“Dodd lived in Pelham Bay. Does he mention that park in his diary?”
“Not in so many words. On May nineteenth he writes, ‘Erin and I had our secret rendezvous down by the water.’ I tracked her walking through the park to the Long Island Sound.”
“How many cameras do we have in the park?” I said.
“Not a one. Sorry. It’s Pelham Bay, Zach, not Central Park.”
“Then why are you getting my hopes up?”
“Because on May twenty-seventh, Bobby writes about walking through the park and smelling the horses.”
“I read that,” Kylie said. “I figured he was talking about the hansom cabs in Central Park.”
“NYPD mounted troop D has its stables in Pelham Bay Park,” Diaz said. “Maybe those are the horses he smelled.”
“Maybe won’t cut it with the DA,” Kylie said. “Even if you can put Dodd in the same location as Erin, that doesn’t prove anything. He stalked her wherever she went. Unless you get us hard evidence that they were together, the only thing that tells us is that Erin Easton was being followed by a crazy person. And without any cameras in the park—”
“That’s what I thought,” Diaz said, cutting her off. “And then it dawned on me—those stables are a department asset, and like every NYPD facility, it’s on camera twenty-four/seven. I called the desk sergeant this morning, and he verified it. I sent one of my guys over there to download the footage from May twenty-seventh. He should be back here in an hour.”
“Benny,” I said, “if you can find proof of Erin and Bobby together, it’s going to blow her story out of the water and turn this case on its ear.”
“I think maybe I can,” he said. “And if I do, it’s going to cost you guys a lot more than a bagel.”
CHAPTER 77
Kylie and I had Erin’s cell phone records on file. We dug them out and tracked back to the days and times that Benny had zeroed in on.
In all three cases, Erin’s phone was off. It didn’t prove a thing, but it was highly coincidental that the woman who almost never pulled the plug on her cell had rendered it untraceable during the exact times that we suspected she and Bobby were together.
An hour went by. And then another. And then Benny called and said three words that would change Erin Easton’s life forever.
“We got her.”
Minutes later, Kylie and I were in Benny’s office. “Most of the cameras are pointed at the stables,” he said. “But this one is mounted above the stalls, and it picks up a nice wide swath of the park. I cued it up at a minute before we see them just so you can get the feel of things.”
He rolled the footage. It hardly seemed like we were watching a crime surveillance video. The day was sunny, the resolution was excellent, and the park was lush and green.
And then they appeared. Erin was in what McMaster had jokingly called the standard celebrity disguise. It was about as effective as putting a Groucho Marx mustache on George Clooney. She was entirely recognizable.
Next to her, as big as life, was her stalker, the man three judges had ordered to stay away from her—Bobby Dodd. Not only were he and Erin in the same frame, but they were talking, laughing, and holding hands.
Benny froze the image, and I could imagine it splashed across every front page around the world.
“She’s playing him,” Kylie said, practically yelling at the screen.
Diaz smiled, proud of his contribution.
“Good police work, Benny,” I said. “But it doesn’t prove a thing.”
The smile faded fast. “Why not? It’s two weeks before the kidnapping, and I just showed you a picture of the two of them together.”
“And I can show you pictures of Trump and Hillary together,” I said.
“But not holding hands and frolicking in the park,” Kylie said.
Diaz laughed out loud. “So you agree with me,” he said to Kylie.
“No. Unfortunately, I have to agree with Zach. It sure as hell looks like she’s prepping him, plotting out the kidnapping and everything else that came down the pike, but any first-year law student could get up in front of a jury and fill their heads with reasonable doubt.”
Diaz looked at the image on the screen and then turned back at Kylie. “I don’t know,” he said. “It looks pretty damning to me.”
Kylie cleared her throat. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she said, her eyes drilling into Diaz. “Erin Easton was an international media star who was about to marry an incredibly successful, powerful, and wealthy man. Why would she suddenly throw that all away to team up with a lowlife who had preyed on her for more than a decade?”
“The ransom money?” Diaz said meekly.
“Twenty-five million?” Kylie said. “Chump change. Jamie was heir to half a billion.”
Benny’s head nodded as he processed what she was saying.
“I sense reasonable doubt creeping in,” Kylie said.
“Look, I’m a computer cop. I watched the video. It hasn’t been doctored, and my takeaway is that Erin is hiring Bobby to kidnap her. But you make a pretty good lawyer. I’m starting to think I could be wrong.”
“You’re half wrong. She wasn’t hiring him. She was seducing him. Telling him all the things he wanted to hear, spinning the same pipe dreams he’d written about for years. I think somewhere along the way Erin must have found out that Jamie wasn’t as rich as she’d thought. His mother had all the money, and the only way Erin would ever see a nickel of it would be over Veronica’s dead body.
“Erin knew Jamie wouldn’t be able to come up with the ransom money. She also knew that Veronica wouldn’t cough up a cent. It all played out just as she’d scripted it, and by then Bobby was in so deep, the only way he could get enough money to keep the woman he loved was to kill the woman she hated. And as soon as he did that, Erin killed him.”
Benny’s mouth hung open. He looked at me. “Where are you on all this?”
“She’s right. Chief Doyle always suspected Bobby had an accomplice. It just didn’t occur to us that it could be Erin. The problem is, we still don’t have what we need to prove anything.”
“So how do you stop her from getting away with it?”
“Give us a minute,” Kylie said. “We just cracked the code. Zach and I haven’t come up with a game plan yet.”
“Whatever we do,” I said, “we’ve got to do it fast.”
“Why’s that?” Benny said.
“Because Jamie Gibbs just inherited half a billion dollars. If anything should happen to him, that money goes to Erin. Even if Jamie leaves some of it to his unborn child, for the next eighteen years, Erin Easton will call the shots on how every penny of Veronica’s fortune is spent.”
