I shook the thought out of my head. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s never to second-guess your decisions. I wasn’t about to start now.
CHAPTER 49
Honey, I’m home,” Bobby called out as he came through the front door. A wide smile crossed his face. She couldn’t hear him, of course. She was locked in a soundproof room. But one day, he thought, one day, this is the way it would be.
The travel websites had painted the picture of white sands, golden skies, and turquoise water. Bobby could picture the rest: Erin, wearing something sexy, greets him at the door when he comes home from an afternoon on his fishing boat. The baby, playing on the floor, reaches up to him, and she gurgles and giggles as he lifts her high in the air. A glass of chilled white wine. The heady smell of bread baking in the oven.
Soon, he thought. Soon.
He unlocked her door. “I have good news,” he said.
She sat up in bed.
“I just solved our problems,” he said, sitting down on the bed beside her. “Mama’s money is now Jamie’s money. All of it. Every penny.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Veronica is dead.”
She threw her legs off the side of the bed and stood. “How did she—oh God, no! You killed her. Did you? Did you kill her?”
Bobby stared at her, confused. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“You thought I wanted you to commit murder? Are you insane?”
“But she was evil. You hated her.”
“I hated how she treated me. I hated that she wouldn’t help Jamie pay the ransom. But who in their right mind kills someone just because you don’t like them?”
She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. “Why would you do this to Jamie? She was his mother. He never understood her, but he loved her.”
“I’m sorry,” Bobby said, kissing the top of her shoulders.
“Get away from me. You’re disgusting.” She pulled away hard and ran into the bathroom.
There was no door, and he watched as she tore off her clothes and flung them to the floor. She turned on the shower and stepped inside.
They all get crazy, his father had taught him. Your job is to do whatever it takes to make them happy again.
Bobby stood there watching the steam fill up the bathroom. The hot water would calm her down. Plus he knew how to make her feel good. Real good.
He peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower. She didn’t say a word. He took the soap and washed her back. Then he lathered up his hands and ran them over her breasts. Her nipples responded, and she arched her back and moaned.
“Turn around,” she said. “Let me do you.”
He turned, and she ran her nails up and down his back.
He was rock hard. She reached down between his legs, and he thrust himself into her soft, slippery palm and gyrated his hips as she licked his ear.
“Oh, Bobby,” she said, her hand expertly sliding up and down the length of his shaft. “I love you. I love you so much.”
The words exploded in his ears. He couldn’t hold back. He spasmed once, twice, again, and then she felt his body go limp.
“Feel the water on your skin,” she said, tipping his face up and massaging his scalp. “Let it relax you.”
He let out a long slow moan. Without warning, she clutched a fistful of his hair, snapped his head back, and, in one swift stroke, raked the blade she held across his neck. Just like Ari had taught her fifteen years before.
His fingers clutched at his throat, but all he could feel was the flap of severed skin and the warm blood. He threw himself backward, bringing them both down hard on the tile floor, her body beneath his.
Bobby Dodd was a combat-trained Marine. He knew what she had done. He knew he was about to die. What he didn’t understand was why.
Air bubbled through the blood that was spilling from his neck as he exhaled. He gasped and tried desperately to inhale, which only caused him to choke.
Forty-seven seconds after Erin Easton drew the makeshift blade across her captor’s neck, he died.
She crawled out from under his body and slowly stood, the water still beating down hard. Then she stumbled from the shower, threw on a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt, and ran out the front door to freedom.
PART THREE
The Bobby Diaries
CHAPTER 50
Sniper Shoots Fashion Mogul” was more than just a local headline. It was breaking news from Paris to Milan to Tokyo. And with the eyes and ears of the world focused on its biggest case in years, Brooklyn Homicide pulled out all the stops.
By the time Kylie and I finished talking to Jamie, the terminal was packed with detectives, patrol, ESU, CSU, EMS, and whatever other letters of the alphabet Brooklyn could throw at the case. They certainly didn’t need us. But we couldn’t leave.
Our bosses in Manhattan would be asking who, what, when, where, and why. And despite the fact that they had all signed off on our strategy not to release Bobby Dodd’s identity across the department, every one of them would be demanding to know how the hell the most wanted man in the city could get past a detail of twelve tactically trained police officers who were assigned to secure an event that Erin Easton’s husband was attending.
They’d bombard us with questions, and we couldn’t exactly respond by saying, We’ll call Brooklyn and see if they know. So we stuck around for a few more hours and gathered our own data.
Jamie didn’t leave either. “My mother would never want me to abandon her at a time like this,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere until her body is removed from the area.”
He said it reverentially, as if he expected two attendants in black suits to carefully place Veronica on a gurney and silently wheel her into the back of a white-curtained hearse. But the reality was that this was a crime scene, and when the techs were finished, someone was likely to yell, Bag her and throw her in the meat wagon.
I gave the medical examiner’s team a heads-up that the next of kin was watching their every move and to keep it toned down. Just to be sure, Kylie and I decided to wait with Jamie.
So, as luck would have it, we were standing at his side when the phone call came.
