Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 6

“Bobby and I watched it together. I think that’s when buyer’s remorse set in. He hated the network for only paying him a million. He said Brock was jerking him around. He didn’t want the money in small increments. He said he knew how to fix everything. He locked me up and left the house. I think that must have been when he decided to eliminate Veronica.”

“Did he tell you he was going to kill her?”

“Oh God, no. I would have tried to talk him out of it. I didn’t like her, but Jamie loved her. It’s so sad. He blames himself for her death.”

“What happened when Bobby came back to the house?”

“He told me our problems were over. He said Veronica was dead, and Jamie had plenty of money to pay the ransom. But I knew better. It could be months, maybe years before Jamie sees a dime of his inheritance, and I knew that once Bobby found that out, he would go berserk. I didn’t know if he would kill Brock or Jamie or me or all of us. That’s when I got my blade and went to the shower. I swear on my baby’s life that I didn’t want to kill him, but I …”

“But you what?” I said.

She looked at me, reluctant to go on.

“Erin, this is important. It explains your state of mind.”

She nodded. “I didn’t want to kill him, but … I gave up hope that you would ever find me.”

She wasn’t trying to be hurtful, but the statement still felt like a stake through my heart. Another reminder that we had failed. But this time I didn’t retreat into doubt and self-pity. I remembered the words of wisdom passed on to me the night before by my psychologist/girlfriend: Suck it up, buttercup .

I stood. Kylie wanted to get out as much as I did and was on her feet a second later.

“Erin, I wish we had been able to do more for you,” I said, “but you’re a brave and resourceful woman, and we appreciate your taking the time to relive your ordeal with us. I think we have what we need, but can we give you a call if anything comes up?”

It’s our standard exit line, and people are so happy to see us leave that they always say yes.

“Of course,” she said. “Anytime.”

Kylie and I didn’t say a word till we got to the car. Then I dialed ADA Bill Harrison and put him on speaker.

“Bill, it’s Kylie and Zach,” I said. “I know it’s Sunday, but this can’t wait.”

“Go for it.”

“Harris Brockway told us that the kidnapper sent him that second proof-of-life video with a warning to air it or he’d kill Erin.”

“Right.”

“We just got a statement from Erin that Brockway negotiated a deal for the video with Dodd and wired him a million dollars to an offshore account.”

“So what you’re saying is that you can prove a network executive is a liar.”

“I’m saying he colluded with the kidnapper. What can you get him on?”

“Not much. He didn’t collude. He forked over the ransom money. There’s no law against it.”

Kylie grabbed the phone out of my hand. “But he lied to the police about an ongoing investigation,” she said. “And then he hid behind the First Amendment.”

“And the high-priced legal team at the network will say he didn’t lie. He withheld the facts because he was fearful that telling the cops any of his private conversations with the kidnapper would put Erin’s life at risk.”

“Are you telling me he can pull all that shit and just walk?” she said.

“He won’t exactly walk . If the DA decided to go after him, which I can promise you is not going to happen, the case would wind up in some misdemeanor proceeding, the judge would slap him with a small fine, Brockway would promise to be a good boy, and the records would be sealed.”

“Bill, have you met this guy?” Kylie said. “He’s a total asshole.”

“Kylie, don’t shoot the messenger, but may I remind you that being a total asshole is also not a crime. In fact, in Brockway’s business, it’s probably regarded as an asset.”

“Thanks a lot,” she said. “Sorry to ruin your Sunday.”

“No problem. I was just sitting here reading the Times . You didn’t ruin my Sunday.”

“Well, you ruined ours.”

She hung up, handed me the phone, and spit out those three little words I’ve heard from her many times before. “I hate lawyers.”

CHAPTER 59

MONDAY MORNING ARRIVED dreary and drizzly. Kylie and I had a mountain of DD-5s to crank out on the Easton kidnapping, and yet I was borderline happy to be at work. I figured if we could get it done by midweek, then we could finally put the case behind us. On Friday, Cheryl and I were driving to Montauk to celebrate our one-year anniversary. I couldn’t wait.

By eleven a.m. Kylie and I had conference-called the Warwick PD and finished our report to the Orange County DA. We couldn’t make any promises to Erin, but I was confident he’d decide in her favor.

“We need coffee,” Kylie said.

I didn’t, but I followed her to the break room anyway.

“Guess where I’m going this weekend,” she said.

Somewhere special with Shane, I’ll bet . “I have no idea,” I said. “Tell me.”

“Orlando.”

“Really? Are you—”

“Jordan! MacDonald!” It was Cates. “Suit up. Sutton Place at Fifty-Eighth Street. Another ambulance robbery, only this time we don’t just have an angry governor. We’ve got a dead old lady.”

We headed for the stairs. The coffee and Kylie’s travel plans would have to wait.

Sutton Place is a small stretch of expensive real estate in the Fifties between First Avenue and the East River. Even driving the speed limit, we got to the imposing red-brick prewar building in only seven minutes.

We started by interviewing the doorman. It was a familiar story: An ambulance races up, two EMS techs tell him they have an emergency call, a woman in distress, Edith Shotwell, apartment 7B. The doorman sends them straight up. Fifteen minutes later they come down, tell him the patient is fine, and take off.

Same MO, same pattern we’d seen before—with one exception. Witnesses in the first two robberies said one of the perps was white, the other was Hispanic. This time, according to the doorman, one was white, the other was African American.

“Light- or dark-skinned?” I asked.

“Medium,” the doorman said. “Pretty much the same color as me.”

“I hate to ask, but are you sure he was African American?”

That got a laugh. “Detective, they had their hats pulled down low when they came in, and they were wearing them paper masks when they left, but trust me—he was black. I know a brother when I see one.”

We talked to one of the first cops on the scene.

“The ambulance arrived at eight oh eight,” he said. “Doorman wrote it down in his logbook. The name on the side of the bus was Prestige Medical Transport. He clocked them out at eight twenty-two. Two hours later Mrs. Shotwell’s daughter gets here, goes upstairs, and finds the mother and her nurse zip-tied and gagged. She rips the duct tape off her mom, but the old lady is dead. The nurse is okay, just shook up. She and the daughter are waiting for you in a neighbor’s apartment, seven A. CSU just arrived. They’re up there with the DOA.”

Kylie and I took the elevator up to the seventh floor. CSU was just getting started, but we didn’t need an expert to tell us the cause of death. There were petechial hemorrhages in Mrs. Shotwell’s eyes where the blood vessels had burst, and there were traces of glue from the duct tape on her mouth. She’d suffocated.

We went across the hall to the neighbor’s apartment. The daughter introduced herself. “I’m Bethany Geller,” she said. “Those animals murdered my mother.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” I said. “I promise we will do everything we can to find them.”