CHAPTER 78
Incredible,” Captain Cates said after we’d caught her up. “The woman’s gone from victim to hero to suspect in less than a week.”
“That’s show business,” Kylie said. “One minute you’re riding high, the next minute you’re in the back of a patrol car on your way to Central Booking.”
“From your lips,” Cates said, “but right now you don’t have enough to charge her.”
“Not yet. But she’s coming in at noon. We’ll give her a shovel and hope she buries herself.”
“I’ll be watching on the monitor,” Cates said. “With my finger hovering over the chief of Ds’ direct line.”
Erin’s version of noon turned out to be three forty-five.
“You look fantastic,” Kylie said, gushing like a fangirl and giving her a big hug. Next came the outpouring of love and concern: How are you? How is the baby? How are you sleeping? It must be so comforting to have a strong man like Jamie at your side. And how is he doing? His mother’s death was such a blow. It’s so good that you can be there for each other.
My turn next: So sorry to drag you in after all you’ve been through. One final interview so we can tie it up in a bow for our boss. We all want to put it behind us.
Erin responded as if she were doing a late-night ta
lk-show interview. She opened up immediately, thrilled to fill us in on her favorite subject—herself.
“So tell us when you first met Bobby Dodd,” Kylie said, easing into the interview.
We’d already heard every detail from McMaster, but we listened intently as Erin recounted a time when she truly was a victim.
“Prior to your wedding day,” I said, “when was the last time you’d seen or heard from Dodd?”
“Oh God, it must have been at least a year—maybe more,” she lied. “I was finally starting to think he was gone for good.”
“Prior to June ninth, did he ever hurt you?”
“No.”
“Touch you?”
“No. He couldn’t get close. I always had my security people.”
“Were you ever alone with him?”
“Never.”
“Did he ever manage to get past security and talk to you directly?”
“Not until he kidnapped me.”
“We were told he broke into your house in Aspen,” I said.
“And my apartment in New York. And the villa in Tuscany, twice. Four separate times, but I was never at 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 said it.
Some people called her Airhead Easton, but I’d come to understand how damn smart she was. She knew the rules of the game as well as anyone. She knew she could shut down the interview in a heartbeat.
But she didn’t. I wondered if she thought that asking for an attorney would make her look guilty. Or maybe she didn’t want to have to deal with TMZ and the gossip-rag headlines screaming “Erin Lawyers Up.” And then I looked at the smirk on her face, and I knew.
She was dicking with us.
She didn’t think this was a fight she could lose.
“I can’t tell you if you need a lawyer,” I said, “but it’s totally within your rights to contact one.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, “but I think I can clear up the misconception, and we can tie this up in a bow for your boss, just like you wanted.”
Another smirk. The Ping-Pong match had now become a game of cat and mouse, and Erin was positive that she was the cat.
“Please,” I said. “Clear it up for us.”
“That’s not me in the picture with Dodd,” she said. “I know it looks like me. But a lot of women try to look like me. And a few of them are so good at it that they make a fabulous living doing shows and corporate events and all kinds of private parties. Trump has impersonators, Elvis has impersonators, and so do I.”
And just like that, she was as famous as the president of the United States and the king of rock and roll. Nicely done. Except for one small detail.
“So it might be you or it might not be you,” I said. “Knowing you have all these impersonators would certainly create reasonable doubt in my mind.”
“Exactly,” she purred.
“Good thing you had that chip under your skin,” Kylie said. “That ought to help us sort it out.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Detective, but I thought I heard you say the picture was taken a few weeks before the wedding.”
“May twenty-seventh, to be exact,” Kylie said.
“Unfortunately, the chip stopped working weeks before that, so I’m afraid we’re right back to reasonable doubt.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “It turns out someone made a mistake. The chip didn’t stop working. It just stopped transmitting data.
The GPS kept a record of your every move right up until the day you had Bobby cut it out of your arm.”
“We took the liberty of downloading your itinerary,” Kylie said, producing the report from TARU. “If you look at May twenty-seventh, you’ll see that LyfeTracker has you in Pelham Bay Park at the exact moment the NYPD cameras picked up you and Bobby Dodd working out how to murder your mother-in-law.”
Erin bolted up. “I had nothing to do with Veronica’s death! That was all Bobby’s idea.”
“Bullshit!” Kylie said, pounding the table for effect. “Do you expect anyone to believe that you teamed up with a maniac just to get a mere twenty-five million dollars in ransom? I don’t buy it, my partner doesn’t buy it, and I guarantee you a jury won’t buy it. You had your eye on Veronica’s money from the get-go.”
“Not true,” Erin said, slumping back into her chair. “Not true.”
“Then why would you have yourself kidnapped?”
“You wouldn’t understand. This Red cop shit sounds good on paper—a big fancy police force that caters to the high-rollers. But then it falls apart because you’re all nickel-and-dime players. You have no idea what it’s like to be me.”
“Enlighten us.”
“I’ve been world-fucking-famous for twenty years, but I’ve got a clock on me, and it’s ticking louder and louder. It’s saying, ‘Erin, your fan base is aging out, the new fans have found a dozen younger idols, and your TV show is about to tank.’ I’m not an actress. I’m not a performer. I’m a personality. I’m a brand, and my brand was starting to circle the drain.
“I’ve seen it happen to other women, and it’s not pretty. One day you’re an A-list superstar with money pouring in and then all of a sudden you’re a face in the where-are-they-now montage on BuzzFeed. The money’s not coming in anymore, but it never stops going out, and I could see myself in five years doing game shows, showing up with my tits half out at insurance conventions in Vegas, and starring in cosmetics infomercials aimed at a bunch of desperate women who think their lives would be better if they looked like me.
NYPD Red 6 Page 23