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“Glad you showed up,” Kylie said. “I was afraid you’d miss all the fun.”

“What’s going on?”

“Good news, bad news, and worse news,” she said.

“I usually start with the worst, but I desperately need some good news.”

“The lab ran ballistics on the bullet that killed Veronica Gibbs. It definitely came from the rifle that’s covered with Dodd’s prints.”

“So Brooklyn Homicide gets credit for closing our high-profile murder,” I said. “How is that good news?”

“They’re celebrating with a steak dinner at Peter Luger’s. They called to invite us.” She grinned.

“Screw them. What’s the bad news?”

“Dr. Paris called. Our star witness spiked a fever last night and will not be available to talk to us today or tomorrow. Saturday is a maybe. No guarantees.”

“Great. Let’s call Chief Doyle and tell him he can count on at least two more days of zero progress.”

“I don’t think the chief will be taking any of our phone calls,” she said, picking up a copy of the New York Post from her desk and handing it to me.

There on the front page was a picture of Chief of Detectives Harlan Doyle taken at yesterday’s press conference. It must have been snapped just as a reporter threw him a tough question, because Doyle’s lips were pursed and his eyes were squinting. Clearly he was straining to come up with a good answer.

The headline above the photo read: “Top Cop at NYPD Clueless in Erin Kidnapping.”

“I’ll spare you the pain of reading the article. It’s a heartwarming saga about how the plucky little media star overpowered her abductor and did ‘what the elite NYPD Red Squad couldn’t.’ Save her own ass.”

I sat there, stunned. “When I went to bed last night, I thought I’d hit a low point in my career,” I said. “Turns out I was wrong. There is something worse than looking bad to your boss.”

I stared at the picture of Doyle caught like a deer in the headlights. “And that’s making him look bad to the rest of the world.”

CHAPTER 56

THURSDAY AND FRIDAY passed without us making any real headway on our two biggest cases. Saturday was our day off, but we were ready to go to work if we could talk to Erin. I didn’t want to risk another rejection from Dr. Paris, so I called Jamie.

“She’s getting out in a few hours,” he said, more excited than I had ever heard him. “We’re going home.”

“When can we talk to her?”

“Definitely not today. She’ll be exhausted from the press conference.”

“Jamie, please,” I said. “She really should talk to the police before she talks to the press.”

“You try telling that to Anna Brockway,” he said. “You have no idea what’s been going on since Erin escaped. The offers are pouring in. Everybody wants a piece of her.”

“Including the NYPD,” I said. “Jamie, your wife murdered Bobby Dodd. The Orange County district attorney will classify it as a homicide.”

“It was self-defense.”

“You know that. We know that. But our job is to get a detailed statement from Erin so the DA can close this out as justifiable.”

“Okay, okay, gotcha. And I know she really wants to talk to you. She appreciates all you … ” He groped for the right words. “You know … all you and Kylie tried to do. How about tomorrow morning at eleven? My apartment.”

“We’ll be there,” I said.

That afternoon Cheryl flew back from Rochester. As soon as she came through the front door, I wrapped my arms around her. “God, I’m glad you’re back,” I said.

“I know. You sounded so bummed over the phone that I decided to come straight from the airport. Let’s talk.”

Talking was not what I had in mind. True, I had called her half a dozen times while she was out of town, but now that she was back, I needed a girlfriend more than I needed talk therapy.

“I’m feeling better now,” I said, pulling her closer. “We can talk later.”

She backed off. My intentions were transparent, and Cheryl was a professional on a mission—a trained psychologist making a house call. Romance was off the table until she helped me resolve my issues.

I sat down on the sofa. She remained standing. I looked up and gave her my best happy-to-see-you smile. “Go ahead, Dr. Robinson.”

She didn’t smile back. “Fair warning, Zach. I’m not going to sugarcoat it.”

She was serious. I got an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

“Let’s start with the most troubling thing you said to me on the phone,” she said. “‘I made the wrong decision and got a woman killed.’ Do you really believe that?”

“I believe if we had released Dodd’s picture—even internally—there’s a good chance he might not have been able to shoot Veronica Gibbs.”

“A good chance. So what is that? Ninety percent? No, wait … he was a sniper-trained combat Marine. How about fifty-fifty?”

I shrugged. “Whatever. She would have had some kind of chance.”

“Or …” Cheryl let the word hang there for a few seconds. “She could have had a one hundred percent chance of not getting shot. All she had to do was not go.”

“She wasn’t the type to put her life on hold. It was an important show.”

“I’m sure it was. But then something more important happened. Her daughter-in-law was kidnapped. Her son wanted to pay the ransom, but he couldn’t. Veronica Gibbs was a smart businesswoman. She knew that she was the only one that stood in the way of Jamie getting the money. She had to at least think that she might be a target. But she decided she’d be damned if she publicly admitted that this kidnapping had anything to do with her. She’s the one who made the wrong call, Zach. So stop blaming yourself for her death. You did not put Veronica Gibbs in harm’s way.”

“You know we offered her police protection,” I said. “She flat-out turned us down. We didn’t want Jamie to go out in public either, but we couldn’t stop him.”

“Zach, the best police department in the world can’t protect people from themselves.”

The words struck a familiar chord. “I knew that,” I said. “But sometimes I forget. Thanks. That helps.” I stood up.

“Sit down,” she said. “I’m not done.”

I sat.

“Zach, I see unhappy cops every day. Sometimes they’re depressed because they can’t crack a case they’re desperate to solve. Or because a case they thought they’d nailed got thrown out of court on a technicality and some lowlife who should be doing serious prison time is walking around free. And sometimes it’s not about the casework. They’re ready to quit because someone who is better at politics than they are got a promotion, and they didn’t.”

“Okay,” I said, not exactly sure where she was going with this.

“It’s not easy being a cop. It can be a frustrating, thankless job. But you’ve had a damn good run. You were still in your early thirties when you got promoted to detective first grade. Then you were drafted for Red. You and Kylie have become the go-to cops for the most prestigious unit in the department, and you’ve closed every big case they’ve ever assigned you.”

“True.”

“And that’s your problem,” she said.

“What’s my problem?”

“You’re spoiled.”

I did a double take. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been riding the wave so long, you forgot what it’s like to crash and burn. I can’t tell you if you made the right call or the wrong one, but after hearing thousands of sob stories from cops of every rank, race, and responsibility, I can tell you this: Shit happens. Don’t wallow in it.”

I laughed. “Shit happens? Don’t wallow in it? They taught you that in shrink school?”