NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,90
home.”
“Why do you think he was so interested in seeing where you live?” I asked.
“He was obsessed. He was a voyeur.”
“Any other reason?”
“The man was batshit-crazy, Detective. I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“This is going to sound strange,” I said, “but I have to ask—did you and Bobby Dodd ever go house-hunting in the Berkshires?”
“House-hunt—no! How could you people even come up with such a ridiculous idea?”
“Erin,” I said, “we didn’t come up with it. We read about it in Bobby’s diary.”
Her eyes screamed in panic: What diary? But she managed to keep her voice under control. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What diary are you talking about?”
“Let me explain,” Kylie said. “You’re right about Bobby being obsessed with you. In fact, he was so obsessed that he kept a detailed diary of your life together.”
“He kidnapped me on a Sunday, Detective. I escaped on Wednesday. It was all of seventy-two hours. I wouldn’t exactly call that a life together.”
“I’m talking about the fifteen years before he kidnapped you,” Kylie said, reaching to the floor and hauling up a large carton. She stacked Bobby’s diaries on the table.
She handed one to Erin and opened it to the house-hunting entry. “Read this, and you’ll understand.”
We watched as she read it. At first she was horrified. And then she burst out laughing. “Well, he’s right about one thing. He calls the network a bunch of idiots. But the rest is all in his head.”
“Thanks,” Kylie said. “We needed your answer for the record. I’m sorry, but there are several more entries we were hoping you could either confirm or deny.”
She shrugged. Clearly this was a waste of her time and ours. Then she gave us a smile and a nod. Noblesse oblige—the privileged generously accommodating the wishes of the masses.
“Did you and Bobby go skiing in Vermont?” I asked.
“Oh God, no. Everyone knows I despise the cold.”
We rattled off several more places that we’d had on our rants side of the whiteboard. She dismissed each one with a snarky comment and a wave of her hand. By the time we got to the Tower of London, she was totally relaxed. The diary entries were now more of a parlor game than a threat.
“Here’s one that supposedly took place close to home,” Kylie said. “I know you said you hadn’t seen him for a year before he kidnapped you, but he has the two of you holding hands and walking in Pelham Bay Park a few weeks before your wedding.”
Erin’s jaw tightened, but she coasted smoothly into the lie. “No. I don’t even know where Pelham Bay Park is.”
“It’s in the Bronx,” I said. “You should visit it sometime. It’s the largest park in New York. Three times bigger than Central Park.”
“Funny thing about Pelham Bay Park,” Kylie said. “As big as it is, it’s basically a camera-free zone.”
By now I was standing on Erin’s left side, Kylie on her right, both of us ping-ponging comments back and forth, making her work hard to figure out exactly what we knew.
“It’s the perfect place to go if you don’t want to be videotaped,” I said, and I could see her jaw unclench. “Of course, someone like Bobby would know that.”
“There’s one thing Bobby didn’t know,” Kylie said. “Our mounted police unit has a stable there.”
“And …” I said, waiting for Erin’s head to snap back toward me. “It’s got a state-of-the-art surveillance system.”
“I’m sure that’s lovely for the horses,” she said, “but I really don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“You tell us,” I said, and I slid the image of her and Bobby across the table.
“That’s not me,” she said, barely looking at it. “It’s fake.”
“No, Erin,” Kylie said. “This is an official NYPD photo.
There’s nothing fake about it. What you see is exactly what the camera saw.”
Erin picked up the picture and stared at it hard. Then she put it down, leaned back in her chair, smiled at us both, and said the one thing we didn’t want to hear.
CHAPTER 79
DO I NEED a lawyer?” she asked.
She’d said the L-word—the one that can bring an interview to a crashing halt. Kylie and I hadn’t charged Erin with a crime, so we weren’t obligated to Mirandize her. But Miranda warning or not, as soon as a suspect asks for a lawyer, it’s over—no more questions.
But of course, Erin hadn’t asked for a lawyer. Her exact words were “Do I need a lawyer?” And she’d sort of chirped it more than