NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,58

without interruption, and Koprowski could drive us back to New York.

The chopper set down in the parking lot of the vast complex, and we were picked up by none other than the chief of detectives himself, Harlan Doyle. No surprise. Our mission was to work the case. His was to work the media.

We landed at the Hickory Hill Golf Course and were greeted by Patrick Brown, the Warwick chief of police.

Our chief of Ds is not big on foreplay. “Where’s Easton?” Doyle asked, skipping the introductions.

“St. Anthony Community Hospital,” Brown said. “Two guards at her door, four more covering the entrances and exits.”

“And the perp?”

A small smile crossed Brown’s face, and he took a deep breath. I doubt if he realized he was puffing out his chest, but I knew he was feeling good about the news he was about to drop.

“We were able to determine where she was held, a house on Ball Road, not far from where she was found. The front door was wide open. We did a tactical entry, and we found one white male, naked, deceased on the shower floor. His throat was slashed from the right ear to the left jugular. The ME wasn’t on the scene, but the paramedic from the volunteer ambulance corps said he must’ve bled out. I didn’t see much blood, but then the shower was still on, so I figure most of it went down the drain.”

“ID?”

“We found a wallet in his jacket pocket. Tennessee license issued to Robert Allen Dodd. Photo matched the dead guy, but I figured you might want to see for yourself, so I took a quick pic of the body.”

He handed Doyle his cell phone. The chief took a look and passed it over to Kylie and me.

“That’s the man we’re looking for,” I said. “Brooklyn Homicide is looking for him too. Great work, Chief Brown.”

The chief of Ds picked up on my lead. “Absolutely. Top-notch. I think I have all I need to deal with the press.”

“There’s a slew of them gathering at the hospital,” Brown said. “I’ll have one of my officers drive you.”

“Excellent. I’d like you personally to take my two lead detectives to meet with the victim. NYPD will be sending a crime scene unit to go over every inch of the house where she was held. Until then, secure it and leave the body where it dropped until they get there.”

And with that, Harlan Doyle was done. Wham-bam. He headed toward a waiting cop car.

“Wow,” Brown said as he watched him walk away. “I can see why he’s in charge.”

Kylie and I followed Brown to his radio car. She got in front; I sat in back. Chief Brown drove. He was in his midforties, born and raised in Warwick, and clearly taken by the big-city cops that had descended on his quiet little community.

“Who owns the house where Erin was held captive?” Kylie asked.

“Blanche and Stanley Katz. Nice folks—I’m guessing they’re in their midfifties. They moved up here from the city about ten years ago. They write these books that nobody reads. Something about art history. They’re working on another one, and they’re hopping around Europe for a year, so they rented the house out. They’ve done it before. They left their itinerary with us at the station in case of emergency. I guess I better contact them.”

“Please don’t,” Kylie said. “Not until we’re sure they’re not involved.”

Chief Brown looked at her. “Involved? Them? Hell no.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Kylie said, “but until we are one hundred percent sure that there is no other connection between them and Dodd besides unsuspecting landlord and homicidal tenant, we’re not giving them a heads-up.”

“Son of a gun,” he said. “You’re right. I never would’ve thought of that. I guess I could learn a lot about police work from you folks. If you ever want to come up to Warwick and teach a class to the troops one of these nights, I’ll buy the pizza.”

“That just may be the best offer we’ve had all day,” Kylie said and flashed him a warm smile.

Brown returned the smile and held on to it as he turned his face back toward the road and drove to the hospital. Clearly he was in awe, and I’d bet anything that this was the single biggest day of his career.

For us, it was just another Wednesday.

CHAPTER 52

LESS THAN AN hour after Erin’s escape, St. Anthony Community Hospital was surrounded by TV trucks, fervent fans, and local lookie-loos.

The state police