NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,64

covered with Dodd’s prints.”

“So Brooklyn Homicide gets credit for closing our high-profile murder,” I said. “How is that good news?”

“They’re celebrating with a steak dinner at Peter Luger’s. They called to invite us.” She grinned.

“Screw them. What’s the bad news?”

“Dr. Paris called. Our star witness spiked a fever last night and will not be available to talk to us today or tomorrow. Saturday is a maybe. No guarantees.”

“Great. Let’s call Chief Doyle and tell him he can count on at least two more days of zero progress.”

“I don’t think the chief will be taking any of our phone calls,” she said, picking up a copy of the New York Post from her desk and handing it to me.

There on the front page was a picture of Chief of Detectives Harlan Doyle taken at yesterday’s press conference. It must have been snapped just as a reporter threw him a tough question, because Doyle’s lips were pursed and his eyes were squinting. Clearly he was straining to come up with a good answer.

The headline above the photo read: “Top Cop at NYPD Clueless in Erin Kidnapping.”

“I’ll spare you the pain of reading the article. It’s a heartwarming saga about how the plucky little media star overpowered her abductor and did ‘what the elite NYPD Red Squad couldn’t.’ Save her own ass.”

I sat there, stunned. “When I went to bed last night, I thought I’d hit a low point in my career,” I said. “Turns out I was wrong. There is something worse than looking bad to your boss.”

I stared at the picture of Doyle caught like a deer in the headlights. “And that’s making him look bad to the rest of the world.”

CHAPTER 56

THURSDAY AND FRIDAY passed without us making any real headway on our two biggest cases. Saturday was our day off, but we were ready to go to work if we could talk to Erin. I didn’t want to risk another rejection from Dr. Paris, so I called Jamie.

“She’s getting out in a few hours,” he said, more excited than I had ever heard him. “We’re going home.”

“When can we talk to her?”

“Definitely not today. She’ll be exhausted from the press conference.”

“Jamie, please,” I said. “She really should talk to the police before she talks to the press.”

“You try telling that to Anna Brockway,” he said. “You have no idea what’s been going on since Erin escaped. The offers are pouring in. Everybody wants a piece of her.”

“Including the NYPD,” I said. “Jamie, your wife murdered Bobby Dodd. The Orange County district attorney will classify it as a homicide.”

“It was self-defense.”

“You know that. We know that. But our job is to get a detailed statement from Erin so the DA can close this out as justifiable.”

“Okay, okay, gotcha. And I know she really wants to talk to you. She appreciates all you … ” He groped for the right words. “You know … all you and Kylie tried to do. How about tomorrow morning at eleven? My apartment.”

“We’ll be there,” I said.

That afternoon Cheryl flew back from Rochester. As soon as she came through the front door, I wrapped my arms around her. “God, I’m glad you’re back,” I said.

“I know. You sounded so bummed over the phone that I decided to come straight from the airport. Let’s talk.”

Talking was not what I had in mind. True, I had called her half a dozen times while she was out of town, but now that she was back, I needed a girlfriend more than I needed talk therapy.

“I’m feeling better now,” I said, pulling her closer. “We can talk later.”

She backed off. My intentions were transparent, and Cheryl was a professional on a mission—a trained psychologist making a house call. Romance was off the table until she helped me resolve my issues.

I sat down on the sofa. She remained standing. I looked up and gave her my best happy-to-see-you smile. “Go ahead, Dr. Robinson.”

She didn’t smile back. “Fair warning, Zach. I’m not going to sugarcoat it.”

She was serious. I got an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

“Let’s start with the most troubling thing you said to me on the phone,” she said. “‘I made the wrong decision and got a woman killed.’ Do you really believe that?”

“I believe if we had released Dodd’s picture—even internally—there’s a good chance he might not have been able to shoot Veronica Gibbs.”

“A good chance. So what is that? Ninety percent? No, wait … he was a sniper-trained combat Marine. How about fifty-fifty?”

I shrugged. “Whatever. She would