“My career was on life support. And then I found Jamie. He’s not the best-looking man I ever met, or the best in bed, or the best anything, but he had money—or at least I thought he did—so what the hell? I started dating him. Exclusively. Every night. Every weekend. The paparazzi tracked us wherever we went, and it drove Veronica crazy. She knew why I was with her precious little boy, so she began trashing me something fierce, and now she was not only his boss at work, she was trying to run his love life. So he figured out the one thing he could do to show Mommy who’s really in charge—marry the bitch.
“The media loved the feud, and then the Brockways came up with this Wedding of the Century fiasco. Suddenly I was getting talk shows again, and magazine covers, and five-minute pieces on Access Hollywood, and I didn’t want it all to end on June ninth. So yes, I came up with the idea for the kidnapping. But I didn’t do it for the money. I did it to keep my brand from dying. And I swear to God, I never planned to kill Veronica Gibbs.”
“Just Bobby Dodd,” Kylie said.
Erin froze. She’d been so glorified in the media for overpowering her captor that she’d convinced herself she was every bit the heroine they said she was. But in reality she was nothing more than a stone-cold, commando-trained killer.
“I’m going to read you your rights,” Kylie said. Then she paused. I doubted if it was to give Erin a moment to process it all. Knowing Kylie, she was giving Captain Cates enough time to dial up the chief of Ds and let him savor the arrest in real time.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Kylie began.
I tuned out the rest of it as my brain kicked into another gear, and I was able to reflect on the irony of it all.
After years of enjoying fame she’d done nothing to earn, Erin Easton was finally going to be world-famous for something she’d actually done.
CHAPTER 80
It was surely the single worst day of Erin Easton’s life, but for Chief of Detectives Harlan Doyle, it was shaping up to be one of the best.
The man and his entire command had been skewered in the press for failing to save Erin. But then Doyle found out that she’d had no desire to be saved, and he was not going to let this humiliating piece of departmental history remain uncorrected. So he did what anyone in his shoes would do when he smelled redemption. He broke out the heavy artillery.
Within minutes of Erin being charged, Doyle and his old buddy Mason Bachner, the deputy commissioner of public information, put together an operation to make sure that the news of her arrest broke big.
And, boy, did it ever.
It started with the perp walk.
Most people think that the suspect’s brief journey from the bowels of the precinct to the confines of a patrol car is a haphazard affair, just a handful of random cops moving their prisoner from one spot to another like so many baggage handlers while the cameras record it for posterity.
Not true. If the perp is high profile enough to generate media frenzy, then the walk has to be a brilliantly choreographed piece of theater.
And nobody put on a better show than Matthew Diamond.
Lieutenant Diamond was one of Doyle’s go-to guys at DCPI Bachner’s office. Cates gave us the heads-up that he was on his way, and we were downstairs when he arrived.
He went straight for the front desk. “Good afternoon, Sergeant McGrath,” he said. “And how has your day been going?”
“Just fine, sir.”
“I’m about to change all that,” Diamond said, the upbeat tone gone. “In less than an hour the cameras will be rolling, and the eyes of the world are going to be on your precinct. My job is to ensure they see exactly what the chief of Ds wants them to see.”
McGrath didn’t have to ask what his job was. “Yes, sir. What can I do to make that happen?”
Diamond started with casting. “I want three of your sharpest officers at the front door, another dozen on the street. And McGrath, we’re not shooting a sequel to the mall-cop movies. I want New York’s Finest, not New York’s fattest.”
McGrath, a large-boned fellow and proud of it, laughed. “Yes, sir.”
A half an hour later, the stage was set. Sixty-Seventh Street from Third to Lex was locked down, the entire block cleared except for the prisoner-transport vehicles. The members of the press were clustered behind barricades with a lean, mean cop stationed every five feet. NYPD choppers circled overhead, and a heavily armed team from the Strategic Response Group patrolled the ground, on the lookout for international terrorists or local nutjobs.
