Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 6

I looked at my watch. I figured Brockway would let us stew for a while, but I was wrong. I looked through the glass wall and saw him approaching quickly, his camera and sound crew behind him. I looked up at the monitor. I was on TV.

“Detective Jordan,” Brockway said, bursting into the room. “I’m guessing you saw our exclusive, and you’re here to pick up the original of the latest video of Erin in Exile . ZTV is always honored to be working side by side with the NYPD.”

He turned to Kylie, who was still holding the bottle of water. “Detective MacDonald, I see you’ve helped yourself to some refreshments. What’s the latest on your search for Erin? What can you tell our viewers?”

Kylie set the water down and stood. She’s got a hair-trigger temper, but she’s not stupid. She was not about to be suckerpunched on national television.

“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” she said. “But if you turn off the camera, there’s something we’d like to share with you.”

Brockway turned to his cameraman. “You heard it here, ladies and gentlemen,” he said to his audience. “The bond between yours truly and the police continues to get stronger as we work together to find Erin Easton’s kidnapper and return her home safely. This concludes our live broadcast. We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming. But don’t go far. We’ll be back with breaking news as soon as it happens.”

He stood there in silence, his smug face filling the screen, until a woman with a headset yelled, “And we’re out.”

“My office,” Brockway said. “It’s totally private.”

We followed him to a large office suite, entered his inner sanctum, and closed the door.

Brockway’s face lit up. He actually believed the three of us were now on the same side. He sat down at his desk, rolled his mouse, and stared at his computer. “Just checking my Twitter feed,” he said. “Holy shit—twelve thousand retweets and counting. Are we trending or what?” He leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him. “So … what can you tell me?”

“Just this,” Kylie said. “I have made it my personal mission to put you behind bars for obstruction of justice.”

“Christ, lighten up, will you, Detective?” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m the press. The press doesn’t obstruct. We inform.”

“Then your first mistake was not informing us as soon as you got the video from the kidnapper,” Kylie said.

“Oh, really?” He opened his desk drawer and removed a Ziploc bag. Inside was a handwritten note. “This came with the video. It says, ‘Air this and do not call the cops or she will die.’ I did what I had to do to protect a member of our family.”

“Bullshit,” Kylie said. “You had a responsibility to call us.”

“Wrong, missy. My only responsibility is to keep Erin’s loyal fans informed. That’s why we’re doing a two-hour special tonight, and we will continue to report on this vital news story whether you like it or not.”

“You’re not reporting . You grabbed lightning in a bottle, and all you’re doing is cashing in on these videos.”

“Tell it to the judge, Detective,” Brockway said. “Oh, wait … you did, and the judge told you to back off.”

CHAPTER 46

DUMBEST DAMN PLACE in the world for a fashion show , Bobby thought as he looked through the scope of his Winchester 70 at the abandoned railroad bed four stories below.

The goddamn Brooklyn Army Terminal. Skinny-ass models parading up and down a runway that was built on a bunch of rotting old train tracks. How the hell is that supposed to sell clothes?

He inched the long gun across the crowd of spectators until the puffy face of Jamie Gibbs filled the crosshairs. He was sitting in the front row, smiling at models as they strolled down the runway.

What are you smiling at, asshole? I’ve got your wife. Where’s the rest of my money?

Three hours ago the network had wired a million dollars to Bobby’s offshore account. It was more money than he’d ever had in his life, but it wasn’t enough. He needed the whole twenty-five million to support a woman like Erin. The network was willing to pay, but only in installments of a million bucks.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to make twenty-four more of those videos because you can’t come up with the goods,” Bobby said to the image of Jamie in his scope. “How dumb do you think I am?”

And then, out of nowhere, Oswald popped into his head.

Well, maybe it didn’t come out of nowhere. Bobby was hunkered down in a sniper’s nest, and not only was Lee Harvey Oswald the most famous sniper he knew, he was also his father’s favorite example of piss-poor planning.

“Oswald was the dumbest Marine that ever was,” Bobby’s father had told him. “He worked at the Texas School Book Depository. He shoots Kennedy from the sixth floor of where he works, drops the rifle, and leaves the building. How long do you think it takes for them to do a roll call and realize he’s the only one missing? And then, does he have an exit plan? No, he runs home, picks up a pistol, and starts walking the streets until a cop stops him. He shoots the cop, then hides in a movie theater until the Dallas PD drags him out and arrests him. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”

Whenever the subject came up, there was never any discussion about what had possessed an honorably discharged U.S. Marine to shoot and kill the commander in chief. His father always seemed to obsess over how incompetent Oswald was.

Bobby wouldn’t make any of the same mistakes. Getting into the sprawling former military complex had been easy. He blended in with the swarm of journalists, photographers, and invited guests as they entered the venue. His rifle was in a tripod bag, and when others headed for the atrium to gawk at the runway, Bobby made his way across a skywalk to a secluded parapet on the fourth floor of Building B.

The plan was to take his shot and be gone before anyone knew what had happened. All he needed was the right soundtrack.

The show had kicked off with “Eye of the Tiger.” Corny, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind. Then came Elton John belting out “The Bitch Is Back,” followed by Springsteen singing “Born to Run.” Good one, but not good enough.

Two more tracks. Not yet , he told himself. Not yet .

And then he heard it—the opening notes to his father’s favorite AC/DC song, “Highway to Hell.”

Karma , he thought.

He repositioned himself, laid his cheek on the stock, and looked through the scope.

And then came the thrum, thrum, thrum of the guitars and the driving beat of the drums as the music kicked into high gear.

Bam. Boom. Boom. Boom .

The sound was pulsing, echoing through the canyon below.

Bam. Boom. Boom. Boom .

He squeezed the trigger.

Bam. Boom. Boom. Boom .

It was deafening as the crowd picked up the energy and added to the chaos.

Bam. Boom. Boom. Bang .

Perfect shot.

He didn’t watch Jamie drop to the floor.

He packed up the rifle quickly, and with the models still strutting down the runway and the crowd still keeping time to the music, he made his way downstairs to the parking lot and headed home to the woman he loved.

CHAPTER 47

ADA BILL HARRISON had spent the morning tied up in court, so by the time we got a face-to-face with him it was midafternoon. At that point Kylie was fed up with the justice system, and of course, she did nothing to keep it a secret.

“They’re not just airing these videos, Bill,” she said, pointing a finger at Harrison. “They’re tampering with evidence.”

“And you can prove that, Detective?” Harrison said.