NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,61

arrived, the place was crawling with law enforcement—local, state, and the NYPD Crime Scene Unit. Chief Brown parked on the road, and the three of us walked to the garage, where a crime scene tech was collecting evidence from an aging Volvo wagon.

“That’s Mrs. Katz’s car,” Brown said. “In case you were wondering how your perp got around, the engine was warm when the first responders arrived.”

Chuck Dryden, our go-to criminalist, stepped out of the house and greeted us. “Detectives,” he said, more chipper than usual, “I must admit I’ve never truly understood Ms. Easton’s appeal as a so-called entertainer, but she certainly makes one hell of a ninja. Her abductor, Robert Dodd, was six foot three and over two hundred pounds, most of it muscle. She’s half a foot shorter and about sixty pounds lighter, and yet she shanked him in the shower like a hard-core lifer at Attica.”

“We heard,” Kylie said. “She told us she MacGyvered the weapon out of a bedspring.”

“Aha,” Dryden said. “You saved me some time. I haven’t been here long enough to figure that out.”

“Show us what you’ve got so far,” I said.

“From the outside, the house looks normal,” Dryden said. “The curtains are drawn and the shades are down, and if anyone rang the bell and Dodd opened the front door, all they’d see is a cozy little farmhouse living room. What they wouldn’t see is the prison cell he fashioned for her.”

He led us down the hallway past several polished-pine doors until we got to the bedroom farthest from the front of the house.

“This was reserved for the guest of honor,” he said, opening a metal fire door.

We went inside. The walls, windows, and ceiling were covered with twelve-by-twelve acoustic foam soundproofing panels. “The odds were slim to none that anyone would even get close to this room, but if someone did, Erin wouldn’t have heard anything, and no one would have heard her.

“After the first 911 call, the house was tactically swept by the locals. They found the body. White male, supine in the shower, water still running, naked except for a bullet on a chain that he wore around neck, his jugular severed.”

Kylie and I stepped into the bathroom where Bobby Dodd was still lying where he had taken his final breath. We didn’t stay with him long. Like Erin, all we cared about was that he was dead.

We went back to Erin’s bedroom.

“Look at this crap,” Kylie said, poking through the box of bargain-basement clothes that had been Erin’s wardrobe. “It makes you wonder.”

“About what?” Dryden said.

“It looks like whoever bought these clothes had absolutely no idea how to shop for the woman who would be wearing them,” Kylie said.

“Most men,” Chief Brown said, “that ain’t exactly their strong suit.”

“Dodd wasn’t like most men,” Kylie said. “He idolized Erin. He knew everything about her. And yet he dressed her in clothes she normally wouldn’t be caught dead in. I think he did it to humiliate her. Knowing how much emphasis Erin places on exteriors, I bet he handpicked this junk to make her feel less than.”

I watched Chief Brown’s face as he took it all in. I was pretty sure he’d decided that Kylie was the smartest cop he’d ever encountered.

We followed Dryden into a second bedroom. “Dodd’s prints were all over Erin’s bedroom, but hers aren’t in here,” Dryden said. “This was his man cave. We found an assortment of disguises, half a dozen burner phones, and a laptop. The search history appears to be intact.”

“How about guns?” Kylie said.

Dryden smiled. As usual, he was saving the best for last. He opened a closet door. Inside was a small arsenal—handguns, rifles, and semiautomatics.

“The man had more guns than my aunt Martha has Hummel figurines,” Dryden said. “But I think this is the one you’re looking for.”

He picked up a soft case, about three feet in length, with the brand name Berlebach sewn into the black canvas.

“I’ll bet half the photographers at that fashion show brought in bags that looked like this. But they were bringing in tripods. This, on the other hand … ” He unzipped the case. Inside was a rifle. “It’s a Winchester Seventy,” he said, carefully picking up the gun with his gloved right hand. “And there’s a box of jacketed hollow-point cartridges at the bottom of the bag.”

“What caliber is the ammo?” I asked.

“Two-twenty-three.”

“That’s the same caliber bullet that killed Veronica Gibbs.”

“Give me a few hours, and I’ll let you know if this is