Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 6

ERIN IN EXILE, it said.

There were a few groans from the cops in the room. But they weren’t the jeers of ridicule for an opponent who’d played dirty. They were more like those involuntary sounds of frustration you make when you realize that you’ve underestimated your adversary, and he’s at the top of his game.

The camera cut to the newsroom set, but the anchor desk had been replaced by a sweeping arc of a Lucite table and five chairs. Brockway was on the far left, and he introduced himself and then the other four members of his panel: a psychologist, a forensic accountant, a special agent with the FBI, and, of course, at center stage, looking drawn and tired, Jamie Gibbs.

“You think we gave him too much space?” Kylie asked.

“Short of cuffing him to a radiator pipe, do you think we could have stopped him?” I said.

The digital clock at the bottom of the screen was still keeping track of the time since Erin was abducted. It was now at 2 days /14 hours /26 minutes.

Another five minutes passed while Brockway lied to the world about how ZTV had come to be in possession of the video he was about to show.

“The outcry from Erin’s fans was so overwhelming that the kidnapper wanted to assure her supporters that she was safe and unharmed,” Brockway said. “He made the latest tape and sent it to ZTV trusting that we would air it, knowing that public opinion and the Constitution of the United States of America were on our side.” Brockway left out God, but he took a long pause after “public opinion” and cast his eyes heavenward. Any idiot could fill in the blank.

The video was a little shy of three minutes long. Erin looked as drawn and tired as Jamie. There were no bombshells like the one announcing the pregnancy. She just thanked her fans for their devotion, praised the network for its support, and begged her husband to do everything he could to bring her home.

The raw meat of this episode was the panel. Brockway started out by asking the psychologist what Erin was going through emotionally. The man clearly had no idea, and his answer rang as hollow as a Miss America contestant promising to do all she could to bring about world peace during her reign.

Next, Brockway turned to Sam Dobin, the federal agent, and asked him what hidden clues he saw in Erin’s body language or speech patterns. Dobin rehashed a case he’d worked on ten years ago, but he never really came up with a straight answer.

“Agent Dobin,” Brockway said, “our viewers are submitting questions on social media, and here’s one that has come up often. Why isn’t the FBI handling this case?”

It felt as if everyone in the break room collectively leaned forward. “Yeah, asshole,” one cop yelled. “Why aren’t you bailing us out?”

“Excellent question, Mr. Brockway,” the agent said. “And one I’m sure the powers that be in Washington have posed to the director of the Bureau. The simple reason is that, from the outset, the kidnapper has been communicating with the NYPD. We were willing to watch that play out. But when that communication breaks down—and believe me, it will—we’ll be stepping in.”

“Hopefully,” Brockway said, his tone somber, “it won’t be too late.”

He then turned his attention to Jamie. “I’m assuming there have been ransom demands. Can you tell us how much they’re asking for?”

“I can’t comment on that,” Jamie said.

“Can’t comment? Or can’t afford?” Brockway said.

Jamie sat back in his chair, looking like he’d been blindsided.

Brockway raised a hand. “Please don’t take offense. I’m here to help. There’s a lot of public pressure on you to pay whatever the kidnapper asks. Roger Levenson here is a forensic accountant, and we’ve asked him to do an analysis of the Gibbs family fortune. Roger?”

“There’s a lot of false information online,” Levenson said. “Websites that know nothing about Mr. Gibbs will claim to reveal his net worth just to generate viewer interest. But I know where to look, and from what I can tell, most of the wealth is held by Jamie’s mother, Veronica Gibbs.”

“Interesting,” Brockway said. “Jamie, have you talked to your mother about paying for Erin’s release?”

Jamie looked lost. Whatever he’d been promised would happen, this wasn’t it. Each panelist had a glass of water in front of him, and Jamie, stalling for time, took a sip from his. “I don’t know … I … if I feel I need help from my mother, I’ll ask her.”

“Save your breath.” It was the psychologist.

“Dr. Goodman,” Brockway said. “Strong words. Are you suggesting that just because there’s bad blood between Jamie’s mother and his new wife, Veronica won’t come to the aid of her son’s unborn child?”

“No. I’m saying that the only child Veronica Gibbs cares about is her boy Jamie. Erin Easton stole him away from her, and now that Mama’s got him back again, why does she need Erin and the baby?”

“Fuck you!” Jamie screamed, and he tossed the entire glass of water in the TV doc’s face. Then he lunged at the man, and the two of them went down to the floor. The FBI agent jumped in to try to break it up, the accountant backed away from the table, and the director cut to a close-up of Brockway.

“Heated moments. Trying times,” he said. “We’ll be right back after these important messages.”

They cut to a commercial, but Kylie and I didn’t wait for Brockway to come back. We left the room, ran downstairs to the car, and made a beeline for the arrogant bastard’s office.

CHAPTER 45

DON’T SAY A word,” Kylie said. She flipped on the lights, hit the siren, and barreled through the red on Lexington.

“Why would I say a word?” I responded, buckling my seat belt. “Oh, do you mean because running hot to a nonemergency is a flagrant violation of traffic safety, departmental policy, and common sense?”

“Who’s to say this isn’t a life-threatening emergency?” she yelled over the high/low wail of the siren. “Clearly that TV asshole is playing fast and loose with Erin’s.”

“I love your logic. Save it for the inquest after you bowl over a couple of pedestrians.”

She slowed down, turned off the siren, hesitated, then killed the flashing lights. “You feel better now, Zach?”

“Much better. And much, much safer.”

“That whole bit with the psychologist was a setup,” she said. “Brockway baited Jamie, and then the shrink moved in for the kill.”

“I’m in violent agreement,” I said.

My phone rang. It was Koprowski with an update on Jamie. “Elvis has left the building,” he said.

“Just stay with him,” I said. “We’re on the way to the studio to get our hands on the new video.”

“Why bother?” Koprowski said. “I heard on TV that the feds are taking over the case.”

“That would be funny if you and I were the only ones who heard it, but I bet everyone at One PP was watching, and none of them are laughing.”

It took us fifteen minutes to get to the network headquarters, storm the reception area, and demand to see Harris Brockway.

“He’s still on the air,” the receptionist said. “But he’s expecting you.”

“I’ll bet he is,” Kylie said. “Get him out here. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A production assistant escorted us to the greenroom, which I’ve come to learn is almost never painted green. It’s just a big cozy lounge with comfortable furniture and plenty of refreshments where guests can relax while they’re waiting to go on-air.

“Can I get you anything?” the PA asked.

I waved him off.

“Just water,” Kylie said.

He handed her a bottle of Poland Spring and left. Kylie sat down. I paced. We knew better than to talk. The room was wired for sound.