“I can habla un poco,” Kylie said.
“No good,” McGrath said. “All cops can habla un poco. This lady here is from Colombia. She speaks zero English, and her friend speaks no Spanish.”
“I’m not really her friend,” the woman said. “She was staying in the apartment next door, and I just brought her here. I was only trying to be a Good Samaritan. Somebody stole her passport and—”
“Lady, stop,” McGrath said. “I got the English part down. Give me two seconds to rustle up a cop who speaks Spanish.”
“Can I get through, Sergeant?”
It was the Pepsi deliveryman pushing a dolly stacked high with cases of soda for the vending machines.
“Your truck better not be blocking any of my squad cars out there, Vernon,” McGrath said as he waved him through with one hand.
“And your cops better not be putting any more slugs in my soda machine,” the Pepsi man said, laughing.
McGrath turned the wave into a single finger and used the other hand to rummage through the pile of paper on top of his desk, looking for the one on Peltz.
“Excuse me, but I have to pick up my son from school in a half hour,” the Good Samaritan lady said.
“I understand, ma’am,” McGrath said. Looking over his shoulder, he yelled, “Donna, did you give a shout out for Rodriguez or Morales? I still need a Spanish translator over here.”
A civilian in the glass-walled office behind him rolled her chair to the door so she could yell back. “They’re both busy, Sarge!”
“I’m not buying it,” McGrath said, still digging through the mountain of paper. “They’re on a meal break. Call them back, and this time make sure you tell them what this young lady looks like.”
I was getting annoyed by all the interruptions, and one look at my partner let me know she was even more aggravated than I was. I could see her clenching her jaw, which helped keep her mouth shut.
McGrath caught the frustration. “Sorry, guys, Peltz has been here awhile. His paperwork got buried.”
He kept looking while a small parade of people left the station, pushing their way through the swinging half gate that separates the front desk from the waiting area—three cops carrying oversized duffel bags; Victor, the delivery guy from Gerri’s Diner; a priest; and a battle-weary older man in a rumpled blue suit who had poor man’s lawyer written all over him.
McGrath’s head bobbed up and down eyeballing everyone who entered or exited. Finally, he yanked a single blue sheet of paper from the pile. “Peltz, comma, Mickey,” he said triumphantly. There was a yellow Post-it note stuck to the top. He squinted at it. “And his PO called at one-oh-five. He’s still tied up in court. Asked you guys to hold off till he gets here.”
“Not a chance,” Kylie said, taking the blue sheet. “Not after what went down this morning. Where’s Peltz?”
“Yo, Sarge. ¿Dónde está la hermosa mujer?”
It was Officer Morales, his dark eyes already zeroing in on the beautiful Colombian woman. He tightened his abs and puffed out his chest, all hot to translate.
Officer Rodriguez was right behind him. “Sarge, he’s Puerto Rican. They don’t even speak real Spanish down there. My father was from Colombia. I’ll talk to her.”
“Morales was here first, but as long as you’re not busy,” McGrath said, digging into his pocket and handing Rodriguez two dollars, “run upstairs and get me a Diet Pepsi.”
“Sergeant,” I said. “We’re in a crunch. Where’s Peltz?”
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s a zoo in here. He’s…”
I heard a crashing noise, and then the Spanish woman screamed. “Dios mío…” She pointed over my shoulder.
McGrath’s head snapped around. “What the fuck?”
I turned and saw a man staggering toward us, his arms flailing, his body in spasms, banging into walls, spewing vomit as he went. Ten feet from the desk, he pitched face-forward to the floor. Officer Rodriguez was the first one at his side, his fingers searching for a pulse.
“Peltz,” McGrath said.
“He’s dead,” Rodriguez added, both of them confirming what I already knew.
“Shit,” McGrath said, pounding his fist on the desk. Then he pointed to the front door and bellowed out an order. “Somebody stop that fucking priest!”
Chapter 65
GETTING IN TO see Mickey hadn’t even been a challenge, The Chameleon thought to himself.
