NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,75

page about his father, all of which sounded heartbreakingly genuine. Bobby, at least the way he told the story, was a good son, and when his father was dying of cancer, Bobby was at his bedside around the clock. And then I turned to a page that punched me in the gut.

“Hey, guys,” I said, “can you take five? I want to read you something.”

They put their books down, grateful for the break. I read it word for word, just as Bobby had written it.

September 8, 2014

Two days ago my father, Jody Elias Dodd, died peacefully in his sleep. When the funeral director brought me the urn from the crematorium, he also gave me this little box that he said was from Dad.

There was a note. It said, Dear Bobby, Being your father is the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m sorry I won’t be around to watch your six, but keep this close, and I will always be with you. Love, Dad.

Inside the box was a .357 Magnum bullet on a gold chain and inside the bullet were some of Dad’s ashes. Then I read the engraving on the back: Succeed, or die trying. Semper Fi.

I could barely breathe and as soon as the funeral guy left I bawled like a baby. I love you, Dad. Miss you. And don’t you worry. I’m not going to fail.

“That’s not delusional,” I said. “That’s not a fantasy. The date matches up with the date of his father’s death in McMaster’s file. And the bullet—we saw the bullet. It was around his neck when he died.”

Kylie and Cheryl had also found pockets of truth throughout Bobby’s prose and had marked each one with a Post-it note. We decided to transcribe the important points onto a large whiteboard. We drew a line down the middle and labeled one side rants, the other realities.

After four hours we’d gone through less than half of the journal entries, some of them real, most of them make-believe, none of them helping us come up with the answers Chief Doyle was looking for.

Cheryl had an early-morning meeting and left at about ten. Kylie and I plugged away at it, determined to work as long into the night as our brains and bodies would allow.

I was back in Bobby’s world when the call came in from the NYPD Transit special investigations unit.

“Detective Jordan, I’ve got a hit on the MetroCard you’re tracking,” the cop on the other end said. “It was swiped at nine forty-seven at the Sixty-First Street Woodside station in Queens. Video shows a white female, blond hair, midthirties, wearing lavender hospital scrubs.”

“You clocked her at nine forty-seven? ” I said. “Jesus, man, it’s ten fifty-three. What part of priority did we not make clear?”

“Take it easy. Ninety percent of the requests we get are stamped priority.”

“How many of them are connected to a homicide? If the card gets swiped again, I need to know it real time. I also need a screenshot of the blonde in the lavender scrubs.”

“You’ll have it in two minutes,” he said.

We ran the picture through facial-recognition software. No hit. Meaning the woman with Edith Shotwell’s stolen MetroCard had no arrest history in New York City.

Kylie and I went back to the diaries and stayed at it until three a.m. We found nothing of value. All in all, it was not a great night for the good guys.

CHAPTER 66

I SLEPT AT the station house. Soundly, but not long. My cell rang and jarred me awake at 6:50. I answered and mmphed some semblance of my name into the phone.

It was the same cop from Transit, the one I’d chewed out the night before. “Sorry to wake you, Detective,” he said, not sounding remotely apologetic, “but you said you wanted this in real time.”

“No problem. What’ve you got?”

By now, Kylie, who had been sleeping in the next bed, was sitting up. I put the call on speaker.

“I’ve got another hit on your stolen MetroCard,” Transit said. “It was swiped at booth four eighty-two on the downtown six line at Seventy-Seventh Street and Lexington three minutes ago. I just pulled the video. Same woman as yesterday, same lavender scrubs.”

“Shoot me the best screenshots you’ve got. And thanks.”

“Any time, Detective,” he said. “Transit is always happy to come to the assistance of the elite Red Squad.”

His voice was rife with the attitude of someone who feels like he’s just won a pissing contest, but I didn’t care. We were closing in on a