“Sorry to disappoint you, Detective, but we’re not shooting an episode of Law and Order. We have an outline—heartwarming ceremony, over-the-top reception, exclusive interviews with celebrity guests. Basic reality-show fodder. Trust me, none of our writers are creative enough to come up with anything as outrageous as the bride being kidnapped.”
“We’ll need a copy of the guest list,” Kylie said, “along with the names of anyone who accepted the invitation and failed to show.”
“Failed to show?” Brockway said with a smirk. “Sweetie, this was the hottest ticket in town. There are two hundred and twenty-four names on that guest list. Only two people didn’t make it. One was Shelley Trager’s wife, but of course you know about that one, because you took her spot.”
“Who was the other no-show?”
“Veronica Gibbs,” he said, the smirk on his face wider and even more irritating. “The groom’s mother.”
CHAPTER 9
As soon as Declan McMaster realized that Erin was missing, he had his security detail get Jamie Gibbs out of harm’s way. The new groom was now locked up in one of the administrative offices on the second floor and was being closely guarded by the NYPD.
“I never even heard of Gibbs until he became the man who was marrying Erin Easton,” I said to McMaster as Kylie and I followed him downstairs. “What can you tell us about him?”
“Classic spoiled rich kid, always in the gossip rags, famous for his sexual exploits and his run-ins with the paparazzi, ex-husbands, current husbands, Uber drivers, and just about anyone who got in his way,” McMaster said. “Three years ago he woke up with a dead girl in his bed. Not his fault; she OD’d. But according to Erin, it scared him straight. He gave up the blow and the booze and went to work for his mother.
“Veronica Gibbs owns Head Turners, a multimillion-dollar international modeling agency, and she put Jamie in charge of talent development. It’s a real job—if Veronica would let him do it. But she’s a tyrant. I swear to God, her business card doesn’t say CEO, it says BIC, which, if you ask, she’ll tell you stands for ‘bitch in charge.’ She runs the business and her son’s life with an iron fist. Jamie hates living in her shadow, but he doesn’t have any real money of his own, so he tolerates her bullshit and cashes the monthly allowance checks.”
“Why did Veronica bail on the wedding?” I asked.
“Two weeks ago the new issue of Vanity Fair came out. They did a major article on Veronica. Mostly it was about her success running a global company in the cutthroat world of fashion. But eventually the writer asked how she felt about her son marrying one of the most famous women in the world.”
“I bet Mama went on a tear when she heard that question,” Kylie said.
“Oh yeah. She started with ‘Famous for what? Spreading her legs?’ I’ll spare you the details of the rant, but she went on for three paragraphs—basically called Erin a gold-digging whore. It was less than five percent of the article, but the tabloids and the TV entertainment news shows pounced on it and gave it a life of its own.”
“How did Erin deal with it?” I asked.
“She kind of shrugged it off. Or at least she pretended to. But Jamie took it hard. He was really pissed at Veronica. I figured it would all come to a head today, and I was braced for a real catfight the minute the two women came face-to-face, but Veronica never showed.”
We arrived at the office where Jamie was secured. Two uniforms were posted outside. A detective from Midtown South was inside. Kylie opened the door and asked the detective to step out.
“How’s he doing?” she asked the detective.
“Pretty broken up,” he said. “Seems genuine.”
“Any phone calls?”
“Nothing incoming. He dialed out once. Nobody picked up, so he left a voice mail. He said, ‘Mom, Erin’s been kidnapped. Call me back.’”
“Did she?”
“No.”
Kylie, McMaster, and I entered the office. Jamie was at the window looking out onto Thirty-Fourth Street. He turned as soon as we walked in. He was about medium height with a puffy face that would have benefited from a more defined jawline.
“Did you find her?” he asked. “Do you know anything?”
“Not yet,” Kylie said, “but we have hundreds of cops out there looking. Have you heard from the people who took her—a phone call, e-mail, a text, anything?”
