Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 6

“Coney Island,” Kylie said. “That jibes with Paloma’s description of their last excursion.”

“Do us a favor,” I said to the Transit cop. “Can you put an alert on that MetroCard and call me or my partner as soon as you get a hit?”

“Whatever you need.”

“It’s still a long shot,” I said to Kylie after I hung up. “These guys have done everything right every step of the way. Do you think they’ll be stupid enough to use a stolen MetroCard?”

“Hey, they were stupid enough to turn a robbery into a homicide with a piece of duct tape,” she said. “Anyway, what New Yorker can resist a free ride on the subway?”

CHAPTER 61

THE TEXT POPPED up on my phone and Kylie’s at the same time. It was a short cryptic message written in the inimitable style of Detective Danny Corcoran.

Your dead guy is still writing checks.

It was the most promising news I’d heard in days. We knew that Bobby Dodd had spent six months in the Caribbean working as a stonemason. We figured he had amassed as much as half a million dollars in hurricane money. The question was: Where did it go? The easy answer: an offshore account. But he couldn’t have stashed it all.

Kidnapping costs money. We contacted the people who owned the house in Warwick, and they told us he’d paid them thirty thousand dollars in cash to rent the place for a year. Then there was his food, travel, and other day-to-day expenses. Bobby needed ready cash, and that had to be someplace more convenient than a bank in Belize.

The Violent Felony Squad had been looking for any financial bread crumbs Bobby might have dropped, but they’d come up empty, and as soon as Erin was safe and Bobby was dead, they’d moved on to their next top-priority case. That left us with a skeleton crew. Danny Corcoran was the backbone of the skeleton.

He was waiting for us at the precinct, a stack of spreadsheets on his desk, a smile on his face.

“The late Mr. Dodd has sixty-eight thousand dollars in a checking account at Chase Bank,” he said.

“How’d you find it?” I asked.

“I went back to the security footage at the Hammerstein Ballroom. Two days before the wedding, he was in the building, probably to set up the live-feed cameras. He was wearing a work shirt that said bd rentals. That’s when the light bulb lit up. I’d been searching for personal accounts, but Bobby was smarter than that.”

“He ran the money through a corporation,” Kylie said.

Danny nodded. “It’s called BD Rentals, just like the shirt.”

“Your text said he’s still writing checks.”

“There was an electronic transfer from that account over the weekend—a thousand dollars—the same auto-disbursement that’s been going out on the fifteenth of the month since January. It went to the bank account of a lawyer in Pelham Bay.”

“That’s where Bobby was living. Who’s the lawyer?”

“His name is Dominic Bruno. He’s an old-school neighborhood lawyer who’s not afraid to dabble in new technology. He’s got a website. He’s had a storefront law office on Crosby Avenue for fifty years. He’s Italian American, bilingual, and ‘a pillar of the community’—that’s a quote.”

“Forget what it says on his website. What do you hear on the street?”

“I called the local precinct. According to the community affairs sergeant, Bruno is all that and more. The locals call him the Mayor of Crosby Avenue. He runs the St. Theresa festival every year, he’s president of the Forty-Fifth Precinct Community Council, he pays for the holiday lights along Tremont—the list goes on. Bottom line, he’s a churchgoing, straight-shooting gentleman, beloved by one and all.”

“Great job, Danny,” I said. I turned to Kylie. “Let’s pay Mr. Bruno a visit and find out what Bobby loved about him.”

CHAPTER 62

GOSH,” KYLIE SAID as we drove past the low-rise red-brick buildings that housed the shops along Crosby Avenue, “the neighborhood hasn’t changed much since we were here last week.”

I laughed. It had barely changed since Eisenhower was president.

The office of Dominic F. Bruno, attorney-at-law, was in the heart of the business district, nestled neatly between a pizza parlor and an eyebrow-threading salon. We parked and went inside.

The woman at the front desk was impeccably dressed, all smiles, and at least a decade past retirement age. “Can I help you?” she chirped.

“Detectives MacDonald and Jordan, NYPD,” Kylie said, showing her shield. “We’d like to speak to Mr. Bruno.”

“Can I tell him what this is in reference to?”

“It’s a police matter.”

“Oh, you can tell me, honey. I’m not just the receptionist. I’m his sister, Rosemary Polito.” She gave Kylie a big smile.

“How about we tell him first, and then he can tell you?”

Rosemary lost the smile and picked up her phone. “Two NYPD detectives to see you.”

Within seconds a door in the rear opened, and Dominic Bruno stepped out. He had to be one of the most handsome septuagenarians on all of Crosby Avenue—six feet tall, olive complexion, thick salt-and-pepper hair, and a warm, engaging Crest Whitestrips smile.

“Dom Bruno,” he said as he strode to the reception desk. He gripped my hand and shook it firmly. Then he reached for Kylie and gently cupped her hand in both of his. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Can we talk in private?” Kylie asked.

“Say no more.” He escorted us to his office. The walls were covered with awards and photos, some dating back decades: Bruno with Mario Cuomo, Bruno with Mayor Koch, Bruno with Cardinal O’Connor.

“Rosemary can make you a nice cup of espresso,” he said as the three of us sat down at a conference table.

“No, thank you,” Kylie said. “We just have a few questions about one of your clients, BD Rentals.”

“I may not have the answers. I never even met them. One brief phone call about six months ago, and since then everything is handled electronically.”

“They’ve been wiring you money every month,” Kylie said. “Can you tell us what it is they’re paying you for?”

“Detectives, I love the NYPD,” he said, gesturing to a picture of himself with the CO of the Forty-Fifth Precinct. “But surely you know I’m bound by lawyer-client confidentiality.”

“Your client is dead. Does that unbind you or do we need to get a subpoena?”

“Subpoena? There’s no call for that. How do you know my client is dead?”

“It was in all the papers. BD Rentals was owned by Bobby Dodd.”

He sat back in his chair. “The kidnapper?”

“Yes, sir. Can you tell us where the money is going?”

He nodded. “It’s a very simple transaction. BD would send me the check every month, and I would then deposit it into a 529 college savings fund for three children.”

“Do you know if they’re Dodd’s children?”

“They’re not. They’re the grandchildren of a woman I know from my church.”

“What’s her name?” I asked.

He put his fingertips to his head and rubbed his temples. “This woman is very much alive, Detective, so I’m afraid we’re back to lawyer-client confidentiality again.”

“Counselor, your client is doing business with a man who kidnapped, raped, and murdered,” I said. “Do you really want to—”

“Wait a second. What am I thinking? She asked me to be the go-between as a favor. I didn’t charge a fee. She’s not a client.” He lowered his voice. “Her name is Lucille Speranza.”

“Dodd’s landlady?”

“I guess you know her,” Bruno said. “Ever since it got out that he lived in her basement, she’s been all over the television and the newspapers.”

“We met her before she was famous,” Kylie said. “But she told us Dodd had paid up through the end of August. So what are the thousand-dollar checks for?”