“He’s still on the air,” the receptionist said. “But he’s expecting you.”
“I’ll bet he is,” Kylie said. “Get him out here. Now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A production assistant escorted us to the greenroom, which I’ve come to learn is almost never painted green. It’s just a big cozy lounge with comfortable furniture and plenty of refreshments where guests can relax while they’re waiting to go on-air.
“Can I get you anything?” the PA asked.
I waved him off.
“Just water,” Kylie said.
He handed her a bottle of Poland Spring and left. Kylie sat down. I paced. We knew better than to talk. The room was wired for sound.
I looked at my watch. I figured Brockway would let us stew for a while, but I was wrong. I looked through the glass wall and saw him approaching quickly, his camera and sound crew behind him. I looked up at the monitor. I was on TV.
“Detective Jordan,” Brockway said, bursting into the room. “I’m guessing you saw our exclusive, and you’re here to pick up the original of the latest video of Erin in Exile. ZTV is always honored to be working side by side with the NYPD.”
He turned to Kylie, who was still holding the bottle of water. “Detective MacDonald, I see you’ve helped yourself to some refreshments. What’s the latest on your search for Erin? What can you tell our viewers?”
Kylie set the water down and stood. She’s got a hair-trigger temper, but she’s not stupid. She was not about to be sucker-punched on national television.
“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” she said. “But if you turn off the camera, there’s something we’d like to share with you.”
Brockway turned to his cameraman. “You heard it here, ladies and gentlemen,” he said to his audience. “The bond between yours truly and the police continues to get stronger as we work together to find Erin Easton’s kidnapper and return her home safely. This concludes our live broadcast. We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming. But don’t go far. We’ll be back with breaking news as soon as it happens.”
He stood there in silence, his smug face filling the screen, until a woman with a headset yelled, “And we’re out.”
“My office,” Brockway said. “It’s totally private.”
We followed him to a large office suite, entered his inner sanctum, and closed the door.
Brockway’s face lit up. He actually believed the three of us were now on the same side. He sat down at his desk, rolled his mouse, and stared at his computer. “Just checking my Twitter feed,” he said. “Holy shit—twelve thousand retweets and counting. Are we trending or what?” He leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him. “So…what can you tell me?”
“Just this,” Kylie said. “I have made it my personal mission to put you behind bars for obstruction of justice.”
“Christ, lighten up, will you, Detective?” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m the press. The press doesn’t obstruct. We inform.”
“Then your first mistake was not informing us as soon as you got the video from the kidnapper,” Kylie said.
“Oh, really?” He opened his desk drawer and removed a Ziploc bag. Inside was a handwritten note. “This came with the video. It says, ‘Air this and do not call the cops or she will die.’ I did what I had to do to protect a member of our family.”
“Bullshit,” Kylie said. “You had a responsibility to call us.”
“Wrong, missy. My only responsibility is to keep Erin’s loyal fans informed. That’s why we’re doing a two-hour special tonight, and we will continue to report on this vital news story whether you like it or not.”
“You’re not reporting. You grabbed lightning in a bottle, and all you’re doing is cashing in on these videos.”
“Tell it to the judge, Detective,” Brockway said. “Oh, wait…you did, and the judge told you to back off.”
CHAPTER 46
Dumbest damn place in the world for a fashion show, Bobby thought as he looked through the scope of his Winchester 70 at the abandoned railroad bed four stories below.
The goddamn Brooklyn Army Terminal. Skinny-ass models parading up and down a runway that was built on a bunch of rotting old train tracks. How the hell is that supposed to sell clothes?
He inched the long gun across the crowd of spectators until the puffy face of Jamie Gibbs filled the crosshairs. He was sitting in the front row, smiling at models as they strolled down the runway.
What are you smiling at, asshole? I’ve got your wife. Where’s the rest of my money?
Three hours ago the network had wired a million dollars to Bobby’s offshore account. It was more money than he’d ever had in his life, but it wasn’t enough. He needed the whole twenty-five million to support a woman like Erin. The network was willing to pay, but only in installments of a million bucks.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to make twenty-four more of those videos because you can’t come up with the goods,” Bobby said to the image of Jamie in his scope. “How dumb do you think I am?”
And then, out of nowhere, Oswald popped into his head.
Well, maybe it didn’t come out of nowhere. Bobby was hunkered down in a sniper’s nest, and not only was Lee Harvey Oswald the most famous sniper he knew, he was also his father’s favorite example of piss-poor planning.
“Oswald was the dumbest Marine that ever was,” Bobby’s father had told him. “He worked at the Texas School Book Depository. He shoots Kennedy from the sixth floor of where he works, drops the rifle, and leaves the building. How long do you think it takes for them to do a roll call and realize he’s the only one missing? And then, does he have an exit plan? No, he runs home, picks up a pistol, and starts walking the streets until a cop stops him. He shoots the cop, then hides in a movie theater until the Dallas PD drags him out and arrests him. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”
Whenever the subject came up, there was never any discussion about what had possessed an honorably discharged U.S. Marine to shoot and kill the commander in chief. His father always seemed to obsess over how incompetent Oswald was.