“No.” He held up his cell phone. “I’m waiting.”
“NYPD will wait with you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the best chance we have of finding Erin is to be with you when the kidnapper makes contact. Our technical people will monitor all your phones, your e-mail, and your social media accounts. We’ll set up a command post in front of your residence, and while we won’t stop you from coming and going as you please, we’d prefer if you stay home for the next forty-eight hours.
“Every call you get will be recorded. A detail of uniformed officers and detectives will be assigned to cover your home, both inside and out. And someone from the hostage-negotiation team will be with you at all times. He’ll coach you in advance on what to say and what not to say when the call comes.”
“I don’t need coaching,” Gibbs said. “I know what I’m going to say: ‘How much? I’ll pay. And please don’t hurt her.’”
“Jamie, don’t be an ass,” McMaster said. “These detectives have been through this before. Do what they tell you. Erin’s life depends on it. This is Detective Kylie MacDonald and Detective Zach Jordan. You couldn’t ask for anybody better to be working this case.”
“Sorry,” Gibbs said. “This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I can’t believe what’s going on. What do you want me to say when they call?”
“Whatever they ask for, don’t agree to it right away,” I said. “First thing you want is proof of life. And not just a phone call. You want a video.”
“A video takes time. Why drag it out? Why not just pay the ransom and get her back?”
“Because paying the ransom doesn’t guarantee that they’ll release Erin. And if she’s seen the kidnappers, once they have the money, there’s no reason to keep her alive. Your job is to keep whoever calls on the phone. Every conversation you have will tell us more about the kidnappers and where your wife may be.”
“You think there are more than one?”
“One person took her, but that doesn’t mean he’s working alone,” I said. “Can you think of anybody who might be behind this?”
“No. It’s probably just some random maniac who wants money.”
“He hasn’t asked for money yet, so we have to consider that it’s someone who has a grudge, a vendetta, or some other reason to want to hurt her.”
“People love Erin. She’s super-famous, so of course she has her detractors.”
“Do any of them stand out?” Kylie asked.
“Yeah, my mother,” Gibbs said with a hint of a smile. “She’s taking a lot of heat on social media for Erin’s disappearance. But trust me, she had nothing to do with it. If she had, Erin would have been gone long before the minister said, ‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’”
“We’d like to talk to your mother,” I said.
“You and me both, Detective. She hasn’t returned any of my calls. On a normal day I wouldn’t worry, but…” He choked up and took a few seconds to shake it off. “This isn’t a normal day. For all I know, the kidnappers took her too.”
CHAPTER 10
The investigation had gotten so big so fast that while we were with Jamie, we needed somebody to keep tabs on the dozens of detectives who had been interviewing the guests, the wedding party, the TV production people, and the catering crew.
And there’s no one we trust more than Detective Danny Corcoran. We’d recruited him a few months ago, and he quickly became our go-to guy. Give Danny an assignment, and he gets it done, no handholding, no excuses. And the fact that he’s also a trained hostage negotiator would be a bonus for this c
ase.
He was waiting for us upstairs.
“Boil it down for us, Danny,” I said. “What have you got?”
“Not much. I’ve never seen so many self-involved people packed into one ballroom. None of them saw anything of any value, but that didn’t stop them from offering up theories—especially the actors who play cops on TV. We took names, addresses, and phone numbers, and let them go. The waiters, bartenders, and the rest of the staff were also no help. The inner circle—bridesmaids, groomsmen, best man—were as shocked as everyone else. They all swear that this marriage was the real deal. Jamie loved her; she loved Jamie. And of course they mentioned that the groom’s mother hates Erin, but by now I’m guessing you know that.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Don’t be obvious about it, but take a look at that woman on the other side of the yellow tape. The one in the black pants and gray jacket, breathing fire.”
I glanced over. The woman was staring straight at us, hands on hips. “Who is she?” I asked.