Spielberg might have been able to mount a more elaborate production, but not in thirty minutes.
At 5:45, on the cusp of the evening news cycle, the precinct doors swung open and Erin Easton stepped into the light. I was at one elbow, Kylie at the other. A roar erupted as the media horde screamed her name.
Erin instinctively moved her right arm to wave to the crowd, but her wrists were shackled behind her back. She stopped and stared them down as tape rolled, shutters clicked, and scores of reporters shelled her with questions. Most of them were unintelligible, but the ones I could make out all started with why.
And then she turned and kept walking, eyes straight ahead, lips pursed tight, head held high.
It lasted all of eighteen seconds, but it was a perp walk for the ages, one that would live on not just in pop culture, but in department lore. NYPD Red parading the most famous criminal on the planet in front of a global audience. I could just picture Chief Doyle, who must have watched the live feed at 1PP along with DCPI Bachner, the police commissioner, and the mayor. Doyle would remain stone-faced on the outside, but inside he’d be laughing his ass off.
And he’d only just begun.
I’d driven from the precinct to Central Booking hundreds of times. When you’ve got just a single prisoner, all it takes is one car. But this was Doyle’s big show, and Diamond had ordered up five gleaming black Escalades and eight motorcycle cops from Highway Unit 1 to clear the way.
The Harleys pulled out, and a minute later the rest of us followed. Dozens of TV stations—local, national, and international—filmed the convoy as we made the six-mile run from Sixty-Seventh Street to FDR Drive to Centre Street. It was the best coverage of a cop-car caravan since LAPD chased O.J.’s Bronco down the 405.
Kylie and I escorted Erin to the basement of the vast detention complex and handed her over to a corrections officer who searched her and processed her paperwork.
Then we watched as Erin was led toward a cell that held thirty women.
But the guard was only taunting her. A door thunked, and Erin was shoved into a private cell—gray walls, steel toilet, and no escape from the catcalling women directly across from her. As I left, the last thing I heard was “You’re one of us now, bitch.”
And that ended act two.
Kylie and I walked next door to One Police Plaza, where Chief Doyle was about to raise the curtain on act three, a carefully orchestrated press conference.
“Congratulations, Detectives,” he said, shaking our hands. “You finally lived up to the hype.”
He took the stage. His boss, the police commissioner, stood a step behind him and to his right. Kylie and I were positioned to the left.
Doyle leaned into the sea of microphones. “In the course of investigating the kidnapping of Erin Easton and the murder of Veronica Gibbs, the two lead detectives from NYPD Red—Zach Jordan and Kylie MacDonald—uncovered evidence that Ms. Easton was a coconspirator in her own kidnapping.
“There is incontestable proof of her colluding with her kidnapper, Bobby Dodd—the man who killed Mrs. Gibbs and who was subsequently murdered by Ms. Easton. She has made a statement and has been booked. She will be arraigned tomorrow morning. That’s all I have for now, but I’ll take questions.”
Damn right he would take questions. Starting with the one he’d planted. He pointed to a female reporter in the front row. She stood up.
“Peg O’Ryan, Eyewitness News. Chief Doyle, now that you’ve discovered that
this kidnapping was a conspiracy and nothing like what it appeared to be on the surface, can you tell us if anyone else was involved?”
“That’s a good question, Peg.” Doyle hesitated as if he were wrestling with an answer. But knowing the man, I figured he had rehearsed it with her an hour ago. “As you’re aware, this is still an ongoing investigation, so I’m limited in what I can say.” Another pause. “But I will tell you this: we have information that a person or persons at Ms. Easton’s network, ZTV, may have provided money—a million dollars, in fact—to the kidnapper, Bobby Dodd, in exchange for a video of Ms. Easton in captivity.”
“Did the network know that the video was staged?”
