NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,20

rang down and told me the cops would be showing up. I mean, you’re here about the whole Erin Easton thing, right?”

“We’re in a hurry,” Kylie said, not answering the question.

“Right. Mrs. Gibbs is in penthouse A and B. You want to go to A, which is the office. B is her private residence. It’s off-limits. Like at the White House,” he added in case we didn’t get the point. “I’ll ring up and let them know you’re on the way.”

The elevator was manned. The operator nodded politely but said nothing as we rode up. It was a lonely job, especially on the graveyard shift, and I guessed that the absence of small talk was Veronica’s idea, not his.

The doors opened up into a vestibule where a highly polished antique table sat on a thick Persian rug. An oversize vase was filled with enough fresh flowers to set me back a week’s pay. There were two industrial-strength metal doors, one on either side of the room, and our elevator man pointed at the one marked a.

“Ring the bell and look up at the camera,” he said.

We did. We heard an electronic click, and the door unlatched. The operator gestured for us to go through.

“Wait in there,” he said.

We stepped in and the door clicked shut. I heard the elevator head back down.

It was well after midnight, but the lights were on, soft music was playing, and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee was in the air. About fifteen feet from the door, a meeting was in progress behind a glass wall. Two men and two women were seated at a table facing a cork wall where six photos, each one of a beautiful woman, were hanging. There was an animated discussion going on, accompanied by head-nodding and some laughter, and finally one of the men pulled a photo from the wall and turned it facedown on the table.

“Another grueling late night at the model agency,” Kylie said.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” a voice said. A dark-haired woman in her early thirties walked toward us. “I’m Adriana Stevens, one of Ms. Gibbs’s assistants.”

We introduced ourselves and gave her our cards.

“We knew somebody from the police would be coming, but we didn’t know when,” Stevens said.

“I realize it’s late,” I said, “but clearly we didn’t wake anybody up.”

“Oh, it’s not late. It’s Monday morning in Europe, and Veronica is on a videoconference call.” She glanced down at her iPad. “How much time do you think you’ll need with her?”

“We don’t know,” Kylie said. “You understand this is a police investigation into the disappearance of her daughter-in-law.”

Stevens put a finger to her lips. “Oh God, please don’t say that.”

“Don’t say what?”

“Daughter-in-law,” Stevens whispered. “Veronica would go ballistic if she ever heard you refer to that woman as family.”

“When can we talk to Mrs. Gibbs?” I said.

“Her calendar is jammed until morning.”

“Excuse me? Doesn’t she sleep?”

“Not like normal people. She has this remarkable body clock. She naps for a few hours, and she’s fine. That’s why she has three assistants. We work in shifts.” She glanced at her iPad again. “Veronica grabbed about three hours of sleep this afternoon from four to seven, which means she’ll be good to go till noon. I can squeeze you in before her breakfast meeting at seven a.m.”

“Ms. Stevens,” Kylie said, “a woman’s life is in danger. We’re not here to be squeezed in. Squeeze somebody else out. Now.”

“Okay, don’t shoot the messenger. I’ll tell her. Give me a minute.”

As soon as she walked off, Kylie turned to me. “Did you catch that? She napped through her son’s wedding.”

I nodded. That Veronica Gibbs was a piss-poor mother didn’t surprise me. What I was still trying to get past was how she could run a global enterprise on only a few hours of sleep a day.

We watched the meeting on the other side of the glass wall while we waited. One by one, three more pictures were removed from the photo array. There were only two models left, one black, one white.

We never got to see the winner. Veronica Gibbs came marching down the corridor behind her assistant. She was in her midsixties, with perfect hair, the tall, lean, angular body of a model, and the purposeful, angry stride of a pissed-off corporate CEO.

“I have no idea where she is,” Veronica called out as she approached, “and I don’t give a flying fuck.”

She stopped in front of us and held up the cards we’d just given her assistant. “If you