NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,1
rehearsal on his iPad last night. Erin didn’t have the world’s greatest voice, but the network had hired a twelve-piece band, three backup singers, and four dancers. Besides, she was beautiful to watch. All in all, it was a pretty good show. Too bad nobody would ever get to see it.
The crowd applauded, and Jamie stood there looking like he’d died and gone to heaven as Erin walked off the stage to a standing ovation.
“Go time,” Bobby said, tossing the iPad onto the passenger seat.
He reached inside his shirt and pulled out the .357 Magnum bullet that was hanging on a chain around his neck. The powder had been replaced by one cubic inch of his father’s ashes.
He rubbed his finger gently over the words the old man had had etched into the steel casing: Succeed, or die trying. Semper Fi.
Yeah, he thought as he started the truck and tucked the bullet back inside his shirt. That was the plan.
TWO
STANDING IN FRONT of the door to Erin Easton’s dressing room, Lenny Ringel felt like one of those guards with the red jackets and the big black furry hats crammed into the sentry box outside Buckingham Palace. Nothing to do, no one to talk to.
It was the ass end of the security detail for the wedding, and Ringel had asked McMaster flat out why he had to protect an empty room for five hours while the other four guards were working the ballroom, listening to the music, ogling the women, and sneaking off to the kitchen to stuff their faces.
“The room’s not empty,” McMaster informed him. “It’s got Erin’s wardrobe, her jewelry, and her personal belongings, which, trust me, people would be happy to steal. It has to be secured at all times.”
“So why can’t we whack it up between us?” Ringel said. “Five guys, we could each take an hour instead of me parked out here like—”
“Ringel,” McMaster said, “the place is crawling with important people, and you don’t have what I’d call important-people skills. If you don’t want the job, just say so, and I’ll book another rent-a-cop.”
Of course Ringel wanted the job. And not just for the money. When he first told his girlfriend he was working security at the Wedding of the Century, she went batshit, she was so happy.
“Lenny,” she said, “you gotta mingle like crazy and come back with as much juicy gossip as you can.”
He had to explain that his job was to protect the guests, not stalk them, but at least he’d come back with some cool stories she could tell her friends, and if she wanted to make them sound even cooler, that was fine by him. But now all he could tell her was that McMaster had put him in charge of watching a giant closet full of clothes.
And then, halfway through the gig, Erin showed up, knockers practically popping out of her wedding gown. She gave Ringel a drop-dead-gorgeous smile and said, “Wardrobe change, sweetie. Got a show to do. Don’t let anyone in.”
He couldn’t believe it. Nobody told him about any wardrobe change. “Don’t worry, Miss Easton,” he said. “Nobody gets past me. Just one thing—my girlfriend, Darcy, is a big fan. She’d kill me if I didn’t tell you. I’m Lenny, by the way.”
“Well, Lenny, you tell Darcy—hell, don’t tell her anything,” Erin said. “Let’s blow her mind. Where’s your camera?”
Five seconds later, Lenny Ringel, the man with no important-people skills, was taking selfies with the most important person at the whole damn wedding. Suck on that, McMaster.
“Remember, Lenny,” Erin said after he’d clicked off a burst of shots with his cell phone, “don’t let anyone in, especially that pain in the ass Brockway, the guy with the camera crew. A girl needs her privacy.”
She slipped into the dressing room, snapped the lock, and left Ringel to dream what it would be like to be on the other side of the door watching Erin Easton change out of her wedding gown.
Forty minutes later Ringel was still reveling in the fact that one of the biggest stars in the world had called him by name. How cool was that?
And then the pain in the ass with the camera crew showed up.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ringel said, every inch the professional. “Miss Easton said no visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor,” Brockway said. “I’m the guy whose network put up a million dollars to shoot this fiasco, which means I’m paying your salary and hers. She’s got a show to put on, and