“I can’t say, but when you go behind the backs of the NYPD during an active criminal investigation, it doesn’t matter if you’re colluding or aiding and abetting. You’re breaking the law, and if you’re a television network, you’re violating the public’s trust. Someone at ZTV has a lot of explaining to do.”
O’Ryan fired off another question. “Would that someone be Harris Brockway?”
“Peg, you know I can’t confirm that.”
“Can you deny it?”
The chief shook his head as if he’d been placed in an uncomfortable position. But the three people behind him knew he was relishing the moment.
“No,” he finally said. “I can’t stand here and honestly deny it.”
The crowd erupted. Nothing had been said, but the conclusion was clear: Brockway had paid Dodd a million dollars for the video.
ADA Bill Harrison had told us that Brockway would probably not go to jail for what he’d done. But one thing was sure: his career in television was over.
I knew it, Kylie knew it, and, judging from the Cheshire-cat grin on Harlan Doyle’s face, he not only knew it but was proud as hell to be the man who’d made it happen.
EPILOGUE
Kylie and Shane,
Zach and Cheryl
CHAPTER 81
Friday, June 21
Delta Flight 2786
We’re flying first class?” Kylie said as she sat down in seat 1A.
“That’s what happens when you plan a trip at the eleventh hour,” Shane said, sitting down next to her. “All the cheap seats are gone.”
“Nice try, but you knew you were going to Orlando months ago.”
“Okay, I lied. I’m tall. I bought a first-class ticket back in February. I had to buy you one a few days ago because it’s always so awkward to tell your last-minute date that she’s sitting in coach. But if you’re having trouble adjusting to all this legroom and the free champagne, I’ll ask the flight attendant if she can find someone in the back of the plane to change seats with you.”
“I’ll muddle through,” Kylie said. “But you see what happens when you try to lie to a detective.”
“Yes, and I’m very impressed with your interrogation skills. Now, if you’d like to pat me down and frisk me, I think we have time to sneak into the bathroom before takeoff.”
Kylie laughed. Good-looking, cooks up a storm, and he can make me laugh, she thought. Triple threat.
He rested his hand on hers, and she inhaled sharply as her body responded to his touch. Shane Talbot was gifted with large, strong, magical hands. And not just in the kitchen. She smiled, remembering the first time they’d made love. Then she silently corrected her earlier thought. Quadruple threat.
“Hey,” he said, “I spoke to Cheryl this afternoon. You’ll never guess what she said just before she hung up.”
“She probably said, ‘Don’t be lying to Kylie MacDonald. She’s one smart cop, and she’ll trip you up every time.’”
“No. She said, ‘Have fun in Disney World.’ I straightened her out. I said we were going to the Southeast Food Expo. And she said, ‘But Kylie told Zach that you were going to Disney.’”
“Not true. I told Zach that we were going to Orlando for the weekend. I can’t help it if his mind jumped to talking mice and fairy-tale princesses. If he wanted to know specifics, he should have asked.”
“Kylie, if you tell your old boyfriend that you’re going to Orlando with your new boyfriend, he’s never going to ask for specifics.”
“At what point did we establish that you’re my new boyfriend?”
“My cousin the shrink is so right. You love to mess with Zach’s head. And I think I should be flattered that you’re starting to enjoy messing with mine.”
He leaned over and kissed her, lingering just long enough for Kylie to wish she’d taken him up on his offer to pat him down in the bathroom.
There was something about Shane Talbot that was unfathomable. The physical attraction was intense, but it was more than that.
It was…no, it definitely wasn’t love. Too soon. You can’t decide that you love someone just because he dazzles you with dinner, and the sex is good. Okay, better than good—incredible. But love? That takes time.
Or maybe it doesn’t. She’d only loved two men in her life, and she’d fallen for each of them hard and fast.
With Spence, it was date him, dump him, take him back, marry him, walk out on him eleven years later, and now…
Now? Good question. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since January. It was strange to be technically married and not know whether your husband was alive or dead. But one thing she knew for sure: she didn’t love him anymore.
