NYPD Red 6

by James Patterson

  “Sir, broadcasting that video will jeopardize our—”

  “Stop yammerin’, Detective, and turn on your goddamn TV set.”

  He hung up.

  “Call Bill Harrison,” Kylie said.

  Harrison was the assigned ADA for the kidnapping. He knew he was on call 24/7, and he was thrilled to have been handpicked for the biggest case of his career. I dialed his cell, and he answered on the first ring.

  “Zach, what’s going on?”

  I told him. He only interrupted once, yelling, “They can’t do that,” at the same exact point in the story that I’d exploded at Brockway.

  “Bill, he’s giving us five minutes. Do you think we can stop them?”

  “Hell no, but let me start making some threatening phone calls,” Harrison said. “Because it damn well better look like we tried.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Cates left an hour ago,” I said to Kylie. “If this proof-of-life video goes live before we get our hands on it, the wrath of God is going to rain heavily upon this squad, and she’s going to get the brunt of it.”

  “If? Zach, we’ve got four minutes. At this point, NORAD couldn’t stop it from going live.”

  “I know, I know. Just try to find the boss and tell her what’s going down.”

  “I’m on it,” she said, cell phone in hand. “And while I’m doing that, why don’t you take Brockway’s suggestion—stop yammering and turn on your goddamn TV set.”

  Turning on the TV was easy. There was one right there in the break room. Finding ZTV, the cable channel where Erin Easton was a reality star, was another story. We had a boatload of information about her career, her friends, her enemies, and her private life, but not a single cop had any clue what channel her program aired on. It took another precious three minutes just to come up with the answer.

  At least someone in IT had the foresight to make sure that we were hooked up to every cable channel in the city, and by the time I found ZTV, on channel 313, the entire task force was crammed into the break room.

  The credits were rolling for the show that had just ended. When they were over, the screen went dark and silent. A few seconds passed, and then it erupted with dramatic music and a spinning graphic that turned into a newspaper with ZTV NEWS BULLETIN on the masthead.

  It spun again, and a black-and-white picture of Erin came on the screen with the word ABDUCTED plastered across the bottom.

  The camera cut away to a newsroom set with Brockway seated at the anchor desk. “Good evening,” he said. “I’m Harris Brockway, vice president of programming here at ZTV. Usually I’m behind the scenes, but as you know, last night at approximately seven thirty, Erin Easton, my dear friend and colleague and a much-adored member of our ZTV family, was abducted.”

  Five words popped on at the bottom of the screen: TIME SINCE ERIN WAS ABDUCTED. A digital clock appeared next to it. The count was at 1 Day/ 0 Hours / 30 Minutes.

  Brockway went on. “She was celebrating the happiest night of her life, and she had just gone into her dressing room, still in her bridal gown.”

  The camera cut away to pictures of Erin in her wedding dress.

  “Oh, shit,” some cop called out from the back of the room. “This guy is milking the hell out of this.”

  The camera cut back to Brockway. “And then, while she was getting changed so she could go to sing for her loved ones, her friends, and her new husband, all of whom were gathered in a ballroom several hundred feet away”—he took a deep breath and visibly composed himself, lest anyone doubt his distress. Composure convincingly regained, he continued—“a madman forced his way into her dressing room and took her by brute force.”

  The camera cut to a shot of Erin’s dressing room after the kidnapping. I knew that Brockway had taken photos of the crime scene before we could stop him. I also knew that every shot he took was a perfect digital image. But the picture on the screen was grainy, black-and-white, doctored to look like one of those lurid photos from the annals of the National Police Gazette, the forerunner to today’s supermarket tabloids.

  Kylie leaned close and whispered angrily in my ear, “That slimy bastard isn’t just milking it. He’s turning it into a freak show. When the brass sees that, we’re screwed.”

  Again the camera went back to Brockway. “Our network has been besieged by phone calls and e-mails from concerned fans. Many of you have held prayer vigils. The nation—in fact, the world—has been waiting for an answer to those prayers, and tonight I have some news. We just received video footage from someone purporting to be the person who is holding Erin in captivity. I reached Erin’s husband, Jamie Gibbs, who confirmed to me personally that he had spoken to the kidnapper earlier today and requested a proof-of-life video. We believe this to be just that.”

  He took another long dramatic pause. “The good news is Erin is okay. For now. But her life is at great risk. The kidnapper insisted that we air this video or, and I quote, ‘You’ll never see her alive again.’ After careful consideration we’ve elected to share that footage with the police and the public. The video is being prepared for transmission on air and across all our social media platforms. It will be ready shortly. Please stay with us. Till then, I’m joined by my wife, Anna Brockway, who is Erin’s dear friend, trusted confidante, and longtime manager.”

  The camera pulled back to reveal Mrs. Brockway sitting to her husband’s right. I tuned her out and turned to Kylie. “Do you see what’s going on here? This prick Brockway is giving people time to call their friends, to tweet, to post it on social media. He’s trolling for a bigger audience.”

  “You and I may hate Brockway and everything he stands for,” Kylie said, “but just take a look around you.”

  There were about twenty cops in the room, some standing, some perched on furniture, some sitting on the floor. At least half of them were either texting or talking on their cell phones.