He stiffened, looked at the caller ID, and shook his head. “I don’t recognize the number. Area code 713,” he said.
“Houston, Texas,” I said. “Put it on speaker when you pick up. TARU will be on the other end tracking it. Keep him on as long as you can, and whatever you do, don’t call him by name.”
He hit the green button, and his entire life changed.
“Jamie…it’s me.”
“Erin, baby, I love you. Are you okay?”
“I…I…” And then she wailed, “Oh God, Jamie.”
“Is he hurting you?”
“No, no. Not anymore. I…I made a razor blade. He followed me into the shower, and I…oh God…I cut his throat. He fell down bleeding, and…”
“And what, baby, what?”
“I escaped.” With that, the dam broke. She began sobbing hysterically.
A man’s voice came on the phone. “Hello. Hello.”
“Who’s this?” Jamie demanded.
“Hello. My name is Hector Gonzalez. My wife and I see this woman on the road, and she’s waving hands, and she say, ‘Help, help,’ so we stop, and we help.”
“Is she hurt? Is she okay?”
“She’s crying very much, but I think she’s crying happy now that we find her. We are waiting for police.”
Kylie grabbed Jamie’s arm. “Where are you?” she yelled into the phone.
The man turned away from the phone and yelled something in Spanish. A woman, probably his wife, responded, “¿Quién es?”
That I understood. But in case I hadn’t, he asked again, in English, “Who is this, please?”
“Detective Kylie MacDonald. I’m with the New York City Police Department. Where are you now?”
“Es la policía,” he informed his wife. “Ap
ple farm,” he said to Kylie.
“What apple farm? Where? Texas?”
“No, no. New York.” His accent was so thick it came out “Noo Jork.”
And then we heard the sirens in the background.
“I no speak such good English,” Gonzalez said. “You a police. You talk to other police.”
The sirens got closer and then died away. We could hear voices as cops came on the scene.
And then my phone rang. Benny Diaz from TARU.
“Zach, the phone belongs to Hector Gonzalez, Galena Park, Texas. The call is coming from Ball Road in Warwick, New York.”
I thanked him, then called Captain Cates and told her what was happening. With cops on the scene, anyone with a scanner would know that Erin Easton was alive and safe. The word would go out on Twitter within seconds. I had to make sure my boss called her boss with the news, rather than the other way around.
For the next five minutes all Kylie and I could do was listen to the background commotion of first responders coming onto a crime scene and trying to put the pieces together in a hurry. We knew the drill. Victim first.
We waited until Jamie’s phone came alive again. “Hello, this is Officer Georgene Fredericks, Warwick PD. Who is this?”
“This is Detective Kylie MacDonald, NYPD. My partner and I—”
Jamie wrenched the phone away. “This is Jamie Gibbs. Do you see my wife, Erin Easton? Is she okay?”
“Yes, sir. I recognized her. She’s in shock right now, but she’s okay. We have her in custody. We’ll be taking her to the hospital. Please put the detective back on the phone.”
Jamie handed his cell back to Kylie. “Officer Fredericks, Ms. Easton was abducted by a white male named Bobby Dodd. I can text you a photo with his pedigree. In the few seconds that we had Ms. Easton on the phone, she said she cut his throat before she escaped. I have no idea where she was being held or how badly she hurt him.”
The Warwick cop’s answer was quick and confident. “We’ll find him.”
“Officer, be advised that we’re also looking at Dodd for the murder of Ms. Easton’s mother-in-law. He’s ex-military, combat-trained, and incredibly dangerous. Please be careful.”
“Don’t you worry, Detective,” Fredericks said. “We’re on it.” Her voice was eager. Too eager. I could picture a bunch of country cops champing at the bit to get on with the biggest adventure of their careers.
Kylie caught it too. “My partner and I will be in Warwick in thirty minutes,” she said.
“Thirty? Where are you now?”
“Brooklyn.”
“You’re a good two hours away, Detective. More like two and a half with rush-hour traffic.”
“Don’t you worry, Officer. We won’t be sitting in traffic.”
CHAPTER 51
You have a helicopter?” Jamie said as soon as Kylie hung up.
Kylie nodded, knowing what was coming.
“I’m going with you,” he announced.
By all rights we should have said yes. The man was a victim; his wife had been abducted, his mother murdered, and his life turned into a living nightmare. But the last thing we needed when we were trying to interview Erin Easton was her loose cannon of a husband getting in our way.
“That’s not a good idea, Jamie,” Kylie said.
“Why not?”
“Because first and foremost, Erin needs medical attention. If you get there before the doctors are finished, you’ll either distract them from the job at hand or you’ll wind up pacing the hospital waiting room for two hours. You just told us your mother wouldn’t want you to abandon her at a time like this. Don’t leave her alone. When you’re done here, Detective Koprowski will drive you to Warwick.”
Jamie nodded. Once again Kylie’s cop logic made sense to him. It also worked for us. We’d have Erin for a few hours without interruption, and Koprowski could drive us back to New York.