Bobby wouldn’t make any of the same mistakes. Getting into the sprawling former military complex had been easy. He blended in with the swarm of journalists, photographers, and invited guests as they entered the venue. His rifle was in a tripod bag, and when others headed for the atrium to gawk at the runway, Bobby made his way across a skywalk to a secluded parapet on the fourth floor of Building B.
The plan was to take his shot and be gone before anyone knew what had happened. All he needed was the right soundtrack.
The show had kicked off with “Eye of the Tiger.” Corny, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind. Then came Elton John belting out “The Bitch Is Back,” followed by Springsteen singing “Born to Run.” Good one, but not good enough.
Two more tracks. Not yet, he told himself. Not yet.
And then he heard it—the opening notes to his father’s favorite AC/DC song, “Highway to Hell.”
Karma, he thought.
He repositioned himself, laid his cheek on the stock, and looked through the scope.
And then came the thrum, thrum, thrum of the guitars and the driving beat of the drums as the music kicked into high gear.
Bam. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The sound was pulsing, echoing through the canyon below.
Bam. Boom. Boom. Boom.
He squeezed the trigger.
Bam. Boom. Boom. Boom.
It was deafening as the crowd picked up the energy and added to the chaos.
Bam. Boom. Boom. Bang.
Perfect shot.
He didn’t watch Jamie drop to the floor.
He packed up the rifle quickly, and with the models still strutting down the runway and the crowd still keeping time to the music, he made his way downstairs to the parking lot and headed home to the woman he loved.
CHAPTER 47
ADA Bill Harrison had spent the morning tied up in court, so by th
e time we got a face-to-face with him it was midafternoon. At that point Kylie was fed up with the justice system, and of course, she did nothing to keep it a secret.
“They’re not just airing these videos, Bill,” she said, pointing a finger at Harrison. “They’re tampering with evidence.”
“And you can prove that, Detective?” Harrison said.
“Oh, give me a break. They got an envelope from the kidnapper. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and say that they opened it in good faith. But once they knew what was on that flash drive, they passed it up the food chain. If there were any prints or traceable DNA on that drive, they’re gone. That’s tampering. Not to mention that they didn’t call us the minute they got it. Zach and I didn’t see the video till we tuned in with the rest of the world. And you’re telling me you can’t stop them?”
“I talked with Mick Wilson,” Harrison said. “He’s sympathetic to the issue.”
“But?”
“But he’s the district attorney, not the Gestapo. ZTV is standing behind the First Amendment.”
“You mean hiding behind it. They’re a reality-TV network. They don’t care about freedom of the press. Their stock-in-trade is exploiting the human condition. Surely you can find a judge who isn’t afraid to come down on them for that.”
“I watched a video of the show when I got back to my office. You’re right. ZTV is milking this kidnapping for all it’s worth. But I also saw the note that came with the video. ‘Air this and do not call the cops or she will die.’ That’s the bigger issue. I have no problem finding a judge who is willing to tangle with the media. But finding one who is willing to silence the network and take the fall if Erin is murdered is impossible.”
“Thanks for nothing.”
“Hey, I haven’t exactly been doing nothing,” Harrison said. “So don’t take it out on me because Brockway is making the police department look bad. I saw that FBI agent he put on camera. I’m sure that crack about the feds stepping in and taking over is going to reverb throughout One PP.”
“Well, at least Agent Dobin fired a warning shot,” Kylie said.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Harrison said.
“It means that a friend of mine works for the Southern District, and she told me that the U.S. attorney would love nothing more than to sink his teeth into a high-profile case of a kidnapped actress and a multimillionaire mother-in-law who won’t lift a finger to help her.”
“You’re telling me that the U.S. attorney thinks he can step in and take this case?”
“He didn’t go on national TV and announce it like that idiot from the FBI, but he’s talking about it behind closed doors.”
“Son of a bitch,” Harrison said.
My cell phone rang. It was Rich Koprowski.
“I need you and MacDonald at the Brooklyn Army Terminal forthwith,” he said.
“What’s going on?” I said, hitting the speaker button.
“We tailed Jamie to a fashion show at the Brooklyn Army Terminal. There was a shooting. A sniper killed Veronica Gibbs. ESU is searching the venue for the shooter, but so far we’ve got nothing.”
“What about Jamie?”
“He’s okay. Nobody heard the gunshot, but he was sitting right next to her when she dropped like a stone. He went to help her up, but she was already dead.”
“We’re on the way,” I said and hung up.
Koprowski had used the word forthwith, which is cop-speak for “immediately, without delay.” But Kylie wasn’t quite ready to leave. She turned on Harrison.
“This morning ZTV broadcast a show to millions making Veronica Gibbs the heavy—the person who wouldn’t cough up the money to save her daughter-in-law and her unborn grandchild. Somebody saw that show and decided things would work out better if Jamie inherited the money in a hurry, so that person killed her.”
“You don’t know that for a fact,” Harrison said.
“Here’s what I do know, and you can pass it on to Mick Wilson,” Kylie said. “Harris Brockway and ZTV may not have Erin’s blood on their hands, but they sure as hell have Veronica’s.”
