. I waited until she hung up. “We’re not going anywhere,” she said. “Cates wants us here.”

“Doing what?” I asked. “We need to go to the station and get our hands on that video. When did it come in? Who delivered it? Who touched it? If there’s any chance there are prints on it—”