The chopper set down in the parking lot of the vast complex, and we were picked up by none other than the chief of detectives himself, Harlan Doyle. No surprise. Our mission was to work the case. His was to work the media.
We landed at the Hickory Hill Golf Course and were greeted by Patrick Brown, the Warwick chief of police.
Our chief of Ds is not big on foreplay. “Where’s Easton?” Doyle asked, skipping the introductions.
“St. Anthony Community Hospital,” Brown said. “Two guards at her door, four more covering the entrances and exits.”
“And the perp?”
A small smile crossed Brown’s face, and he took a deep breath. I doubt if he realized he was puffing out his chest, but I knew he was feeling good about the news he was about to drop.
“We were able to determine where she was held, a house on Ball Road, not far from where she was found. The front door was wide open. We did a tactical entry, and we found one white male, naked, deceased on the shower floor. His throat was slashed from the right ear to the left jugular. The ME wasn’t on the scene, but the paramedic from the volunteer ambulance corps said he must’ve bled out. I didn’t see much blood, but then the shower was still on, so I figure most of it went down the drain.”
“ID?”
“We found a wallet in his jacket pocket. Tennessee license issued to Robert Allen Dodd. Photo matched the dead guy, but I figured you might want to see for yourself, so I took a quick pic of the body.”
He handed Doyle his cell phone. The chief took a look and passed it over to Kylie and me.
“That’s the man we’re looking for,” I said. “Brooklyn Homicide is looking for him too. Great work, Chief Brown.”
The chief of Ds picked up on my lead. “Absolutely. Top-notch. I think I have all I need to deal with the press.”
“There’s a slew of them gathering at the hospital,” Brown said. “I’ll have one of my officers drive you.”
“Excellent. I’d like you personally to take my two lead detectives to meet with the victim. NYPD will be sending a crime scene unit to go over every inch of the house where she was held. Until then, secure it and leave the body where it dropped until they get there.”
And with that, Harlan Doyle was done. Wham-bam. He headed toward a waiting cop car.
“Wow,” Brown said as he watched him walk away. “I can see why he’s in charge.”
Kylie and I followed Brown to his radio car. She got in front; I sat in back. Chief Brown drove. He was in his midforties, born and raised in Warwick, and clearly taken by the big-city cops that had descended on his quiet little community.
“Who owns the house where Erin was held captive?” Kylie asked.
“Blanche and Stanley Katz. Nice folks—I’m guessing they’re in their midfifties. They moved up here from the city about ten years ago. They write these books that nobody reads. Something about art history. They’re working on another one, and they’re hopping around Europe for a year, so they rented the house out. They’ve done it before. They left their itinerary with us at the station in case of emergency. I guess I better contact them.”
“Please don’t,” Kylie said. “Not until we’re sure they’re not involved.”
Chief Brown looked at her. “Involved? Them? Hell no.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Kylie said, “but until we are one hundred percent sure that there is no other connection between them and Dodd besides unsuspecting landlord and homicidal tenant, we’re not giving them a heads-up.”
“Son of a gun,” he said. “You’re right. I never would’ve thought of that. I guess I could learn a lot about police work from you folks. If you ever want to come up to Warwick and teach a class to the troops one of these nights, I’ll buy the pizza.”
“That just may be the best offer we’ve had all day,” Kylie said and flashed him a warm smile.
Brown returned the smile and held on to it as he turned his face back toward the road and drove to the hospital. Clearly he was in awe, and I’d bet anything that this was the single biggest day of his career.
For us, it was j
ust another Wednesday.
CHAPTER 52
Less than an hour after Erin’s escape, St. Anthony Community Hospital was surrounded by TV trucks, fervent fans, and local lookie-loos.
The state police and the volunteer fire department were out in force, redirecting traffic and doing their best to clear the roadways. Chief Brown detoured off the main drag, navigated onto a side street, and dropped us off at the emergency room entrance in the rear of the building.
We met with Sarah Paris, the doctor heading up Erin’s medical team. Dr. Paris turned out to be a straight talker and a good listener whose only concern was her patient’s well-being, not her celebrity status.
Small-town docs can be put off by the in-your-face directness of big-city cops, so I eased into the interview. “Dr. Paris, we’re familiar with the HIPAA regulations about patient privacy, but this is a criminal investigation, and—”
The doc held up her hand. “I did my residency at Lincoln Hospital in the Bronx. It had the busiest ED in the entire city—shootings, stabbings, gang violence. There were some nights I talked to more cops than patients. Ask anything.”
“For starters, how is she?” I said.
“Physically she’s okay. A few cuts and bruises, nothing major. She’s also fourteen weeks along in her pregnancy, and the baby is fine. The real damage is psychological. Beyond the ordeal of being abducted, she was raped repeatedly.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“I know that because she told me several times, and I believed her. We have an ob-gyn on the way to the hospital, and of course we used a rape kit to gather the physical evidence. But even more traumatizing than her captivity was her escape. She said she managed to get away by luring her abductor into the shower, then slitting his throat. She’s in fear that all she did was wound him, and despite the fact that there are two policemen outside her door, she’s deathly afraid that he will come for her.”
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