The cop at the front desk was busy, but it’s amazing how fast you can go to the head of the line if you’re wearing a black shirt, white collar, and gold cross.
“I’m Father McDougal,” Gabriel said once he read the name tag on McGrath’s uniform. “One of my parishioners called me. Mickey Peltz. He was recently released from prison, and he’s been very careful to stay on the straight and narrow, and now he’s concerned that he’s in trouble with the police. What did he do, if I may ask?”
“As far as I can tell, Father, nothing,” McGrath said. “He’s not under arrest. He’s just in here to answer a few questions for the detectives investigating an ongoing case.”
“Oh, he’ll be so relieved. He really is a good man. I truly believe his past is behind him. He found the Lord while he was in prison.”
“A lot of them do, Father.”
“My job is to make sure something like this doesn’t shake his faith. Do you mind if I sit with him for a few minutes and give him some spiritual guidance, and perhaps something to quench his thirst?”
Gabriel held up a clear plastic bottle of Poland Spring.
“Is that holy water, Father?” the cop said.
“No,” Gabriel said, “but at two bucks for a sixteen-ounce bottle, you would think that His Holiness Himself had blessed it.”
The cop laughed out loud. What Irishman doesn’t love a funny priest? “Donna, please take Father McDougal back to Room Two.”
The Chameleon gave the cop his most sincere Christian smile. Permission to kill Mr. Peltz granted. Hallelujah.
Mickey, of course, was thrilled to see him. He swore up and down he wouldn’t say a word about anything to anyone.
“You wouldn’t lie to a priest, would you my son?” Gabe said.
Mickey let loose one of his signature raspy laughs and sucked down half a bottle of the Poland Spring.
“I’m just here for moral support,” Gabriel said, “and to let you know that if you need a lawyer, don’t take one of their court-appointed hacks. I have the money to spring for a real one.”
“Thanks,” Mickey said. “You’re a good friend, Gabe.”
And those were probably the last words Mickey Peltz ever uttered.
Getting out of the station was cake. Gabriel fell in behind a trio of cops and breezed right past the desk sergeant and out the front door. Less than thirty seconds later, he had peeled off his neat little goatee, the clerical shirt and collar, balled them up along with the Bible and the cross he wore around his neck, and shoved them all into a trash basket.
There was a street vendor on the southeast corner of Third Avenue and 67th Street hawking sunglasses, batteries, and “genuine pashmina” for only five dollars. His beat-up Dodge van was parked behind the stand, and Gabriel positioned himself so he could look west toward the precinct yet remain completely out of sight.
Now he was wearing a red and white Rutgers T-shirt and trying on a pair of wraparound shades as half a dozen cops came storming out of the precinct. MacDonald was in the lead. She looked left, then right, then whacked a fist into her palm once she realized she’d lost him.
She was the bitch who killed Lexi. The press didn’t give her name—just “plainclothes female cop”—but that was all Gabriel needed.
He had walked right past her, no more than a few inches away. But even if he could have strangled her right there on the spot, he wouldn’t have. Hot-shit Detective Kylie MacDonald was about to live through the same pain and agony she’d put him through.
This one’s for you, Popcorn Girl.
Chapter 66
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THE PRECINCT WAS now officially a crime scene. Technically, we couldn’t move Peltz until he’d been scraped, probed, and swabbed. And since nothing says sloppy police work like a dead guy on the precinct floor, we quickly tacked up a tarp to hide the body from the public.
“If it were up to me, I’d just drag him back to the holding room,” Kylie said. “Do we really need forensics to tell us that Benoit poisoned him? Probably with the same stuff he used to kill Roth.”
The two of us, along with Cates, McGrath, and his direct boss, Lieutenant Al Orton, were all crammed into Donna Thorson’s office. She’s the civilian employee who worked behind the front desk. It was hot and uncomfortable in more ways than one.
Kylie turned to McGrath. “How did Benoit get in?”
McGrath is a big man. Burly, with thick graying hair and a wide Irish grin. He can either be a welcoming presence at the front desk or an intimidating one. Like I said, an old pro. He looked straight at Kylie and spoke quietly, calmly.