“Her name’s Anna Brockway. Her husband’s the network guy. She doesn’t like the way the investigation is being handled.”
“What did you tell her?”
“She wouldn’t talk to me. I’m not high enough on the food chain. She said she wants to talk to ‘that blond bitch in the blue dress.’”
Kylie smiled. She’d been called worse. “That would be me. What’s her beef?”
“She’s pissed because you told her husband that this whole kidnapping business was a big publicity stunt.”
“I never said that. Ask Zach.”
Danny turned to me.
“Technically, she never said it. But if I had to testify in court I’d say she implied it with extreme prejudice.”
“Hey, tell me you didn’t think of it,” Kylie said.
“Of course I thought of it. But you red-flagged it. You asked Brockway if the whole thing was scripted because you caught him harassing a cop and you wanted to get all up in his grille.”
Kylie shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Oh, it worked great. We’ve been on the case less than two hours, and you’ve managed to get a network executive’s wife complaining about how we’re handling it.”
“I’d love to stick around and do couples therapy with you,” Danny said, “but I’ve got work to do in the ballroom.” He gestured toward Mrs. Brockway. “Can I release the hounds?”
“Do it,” Kylie said.
He walked down the hall and lifted the tape, and a short, trim woman in her midforties strode toward us.
“How dare you?” she boomed while she was still twenty feet away.
“Ma’am, there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding,” Kylie said. It was about as close as she was going to get to the words I’m sorry.
“You bet there’s been a misunderstanding,” the woman said. “Starting with the fact that you don’t even know who I am.”
“Yes, I do. When I spoke to your husband—”
“You can stop right there. Forget that my last name is Brockway. I’ve been Erin Easton’s manager and publicist for fourteen years. I’m married to the head of programming at ZTV, but that’s none of your concern. Erin is my client. I came up with the idea for the Everything Erin show, I sold it to the network, and I’m one of the executive producers. So if you’re telling people that this horrific kidnapping is scripted, you’re accusing me of a crime.”
“Not accusing. Investigating. It’s my job. And when a high-profile celebrity who is a master at manipulating the media suddenly goes missing, my instincts go on point and I have to ask: Is this another one of her Hollywood publicity stunts?”
“The wedding is the publicity stunt, you moron! Erin is famous. She earns millions. Do you think I would be stupid enough to fake a kidnapping so she could be more famous and make more money? I know your name, Detective, and if you don’t treat this as the crime it is, I’ll call the police commissioner and have him assign someone who will.”
“And I know your name,” Kylie said, “so if it turns out that this is a hoax, I’ll know who to come looking for.”
“Bitch,” Brockway said and stormed off.
“I’m not keeping score,” I said, “but if I were, I would say that right now it’s Mrs. Brockway, one; Detective MacDonald, zero.”
“She called me a bitch and a moron,” Kylie said. “Believe me, Zach, it’s far from over. I’m going to—” Her phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. “It’s Cates.” She took the call. “Yes, Captain.” She listened for a solid twenty seconds, and I watched as her face morphed from pissed to positive. “Let’s go,” she said as soon as she hung up. “We caught a break. They found the box truck.”
CHAPTER 11
We called McMaster, met him in the lobby, and the three of us got in Kylie’s car.
“Cates got a call from the Manhattan North duty captain,” she said, pulling out and heading east on Thirty-Fourth. “Patrol spotted a white box truck with Asian lettering on the door. It’s sitting in the Fairway parking lot at a Hundred and Thirty-Second Street and Twelfth Avenue.”
“If we’re going to Twelfth Avenue,” McMaster said, “why are you headed east?”
“I’m stopping at the precinct to change. This dress is way too low-cut for me to be taken seriously as a crime fighter. When I was interviewing Jamie Gibbs, he barely looked me in the eye. Anyway, patrol found the truck, they ran the plate, and it came back to a VW Jetta registered to an address in Pelham Bay in the Bronx.”
