NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,68

Erin that Brockway negotiated a deal for the video with Dodd and wired him a million dollars to an offshore account.”

“So what you’re saying is that you can prove a network executive is a liar.”

“I’m saying he colluded with the kidnapper. What can you get him on?”

“Not much. He didn’t collude. He forked over the ransom money. There’s no law against it.”

Kylie grabbed the phone out of my hand. “But he lied to the police about an ongoing investigation,” she said. “And then he hid behind the First Amendment.”

“And the high-priced legal team at the network will say he didn’t lie. He withheld the facts because he was fearful that telling the cops any of his private conversations with the kidnapper would put Erin’s life at risk.”

“Are you telling me he can pull all that shit and just walk?” she said.

“He won’t exactly walk. If the DA decided to go after him, which I can promise you is not going to happen, the case would wind up in some misdemeanor proceeding, the judge would slap him with a small fine, Brockway would promise to be a good boy, and the records would be sealed.”

“Bill, have you met this guy?” Kylie said. “He’s a total asshole.”

“Kylie, don’t shoot the messenger, but may I remind you that being a total asshole is also not a crime. In fact, in Brockway’s business, it’s probably regarded as an asset.”

“Thanks a lot,” she said. “Sorry to ruin your Sunday.”

“No problem. I was just sitting here reading the Times. You didn’t ruin my Sunday.”

“Well, you ruined ours.”

She hung up, handed me the phone, and spit out those three little words I’ve heard from her many times before. “I hate lawyers.”

CHAPTER 59

MONDAY MORNING ARRIVED dreary and drizzly. Kylie and I had a mountain of DD-5s to crank out on the Easton kidnapping, and yet I was borderline happy to be at work. I figured if we could get it done by midweek, then we could finally put the case behind us. On Friday, Cheryl and I were driving to Montauk to celebrate our one-year anniversary. I couldn’t wait.

By eleven a.m. Kylie and I had conference-called the Warwick PD and finished our report to the Orange County DA. We couldn’t make any promises to Erin, but I was confident he’d decide in her favor.

“We need coffee,” Kylie said.

I didn’t, but I followed her to the break room anyway.

“Guess where I’m going this weekend,” she said.

Somewhere special with Shane, I’ll bet. “I have no idea,” I said. “Tell me.”

“Orlando.”

“Really? Are you—”

“Jordan! MacDonald!” It was Cates. “Suit up. Sutton Place at Fifty-Eighth Street. Another ambulance robbery, only this time we don’t just have an angry governor. We’ve got a dead old lady.”

We headed for the stairs. The coffee and Kylie’s travel plans would have to wait.

Sutton Place is a small stretch of expensive real estate in the Fifties between First Avenue and the East River. Even driving the speed limit, we got to the imposing red-brick prewar building in only seven minutes.

We started by interviewing the doorman. It was a familiar story: An ambulance races up, two EMS techs tell him they have an emergency call, a woman in distress, Edith Shotwell, apartment 7B. The doorman sends them straight up. Fifteen minutes later they come down, tell him the patient is fine, and take off.

Same MO, same pattern we’d seen before—with one exception. Witnesses in the first two robberies said one of the perps was white, the other was Hispanic. This time, according to the doorman, one was white, the other was African American.

“Light- or dark-skinned?” I asked.

“Medium,” the doorman said. “Pretty much the same color as me.”

“I hate to ask, but are you sure he was African American?”

That got a laugh. “Detective, they had their hats pulled down low when they came in, and they were wearing them paper masks when they left, but trust me—he was black. I know a brother when I see one.”

We talked to one of the first cops on the scene.

“The ambulance arrived at eight oh eight,” he said. “Doorman wrote it down in his logbook. The name on the side of the bus was Prestige Medical Transport. He clocked them out at eight twenty-two. Two hours later Mrs. Shotwell’s daughter gets here, goes upstairs, and finds the mother and her nurse zip-tied and gagged. She rips the duct tape off her mom, but the old lady is dead. The nurse is okay, just shook up. She and the daughter are waiting for you