“He told me he was a priest. He looked like a priest. He said, ‘Peltz is one of my parishioners. Can I sit with him and give him some spiritual guidance?’ Based on what I knew, Peltz wasn’t under arrest. He wasn’t even here on a parole violation. He was just cooling his heels, waiting to talk to you and his PO. So to answer your question, Detective, he got in because I let him in. I’m the wolf at the door, and I said yes, because as far as I could see, there was no reason to say no. But if you’re looking for someone to take the fall, put it on me.”
Orton stepped in. “Hold on, Bob. Detective, you’re new here. The One Nine has worked with NYPD Red since they moved in, and by and large it works well. We’ve got a protocol up front. It starts with ‘serve and protect.’ We don’t harass civilians. We don’t frisk them or tell them to dispose of all liquids beyond this point. We’re not the TSA. Sergeant McGrath is a decorated cop with eighteen years, and he did his job by the book. What happened was not his—”
“Al, it was my fault,” Cates said. “I screwed up. I didn’t want a lot of radio chatter going out, so I never told the uniforms who Peltz was or why they were bringing him in. But we ran into some bad luck. Benoit saw the pickup. Once I found that out, I should have called and had Peltz locked up. It never crossed my mind that Benoit would show up here and kill Peltz to keep him from talking.”
“Talking about what?” Orton said.
“Benoit scored enough C4 to do some serious damage.”
“Do we have any idea where?”
“No, but I’m sure Peltz did, which is why he is now dead.”
“If it’s connected to this Hollywood week, how many venues can there be?” Orton asked.
“At last count, sixty-three,” I said. “And right now, K-9 only has eighteen available dogs. Without Peltz to point to the target—or targets—there’s no way we can cover even half of them.”
“In that case, I’m going to have to prioritize,” Cates said. “Start with the functions being held at hotels or other public spaces.”
“The bigger targets are more likely to be at private parties,” Kylie said. “I know that the Friars Club is—”
“Detective MacDonald,” Cates said sharply. “I appreciate the fact that the bigwigs are bigger targets, and I realize you may be close to some of them, but our first responsibility is to the people of New York. I want those dogs zeroing in on any event where one of our taxpaying citizens could become collateral damage. Understood?”
“Yes, Captain.”
Cates didn’t respond. She marched out the door and up the stairs to her office. Her mea culpa was over. She was all business.
Chapter 67
AFTER FORTY-FIVE MINUTES of weight training, twenty minutes on the rowing machine, and another forty-five on the treadmill, Spence Harrington was dripping with sweat. He peeled off his clothes and carefully studied every inch of his body in the mirror that filled one entire wall of his home gym.
He had a body mass index of twenty and was trying to drive it down to the teens. Not bad for a guy who could smell forty a few birthdays away. One of the pluses of giving up bad habits was being able to build a body that looked this good naked. He wasn’t sure who liked looking at it more—him or Kylie.
He padded to the bathroom, tossed his wet gym clothes in the hamper, took a ten-minute shower, toweled himself dry, and crawled into bed.
Spence had the fifteen-minute power nap down to a science, and he set the timer on his iPhone for sixteen minutes. He was asleep before the first sixty seconds had ticked off. A quarter of an hour later, he awoke to the familiar sound of Sonny and Cher singing “I Got You, Babe,” a ringtone homage to his favorite movie, Groundhog Day.
The thermostats throughout the three-bedroom apartment were set at sixty-four degrees, and as soon as he tossed the top sheet off, the cool air puffed playfully on his warm skin. He sank back down into the pillow and ran a hand along his belly until it settled between his legs. He cupped himself and inhaled deeply. He and Kylie hadn’t had sex since she started her new job. He closed his eyes, pictured her naked in bed next to him, and immediately felt himself grow hard.
Nothing like exercise, a hot shower, and a near-death experience to get a guy horny, he thought as he removed his hand and sat up on the edge of the bed. He picked up the phone and called his wife.
“How you doing?” she said.