CHAPTER 48
Since when do you have a friend who works at the U.S. Attorney’s Office?” I said to Kylie as we merged onto the Brooklyn Bridge.
“Imaginary friend. I was trying to light a fire under Bill. I guarantee he went straight to his boss’s office and warned Mick Wilson that the feds are threatening to take over the case. The first thing Wilson will want to do is reassure his millionaire donors that if they ever get kidnapped, he’ll do the right thing by them. He’s probably on the phone right now trying to find a judge willing to come down hard on ZTV.” She grinned. “Win-win.”
“In what universe is flat-out lying to the district attorney a win?”
“Come on, Zach. It’s more like I was fertilizing the seed that the FBI guy already planted.”
“Fertilizing the seed sounds a lot like shoveling shit to me.”
We got to the Brooklyn Army Terminal in twenty minutes. Rich Koprowski was waiting for us.
“No sign of the shooter,” he said. “We looked at the security videos. It’s an old system, basically useless. CSU pinpointed where the shot came from. It was a fourth-floor balcony. We found a single two-twenty-three shell. Veronica has a single bullet hole through her forehead. It’s over two hundred yards. The shooter was a pro.”
And Dodd was a marksman in the Marines. I exchanged a look with Kylie. I was sure she was thinking the same thing.
“Any witnesses?” I asked.
“We have the whole show on video, but all eyes were on the girls. One of Veronica’s models saw her go down. But she said people pass out at these extravaganzas all the time—drugs, alcohol, anorexia, strobe lights—so she just kept walking, didn’t break stride once. The music was blasting, so nobody heard the shot, and it was so chaotic you couldn’t even hear Jamie yelling for help. By the time we figured out we had a murder on our hands, the shooter was probably driving home on the BQE.”
“We should talk to Jamie,” Kylie said. “Where is he?”
“There are some trailers in the parking lot where the models did their hair and changed clothes. Brooklyn Homicide is talking to him in one of those.”
He led us to the trailer and asked the two Brooklyn cops inside to step out. We didn’t have to identify ourselves. They knew who we were.
“You caught the Easton kidnapping,” the older one said.
“You guys might have caught a piece of it yourselves,” I said. “Our kidnapper may be your shooter.”
We filled them in on everything. They didn’t bat an eye until we told them we’d ID’d Bobby Dodd within hours of the abduction.
“Holy shit,” the younger one said. “I’m amazed that never leaked to the media.”
“We kept a tight lid on it. If he’d known we were looking for him, he might have panicked and cut off all communication. But this shooting changes everything. As soon as we clear it with our boss, we’ll release Dodd’s name and picture to the press.”
“Starting with every single network that competes with ZTV,” Kylie said.
“And you think Dodd is our shooter?” the older one said.
“He has the motive, and he certainly has the talent,” I said.
We traded phone numbers and agreed to stay in touch. Then Kylie and I went inside the trailer. Jamie was sitting in a makeup chair staring at himself in the mirror. “We’re sorry for your loss,” I said. “Can you tell us what you saw?”
“You know how people always say, ‘It happened so fast’? It really did. I was sitting right next to her. She was enjoying the show, and then all of a sudden she jerked back and fell from her chair to the floor. I bent down to help her, and that’s when I saw the blood. She was already dead.”
“I have to ask, Jamie,” I said. “I know you hated being cooped up with a bunch of cops watching you, but why did you come here?”
“This is one of the biggest shows of the season. Mom wanted
me here. I figured it was just some more time I would have with her to try to convince her to give me the twenty-five million. She had a good heart, but people didn’t understand her. You know how many death threats she got on Twitter from Erin’s crazy fans because she wouldn’t pay the ransom money? And now one of those bastards actually killed her, thinking I’d get her money.”
“What makes you think it was a fan of Erin’s?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Do you think it was the kidnapper?”
“It turns out the kidnapper is a fan. Have you ever heard of a man named Bobby Dodd?”
“Dodd? He’s not a fan. He’s a stalker. Is he the one who took Erin?”
“We’re pretty convinced he is.”
“How long have you known it was him?”
“We’ve known for a while, but it’s not the kind of information we can share with the public.”
“I’m not the public. I’m her husband. Why couldn’t you have told me?”
“Jamie, you spoke to him on the phone. We couldn’t take a chance on you blurting out his name. He might have killed Erin on the spot.”
Jamie thought about it. The look on his face made me think our explanation actually made sense to him.
“Well, the next time I talk to Mr. Dodd, I’m going to let him know that he’s a total idiot. When my mother was alive, I might have had a chance to change her mind and convince her to give me the money, but now that she’s dead, her estate will be tied up for years before I ever see a dime.”
“Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?” I asked.
“Just that I never should have gone into cahoots with the network. They said they were going to help me, but all they did was vilify my mother on national TV. Dodd might have killed my mother, but Harris Brockway painted a target on her head. It’s his fault that she was murdered.”
I gave him an understanding nod, but I wondered if Kylie and I shared some of the blame. Would the security guards who were scanning the crowd at the Brooklyn Army Terminal have spotted Dodd if we had released his identity?
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