  And then mine chirped. It was a text from Cheryl asking if I knew that the Erin Easton proof-of-life video was about to be broadcast on ZTV. Clearly Brockway’s strategy was working.

  He had taken a high-profile crime, packaged it as a heartbreaking national tragedy, and was in the process of successfully turning it into a ratings bonanza.

  CHAPTER 32

  I turned my attention back to the TV. Brockway was now doing the talking.

  “Anna, millions of people have been riveted by Erin’s ordeal,” he said, addressing his wife as if they had just met and not woken up in bed together that morning. “But many of them may not watch her show on a regular basis, and they may only know her as the beautiful woman they see on the covers of magazines.”

  “Or the woman whose sex tape they whacked off to back in the day,” one cop called out.

  “You’ve known Erin for almost twenty years,” Brockway went on. “While we’re waiting to screen the kidnapper’s life-altering videotape, why don’t you tell our new viewers a little about the real Erin Easton.”

  “The real one’s got small tits, crooked teeth, and no talent,” another cop yelled out. “Run the videotape, asshole.”

  Anna Brockway launched into the story of Erin’s meteoric early career. As soon as she started talking, the camera cut away to still photos and film clips that highlighted everything she said.

  I had expected the Brockways to vamp aimlessly while they bought time to drum up an audience. But I’d been wrong. They weren’t winging it. They were perfectly scripted.

  Anna deftly touched on all the hot buttons to win over her audience. She left out the sex tape and Erin’s first two marriages, but when she got to the tragedies—Erin’s parents killed in a plane crash when she was nineteen and her brother’s fatal skiing accident a year later—the camera cut to photos of Erin valiantly coping in her designer mourning couture.

  I was hoping that Bill Harrison would get a court order to quash the broadcast, but ten minutes into the production, with #ErinsHostageTape trending, Harris Brockway made the announcement.

  His face without
expression, his voice somber, he said, “We apologize for the disturbing nature of what you are about to see, but all of us here at ZTV take heart that our brave friend and colleague is still alive and well and that despite all she has been through these past twenty-four-plus hours, her indomitable spirit remains unbroken.”

  A chorus of profanity was hurled at the screen from every direction. Brockway might be able to con the public, but every cop in the room saw right through him.

  The screen went dark and then faded up on a close-up of that morning’s edition of the Daily News. Erin’s picture and the single word TAKEN were on the front page.

  The camera pulled back as the newspaper was lowered. And there stood Erin Easton, hair disheveled, no makeup, eyes puffy from crying, wearing a pair of baggy gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt.

  “She looks like shit,” Kylie said.

  “I think that’s what he’s going for,” I said. “The worse she looks, the more likely Jamie is to pull the ransom money together.”

  “I don’t know who’s watching this,” Erin said. “Probably my husband, and the police, and maybe someone at the network. Whoever it is, I want you all to know that I’m…I’m…” She started to sob. “I’m okay.”

  She put her hands over her eyes, and we watched in silence as her shoulders heaved and her body shook. After about thirty seconds she lowered her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m not okay. I mean, he didn’t hurt me, but I want to go home. I have to go home. I’m…”

  She looked down at the floor. When she looked back at the camera, she inhaled and stood tall.

  “Jamie…sweetheart…I was going to tell you this at the wedding after I performed my song. I’m pregnant.”

  PART TWO

  Erin in Exile

  CHAPTER 33

  The camera drifted in on Erin as her eyes welled up, and a tear, glistening like a single pearl, rolled down her cheek. She brushed it away and took a deep breath. She was about to say something else when the screen went dark. Dodd had cut the video. If Jamie Gibbs wanted to see more, he’d have to pay for it.

  “And now,” Brockway said as the camera cut back to him and his wife, “we learn that the stakes are doubled. The fate of two people hangs in the balance—Erin Easton and her unborn child. Anna, what do you have to say about that heartbreaking video we just witnessed?”

  I didn’t care what either of the Brockways had to say. I headed toward the door and signaled Kylie to follow. She didn’t budge. She had her phone to her ear, and she held up her other hand. I waited until she hung up. “We’re not going anywhere,” she said. “Cates wants us here.”

  “Doing what?” I asked. “We need to go to the station and get our hands on that video. When did it come in? Who delivered it? Who touched it? If there’s any chance there are prints on it—”

  “Zach, if there are any prints on it, I’m guessing they’ll belong to Dodd,” Kylie said. “Cates told me to send a team to do a follow-up interview with the Brockways and bring the video back to the lab. She wants us to stay right here.”

  “Why?”

  “Snow White is coming.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Because I was starting to worry that there weren’t enough bosses with their thumbs in this pie. So glad the chief decided to heap on another one.”

  There were two deputy chiefs in the Detective Bureau with the same exact name—John White. It was inevitable that they’d get nicknames so people could tell them apart. One was notoriously stingy when it came to approving overtime. He became Tight White. The other was an old-school devout Catholic. He’d been in the department for over thirty years, and no one had ever once heard him utter a single word of profanity. He was christened Snow White.