“I’m showered, naked, and as randy as a billy goat on a Viagra binge,” he said. “How about you?”
“Fabulous. I just spent the last two hours with my masseuse. Oh, no wait, that was Internal Affairs debriefing me after the shooting to see if I’m suffering from post-traumatic stress, or if I’m still fit for duty.”
“And?”
“Bad news, Goat Boy. I’m on the job till we catch this bastard. How is Shelley holding up?”
“He’s as happy as Heloise on double coupon day. His doc gave him some pain meds, and he went back to the office and got a call from Electronic Arts. They’re one of the biggest video game companies on the planet, and after the shoot-out this morning, they suddenly got interested in us.”
“That was fast,” Kylie said.
“That’s the game biz. Anyway, they asked if they could send a couple of developers tonight to check out the pilot. And you know how Shelley’s brain works. He said yes, then immediately called a dozen other video game developers, and now Sony and Nintendo will be there too.”
“Spence, Benoit has explosives,” Kylie said. “There aren’t enough cops or dogs to go around, and a private party won’t be one of our priorities. Make sure Shelley hires some security.”
“I already told him that, but he’s not worried.”
“Somebody shot him,” Kylie said. “Doesn’t he think it could happen again?”
“No. He thinks the girl just wanted to shoot at a bunch of movie and TV people, and she figured she’d nail somebody famous at Ian’s memorial. But as far as Shelley is concerned, all he’s having tonight is a private meeting with a bunch of boring business guys. The real glitzy stuff with the loud music and the boldface names will be at Kiss and Fly, 230 Fifth, Tenjune—places like that. That’s where you should be looking for this nut job—hold on a sec, someone’s ringing up from downstairs.”
He pushed star zero to get the intercom. “Who is it?”
“Hey, Mr. Harrington. It’s Trevor from the Silvercup mailroom. I got a package for you—looks like script changes.”
“Bring it up, Trev. Seventh floor. Thanks.”
He clicked back.
“Who was that?” Kylie said.
“The escort service is here. I called them a few hours ago. Ordered up a hooker.”
“How did you know I wouldn’t be there?”
“I didn’t. In fact, I was hoping we could make it a three-way.”
“You’re terrible.”
“That’s why you love me.”
“Have fun with your hooker and your video games,” Kylie said.
“And you be careful chasing b
ad guys. I love you.”
“Love you too. Got to go.”
The doorbell rang, and Kylie hung up. Spence grabbed a pillow, put it in front of him, and hustled to the door.
“Hey, Trevor, I’m not dressed,” he said. “Can you just slide it under the door?”
“It’s too thick,” Trevor said, “but how about if I just drop it in front of the door and go.”
“Perfect.”
“No problem, sir. Have a nice night.”
Spence put an ear to the door and listened as the envelope hit the carpet. Trevor walked to the elevator. It was already parked at seven, so the doors opened immediately. They closed, and the elevator went down to the lobby.
Still holding the pillow in front of him, Spence stepped outside, bent down, and reached for the envelope.
The Chameleon, hugging the wall outside the door, pointed the stun baton at Spence’s right shoulder and squeezed the trigger. One million volts surged through Spence Harrington’s body and dropped him to the floor.
“Like I told you, Spence,” Gabriel said. “Script changes. Your part just got a lot bigger.”
Chapter 68
“IT’S AMAZING HOW easy it is to buy one of these stun batons,” Gabriel said as he pulled Spence’s body across the threshold. “Only fifty bucks on the Internet. The real pain in the ass was getting it delivered. Can you believe that Tasers and stuns are legal in forty-four states, but they can’t be shipped to goddamn New York? Or Jersey.”
He kicked the front door shut and dragged Spence into the living room.
“But you got to love these companies that sell shit like this on the Web. Right there on their site, in big red type, it says, ‘Do you live in a prohibited delivery zone? Don’t worry. Give us an alternate shipping address from any legal area and we can still ship it for you!’ So I drive to Connecticut, where they’re allowed, except that they’re restricted to in-home use. But I figure I’m legal because I’m only zapping you here in your home.” Gabriel laughed.