“Son of a bitch stole the plates,” McMaster said like he was teaching a criminology class to a bunch of rookies at the academy. Like Kylie, he was a micromanager, and I wondered how often they’d butted heads when they worked together.
“Right, sir,” Kylie said, a touch of annoyance in her tone. “The plates were stolen, so they ran the VIN on the truck, and it came back to a Korean food-distribution company that had left it parked out at Hunts Point. A detective called them. It’s Sunday, so they didn’t even know it was missing.”
“Damn,” McMaster said, “this guy covers all the bases.”
“License-plate readers got multiple hits on the truck traveling from Hunts Point to Manhattan,” Kylie said. “He went off the grid about four thirty and resurfaced about two and a half hours later on Tenth Avenue a few blocks from the Manhattan Center. Then they tracked him up the West Side Highway to Harlem. Cates wants Chuck Dryden to cover both scenes, so he’s on his way up there to check out the truck, and she’s pulled in a dozen cops to canvass the neighborhood for witnesses.”
Kylie parked in front of the Nineteenth Precinct, ran upstairs, ditched the glamour-girl dress and heels, and came back wearing pants, a T-shirt, a jacket, and flats. On anyone else it might look mannish. On her, it looked fantastic.
She got behind the wheel. “Now we’re headed west,” she said just in case McMaster had any doubt which one of them was in command.
Fairway Market is a New York success story. It started out as a small produce store on the West Side back in the 1930s and has expanded to a chain of upscale supermarkets that caters to millions across the tristate area.
Their store in Harlem is in a sketchy neighborhood, but there’s plenty of secure parking, so it’s a magnet for high-end shoppers looking for specialty foods and quality produce.
And because the store was open till eleven p.m., the busy lot was a good place to dump a stolen truck.
Chuck Dryden was waiting. “You people certainly have me running around tonight,” he said.
“You can thank us for the overtime later,” Kylie said. “What have you got?”
He walked us to the rear of the box truck. The road case was in the back. “Blood in the case, blood on the floor,” Dryden said. “I just got here, so it will take me a while to see if it matches up with the bloody chip we found in the dressing room. But you love to leap to conclusions, Detective MacDonald, so feel free to make assumptions at will.”
“So what you’r
e saying, Dr. Dryden, is that you’re ninety-nine percent sure it’s Erin’s blood,” Kylie said.
Dryden laughed and looked away. He loved it when she toyed with him.
“How about prints, hair, DNA?” she said.
“In due time, Detective. However, there are traces of pink glitter in the case. And if you recall, she was wearing a shimmering pink top in the video.”
“So now you’re a hundred percent sure that this is the vehicle the kidnapper used,” Kylie said.
“Not yet, but clearly you are.”
“Chuck, you’re killing me here. How long do I have to wait before I get something conclusive?”
“Several hours before I can give you anything definitive,” Dryden said. “While you’re waiting, why don’t you talk to that uniformed officer, the one standing next to that squad car?”
“What’s he got?” Kylie asked.
For the second time that night Dryden gave her that I-know-more-than-you grin. “He’s got an eyewitness in the back seat.”
CHAPTER 12
I signaled for the officer to step away from the car so we could talk. He introduced himself.
“Mike Koulermos with the Two Six. Your witness is Venetia Jones.” He handed me her New York State ID card. “She’s a pross. Been at it for years. Knows the game. Never gives us a hard time when we round them up. Her pimp is a weasel named Edgy Randolph, but he won’t show his face while we’re here.”
“What did she see?” I asked.
“That’s the thing,” Koulermos said. “She won’t tell me. I was canvassing the area and asked her if she saw anybody get out of that white truck. She said yes. I said, ‘What did you see?’ and she says, ‘Opportunity.’ Whatever she knows, she’s saving it for someone with clout.”
“Which means she thinks she’s got something good, and she wants to barter,” I said.
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