  Chief White arrived twenty minutes after the video had aired, which gave us enough time to catch up with Bill Harrison. By the time we stood face-to-face with Chief White in Captain Cates’s office we had some answers—none of them good.

  “I’ve been involved in more kidnappings than I care to count,” White said. “But never have I had a case get so far out of my grasp that a proof-of-life video was broadcast—in prime time—to a mass audience hungry to wallow in the misery of others. It’s ludicrous. It’s unthinkable.”

  Kylie and I stood there. We’d been ordered by Cates not to speak unless it was in direct response to something he asked.

  “I just came from the chief of Ds’ office,” White said. “He had a lot of questions—all of them started with how. How did a proof-of-life video get on the air? How did ZTV have it and not us? How did we not know? How did we not stop them? And if you’ve ever been in a room with the chief when he is boiling mad, you know that his phrasing is much more colorful than mine. He says how in three words.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and waited for an answer.

  “Sir,” I said, “at seven fifty-five this evening, I got a phone call from Harris Brockway at ZTV.” I then went on to report the brief conversation I’d had with Brockway that ended with him hanging up on me.

  “I then called ADA Bill Harrison. Detective MacDonald and I have subsequently talked to Harrison, and he informed us that he immediately tried to call Brockway, but he was redirected to a network attorney. Harrison warned him that ZTV executives were in possession of evidence relating to an ongoing criminal investigation, and the network could be charged with a crime if they disseminated it or tampered with it.

  “The network lawyer asked for the name of the judge who signed the order to keep it off the air. There was no judge. We didn’t have time. The lawyer said that until they get a ruling from a judge, all they are legally bound to do is give the police an unedited copy along with a narrative as to how it was received. That, he said, put the network in full compliance with the law. By that time it was eight p.m. and Brockway had gone live.”

  “But the video didn’t run at eight,” White said. “The ADA had a solid ten minutes to find a judge to shut them down before they aired it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “ADA Harrison did reach Judge Charlotte Najarian a few minutes before the video was broadcast, but she refused to stop them from airing it.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Freedom of the press.”

  “Hogwash. We didn’t ask her to quash the video,” White said. “All we did was try to buy some time before it went public.”

  “That’s not how Judge Najarian saw it,” I said, wishing I had Bill Harrison in the room to deliver his own bad news. “In fact, she said if the kidnapper sends any future proof-of-life videos directly to the network, she would not deny them the right to air those either. She also said, and the ADA swears this is a direct quote, sir, ‘I will not be the judge responsible for Erin Easton’s death if the tape isn’t aired, and she is murdered.’”

  Most cops would explode and call the judge every name in the book. Not White. He simply shook his head. “Justice is supposed to be blind, not thinking about how every decision is going to play with the public in an election year.”

  “Chief,” Cates said, “you saw the show Harris Brockway put on. It wasn’t slapped together in five minutes. He’d had that video for hours. The network lawyers told him to call Detective Jordan at the last second just to give the appearance of compliance. Please tell the chief of Ds that we deeply regret that the video went public, but we did everything we could to stop it.”

  “That’s all he needs to hear,” White said. “The chief doesn’t care about network lawyers or self-serving judges. All eyes—around the country and around the world—are on NYPD. And all eyes in this department are on the three of you. Do. Not. Fail.”

  He turned and left. Cates, Kylie, and I watched him stride out of the office. None of us said a thing, but I was sure that Snow White’s three parting words would be echoing in our brains for a long time to come.

  CHAPTER 34

  Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” Bobby Dodd said as he came into the bedroom. “It’s a beautiful, bright sunny morning. I wish you could go ou
tside and enjoy it, but what would the neighbors say?”

  He laughed, and Erin, who had spent hours lying in bed trying to remember all the rules Ari had taught her fifteen years ago, peered over the covers and did her best to smile at her captor. Keep your dignity. It’s harder to kill or harm someone who can remain human in his eyes.

  “I’ve got coffee and croissants,” Dodd said, setting down a tray. “And a bunch of newspapers, which, of course, are all about us.”

  There is no us, you maniac. “Thanks. I’ll start with the coffee.” Establish rapport. Don’t antagonize. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and he handed her a Styrofoam cup. She popped the lid and took a sip.

  “You like it?” he said.

  Lukewarm, god-awful swill. “Perfect,” she said.

  “I’ve got a confession to make,” he said, spreading grape jelly on a croissant with a plastic knife.

  She shrugged. “I’m listening.” I’m a captive audience.

  “Last night was the best night of my life,” he said, inhaling half the croissant in a single bite.

  She cringed.

  “I know you’ve slept with a lot of guys,” he said. “How’d I do?”

  You fucking raped me, you animal. “You were very gentle. I appreciate it.”

  “It’ll be even better next time,” he said, shoveling in the rest of the croissant.

  Above all, comply. You may have to do things that you don’t want to—including sex. Just do it, because sometimes that’s the only way to stay alive. “Just remember,” she said, “you don’t have to force me.”

  “No, no, never. It’s got to be natural,” Dodd said. “You know I have to tell Jamie that I’m going to kill you if he doesn’t pay, but I never would do anything to hurt you. Or our baby. It’s going to be so great once we get the money. Just the three of us.”