It was different with Zach. Their affair had lasted all of four weeks. The only reason she’d ended it was to give Spence one more chance. But she’d never stopped loving Zach. Never would.
And now there was Shane Talbot with his first-class seats and his butterscotch budino and his—
“Hey! Ground Control to Major Tom.”
She looked up. That handsome face, that thick red hair, those incredible hands…
“I can almost hear the wheels inside your head turning a mile a minute,” Shane said. “What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing much. I was just mulling over this new-boyfriend concept.”
“How am I doing?”
“You’re in the lead,” Kylie said. “But don’t let it go to your head. It’s still only a one-man race.”
“Excuse me, sir.” It was the flight attendant.
Shane looked up. “Yes?”
“You’re going to have to buckle your seat belt.”
A wide smile spread across Shane’s face, and he leaned over and whispered in Kylie’s ear, “Funny…that’s the same advice Cheryl gave me when I told her you and I were going away for the weekend.”
CHAPTER 82
Sunday, June 23
Bentley’s by the Sea, Montauk, New York
Happy anniversary,” Cheryl whispered in my ear.
“It’s the middle of the night,” I slurred, hugging my pillow closer to my cheek.
“No, it’s not. It’s five o’clock in the morning, and I want you to see your anniversary present before it’s too late.”
I half rolled over. “Bring it here.”
“No can do. It’s on the beach. Get up. We’re running out of time.”
I’d rather have celebrated our anniversary over a late brunch, but when you’re a man in a relationship, you learn that some things are not debatable.
We threw on some clothes, grabbed a couple of blankets, left the warmth of our cozy little cottage, and trekked out past the dunes. We spread one blanket on the cold damp sand and wrapped ourselves in the other.
“I’m ready for my present,” I said.
Cheryl checked her watch. “Three more minutes.”
I rested my head on her shoulder, closed my eyes, and drifted right back to the land of Nod. A few minutes later she elbowed me awake.
“There it is,” she said, pointing toward the horizon.
The sun was just cracking through the shroud of darkness, spreading soft blues and vivid pinks across the sky.
“You don’t even have to unwrap it,” Cheryl said. She had her camera in her hand and was aiming it at the rising sun.
As the sky bloomed orange, and shafts of gold sliced into the Atlantic, the fog in my brain finally lifted, and I realized—that was my gift.
“It’s the dawn of a brand-new year together,” she said, “and I wanted to share it with you.”
Words failed me. I pulled her closer, and as I sat there huddled under the blanket soaking up the majesty of the moment with the woman I loved, my life of the past two weeks felt distant and surreal. This was where I belonged.
Twenty minutes later we walked back to the bed-and-breakfast, stripped off our damp clothes, buried ourselves under a thick down comforter, and slept for another four hours.
We made love before we got out of bed, then made love again under a high-pressure rainfall showerhead that pelted us with fat droplets of steamy hot water.
We had just finished dressing when Cheryl’s phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. “Zach, I’ve got to take this. I’ll meet you in a few minutes for breakfast.”
The dining room was wood and stone with an eclectic mix of brightly colored Persian throw rugs underfoot and a wall of glass looking out toward the ocean. There was a large groaning board laden with berries, breads, jams, cheeses, and sterling chafing dishes filled with stick-to-the-ribs, clog-up-the-arteries options. The coffee was dark roast and smelled like nirvana.
I poured two cups, toasted two thick slices of raisin pumpernickel to tide me over till Cheryl got there, and found a quiet table. Ten minutes later, she arrived, her jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail, her honey-bronze skin glowing against a yellow tank top. Heads turned. They always did.
“Sorry,” she said. “Some phone calls just can’t be ignored.”
“Troubled patient?” I said.
“No. It was Aunt Janet. She talked to Shane this morning.”
“What a sweet boy,” I said. “He called his mommy to say how much fun he was having at the Magic Kingdom.”
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