Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 6

And with that, Harlan Doyle was done. Wham-bam. He headed toward a waiting cop car.

“Wow,” Brown said as he watched him walk away. “I can see why he’s in charge.”

Kylie and I followed Brown to his radio car. She got in front; I sat in back. Chief Brown drove. He was in his midforties, born and raised in Warwick, and clearly taken by the big-city cops that had descended on his quiet little community.

“Who owns the house where Erin was held captive?” Kylie asked.

“Blanche and Stanley Katz. Nice folks—I’m guessing they’re in their midfifties. They moved up here from the city about ten years ago. They write these books that nobody reads. Something about art history. They’re working on another one, and they’re hopping around Europe for a year, so they rented the house out. They’ve done it before. They left their itinerary with us at the station in case of emergency. I guess I better contact them.”

“Please don’t,” Kylie said. “Not until we’re sure they’re not involved.”

Chief Brown looked at her. “Involved? Them? Hell no.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Kylie said, “but until we are one hundred percent sure that there is no other connection between them and Dodd besides unsuspecting landlord and homicidal tenant, we’re not giving them a heads-up.”

“Son of a gun,” he said. “You’re right. I never would’ve thought of that. I guess I could learn a lot about police work from you folks. If you ever want to come up to Warwick and teach a class to the troops one of these nights, I’ll buy the pizza.”

“That just may be the best offer we’ve had all day,” Kylie said and flashed him a warm smile.

Brown returned the smile and held on to it as he turned his face back toward the road and drove to the hospital. Clearly he was in awe, and I’d bet anything that this was the single biggest day of his career.

For us, it was just another Wednesday.

CHAPTER 52

LESS THAN AN hour after Erin’s escape, St. Anthony Community Hospital was surrounded by TV trucks, fervent fans, and local lookie-loos.

The state police and the volunteer fire department were out in force, redirecting traffic and doing their best to clear the roadways. Chief Brown detoured off the main drag, navigated onto a side street, and dropped us off at the emergency room entrance in the rear of the building.

We met with Sarah Paris, the doctor heading up Erin’s medical team. Dr. Paris turned out to be a straight talker and a good listener whose only concern was her patient’s well-being, not her celebrity status.

Small-town docs can be put off by the in-your-face directness of big-city cops, so I eased into the interview. “Dr. Paris, we’re familiar with the HIPAA regulations about patient privacy, but this is a criminal investigation, and—”

The doc held up her hand. “I did my residency at Lincoln Hospital in the Bronx. It had the busiest ED in the entire city—shootings, stabbings, gang violence. There were some nights I talked to more cops than patients. Ask anything.”

“For starters, how is she?” I said.

“Physically she’s okay. A few cuts and bruises, nothing major. She’s also fourteen weeks along in her pregnancy, and the baby is fine. The real damage is psychological. Beyond the ordeal of being abducted, she was raped repeatedly.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“I know that because she told me several times, and I believed her. We have an ob-gyn on the way to the hospital, and of course we used a rape kit to gather the physical evidence. But even more traumatizing than her captivity was her escape. She said she managed to get away by luring her abductor into the shower, then slitting his throat. She’s in fear that all she did was wound him, and despite the fact that there are two policemen outside her door, she’s deathly afraid that he will come for her.”

“He won’t,” Kylie said. “He can’t. He’s dead.”

“That’s good news and bad news at the same time. I’m sure she’ll be relieved, but knowing she killed another human being will undoubtedly add to the PTSD. She’s going to need a lot of therapy.”

“Can we see her now?” I said.

“See her? Yes. Interrogate her? No. I’ll give you five minutes, ten max. I’m admitting her for a day or two. If you’re going to make her relive what she’s been through, at least let her get some rest first.”

She escorted us to a corner room on the top floor. Erin was lying in bed, tubes coming out of her arms, a bank of glowing screens monitoring her vital signs. Her face was pale and blotchy, her eyes vacant, her hair still damp from her life-changing shower with Bobby Dodd.

Kylie took the lead. “I’m Detective Kylie MacDonald. This is my partner, Detective Zach Jordan. We’ve been looking all over for you. Nice to finally meet you.”

Erin managed a half smile. “I know your names. He told me who you were. He talked to you on the phone.” She didn’t have to tell us who he was. “And I recognize you,” she said to Kylie. “You were at my wedding. Blue dress. Am I right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Did you catch him? He’s insane. You have to catch him.”

“We didn’t have to catch him. He was found dead on the shower floor. He can never, ever hurt you again.”

I could see the relief spread across her face. “Is it true? About Veronica? When he came back this afternoon, he told me … ” She started sobbing. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m afraid that Veronica Gibbs was shot,” Kylie said. “She died instantly.”

“Oh, poor Jamie. Where is he? I can’t wait to be with him.”

“And he can’t wait to be with you. He’s on his way. Police escort, so he’ll be here soon. But first we’d like to ask you a few questions. We won’t take long. Are you up to it?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

“Do you mind if we sit down?” I asked. It was a simple request, basically unnecessary, but when you’re dealing with people who have been stripped of all their power, you give them back as much control as you possibly can.

“Please,” she said. “Sit.”

We sat.

“Let me just start by saying that we are in awe of your strength,” Kylie said. “You’re a fighter, and you came out a winner.”

“I was trained. Ari was an Israeli commando. My father hired him just in case something like this ever happened. I told my dad it was stupid, but Ari was so cute and sexy I didn’t want him to leave.” She looked up at the ceiling and waved. “Thanks, Daddy.”

“You can thank Ari too,” I said. “He taught you well.”

“One night, years ago, he brought me into a room and said, ‘You’ve been kidnapped. The bad guys will be back in an hour, and they’re going to kill you. You better have a weapon when they get here. Find one.’ Then he locked the door. I think I spent most of the time crying because there were no weapons in that room. He came back an hour later and showed me how to make five.”

“Amazing,” Kylie said. “Where did you find the blade?”

“It took me a while to figure it out. Nothing in the room looked lethal. Nothing. And then that first night he came in, he wanted sex. I never tried to fight him off. I knew better. I just lay there on the bed, breathing hard, and pretending I was enjoying it. My eyes were always closed. I couldn’t look at him but I could hear him moaning and groaning and telling me he loved me. I tried to tune him out until all I could hear was the sound of the bedsprings creaking, creaking, creaking. And all of a sudden, I knew the answer.

“I waited for him to leave and lock me up for the night. I pulled the mattress off the bed. It was one of those old-fashioned kinds where the springs are held together by metal straps. It took me hours to pry one of the springs off. Then every time I knew he was out of the house, I honed it against a metal pipe that was under the sink in the bathroom until it was razor-sharp. I never wanted to … to do what I did, but when he told me he killed Veronica, I knew he wouldn’t stop. If he didn’t get what he wanted, I was next.”