NYPD Red (15 page)

KYLIE AND I went to the office and tried to figure out where Benoit might strike next.

It was only Day Three of Hollywood on the Hudson week, which meant the city would be chock-full of potential victims between now and the time they all headed west on Friday.

We called Mandy Sowter, the public information officer, at home and told her to fax us a list of everyone who was invited, and to flag the targets with the highest profiles. We also asked for the schedule of events.

“You realize that the PI office will only have access to the official schedule they get from the film commission,” I said. “There’s probably going to be fifty more private meetings, lunches, and cocktail parties that aren’t on her list.”

“And Shelley Trager will know about every one of them,” Kylie said. Without missing a beat, she speed-dialed Spence and asked him to get us the names, times, and venues of every event, big or small, that Trager was aware of.

Ten minutes later, Spence phoned back. I could hear only Kylie’s end of the conversation. “Okay, okay, tell him we’ll be there.”

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“Spence called Shelley. He’s happy to help, but he also told Spence to remind us that the memorial service for Ian Stewart is this morning, and he expects to have police presence there.”

“That actually sounds like a good idea,” I said.

“Glad you agree, because even if you didn’t, I’d have to go as Mrs. Spence Harrington,” Kylie said.

Ten minutes later, Karen Porcelli called from Records. Kylie put her on speaker.

Anybody who handles explosives has to register with NYPD, so Porcelli had no trouble tracking down all six men on the list.

“You’re going to love this,” Porcelli said. “One of them was just released from the Adirondack Correctional Facility in Ray Brook. His name is Mickey Peltz.”

“What was he in for?” Kylie asked.

“He siphoned off some of the studio’s money earmarked for explosives, bought cheap crap, and blew off somebody’s arm. They had him on grand larceny and assault one, but he pled it down to assault two and took four years.”

“Any connection to Benoit?” Kylie asked.

“They’ve worked on at least half a dozen different productions together. No record of Benoit visiting him in prison.”

“Where do we find Mr. Peltz?”

“I checked with Corrections. They have him at 33-87 Skillman Avenue in Long Island City. Fifth floor. I’ll email you his PO’s contact info along with last known addresses on the other five special effects guys, but based on Peltz’s prior, I’d put him at the top of your list.”

“Thanks, Karen. I owe you one,” Kylie said and hung up.

“And I guess I owe Spence one,” I said. “We’ll pick up Peltz on our way back from the memorial service.”

Cates didn’t arrive till after eight. Even on an easy day, she’s there by six.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, “but I really needed to treat myself to a mani-pedi this morning.”

Bullshit. She must have spent the morning being chewed out by the mayor, the commissioner, or both.

“What did Cheryl Robinson think?” Cates said.

“She thinks Benoit is crazy and you’re smart,” I said.

“It’s nice to know somebody thinks I’m smart. Did she happen to mention why?”

“She likes your he’s-writing-a-script theory, and she agrees that he’s probably planning something bigger than anything we’ve seen,” I said. “We have a list of possible targets and venues.”

“We also have a lead on someone who might have helped Benoit build that Molotov cocktail,” Kylie said.

We told her about Mickey Peltz.

“Zach and I are just leaving for the memorial service for Ian Stewart,” Kylie said. “Once it’s over we’ll swing around to Long Island City and bring Peltz in for questioning.”

“I’d rather telescope the time,” Cates said. “I’ll send some uniforms to pick up Mr. Peltz.”

“That’s okay,” Kylie said. “We can get him. It won’t take that long.”

“Relax, Detective MacDonald,” Cates said. “I’ll just have the uniforms bring him in and put him in an interrogation room. I’m not going to ask another team to question him. I’ll keep him on ice until you two get back.”

Kylie gave the boss a half smile. “Sorry,” she said. “Was it that obvious that I’m obsessed with this case and hate to let go of anything connected to it?”

“Yes, but given a choice between having a cop who is crazy possessive and one who doesn’t give a shit,” Cates said, “I’ll take the crazy one every time.”

“In that case, Captain, I have good news,” I said. “Detective MacDonald is as crazy as they come.”

GABRIEL WAS BACK on the number 7 train. His backpack was empty except for the Glock, which was loaded. Maybe he should have taken a cab, but the odds of a cop stopping a blue-eyed, sandy-haired white boy to search his backpack were slim.

Plus, he liked the rattle and the rhythm of New York’s underground. He lowered his eyes to half-mast, but did not completely shut them.

I’d like to thank the members of the Academy. Best screenplay, best actor, best director—and now best picture. I’d also like to thank my amazing girlfriend, who believed in me when nobody else did. I’d tell you her name, but then I’d have to kill you.

Gabriel laughed out loud and peered through narrow slits at his fellow passengers. None of them cared or dared to look at the laughing weirdo. New Yorkers know better.

“Man, you look like shit,” he said when Mickey opened the door. The old man’s long, lanky body was stooped, his face wan, and a few wispy hairs hung from his protruding chin. “Kind of like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, only about eighty years from now.”

“Thanks. I’ve been up all night putting your stuff together,” Mickey said.

“You got the goods?”

“Mickey Peltz never disappoints.”

Mickey led Gabriel to his workbench, where the blocks of C4 were neatly stacked. There were also spools of wire, two boxes of blasting caps, four digital timers, and four remotes.

“This is all you need and more,” Mickey said.

“I’m going to need a crash course in demolition,” Gabe said.

“Easy peasy.” Mickey picked up a block of C4 and smashed it down hard on the workbench. Gabriel jumped.

“First rule. Don’t be afraid of this stuff,” he said, handing Gabriel the block of plastic. “It won’t go off by accident. You can mold it, cut it, even fire a bullet into it, and it won’t detonate. It takes a combination of extreme heat and a shock wave, which is what your blasting caps are for. You with me?”

Gabriel slammed the C4 against the top of the workbench. “With you.”

Peltz was a good teacher, and for the next forty minutes he gave Gabriel a tutorial in the art of blowing things up.

“Not as easy peasy as you think,” Gabriel said. “There’s a lot to keep track of.”

“I have a solution,” Mickey said. “Take me along with you. I’ll work dirt cheap.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just playing it safe, Mick. You’re on parole. Your PO can walk in here anytime and turn this place inside out without a warrant. You get seen carrying a duffel bag, and any cop can do a stop and search. I don’t want my go-to pyrotechnician to spend the next twenty years in prison.”

“I don’t have twenty years,” Mickey said. “I might not even have twenty months. I’ll bite down on a blasting cap before I ever go back.”

“Then why risk it?”

“Because this is what I do, and I lost my license to do it legally. I swear to God in heaven, Gabriel, these past two days have been the most fun I’ve had in years. I’m back doing what I love, and I just want to keep on doing it.”

“I can’t,” Gabriel said. “I’m sorry.”

Mickey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yeah, me too.” He opened a drawer and took out a three-ring binder.

“What’s that?”

“I was afraid you’d turn me down, but I figured even if I couldn’t be there with you, at least I could do something. So I put this together for you—no extra charge.”

He handed Gabriel the binder. The cover page said
The Art of Blowing Shit Up.

Inside it was filled with hand-drawn diagrams on graph paper. Alongside each illustration, Mickey had neatly hand-lettered simple instructions. “What to Do” was in black. “What Not to Do” was in red. It was a step-by-step recap of his tutorial. At the end was an appendix—more than a hundred pages of detailed information on explosives pulled together from scientific journals,
The Special Forces Demolition Training Handbook,
how-to websites, blogs, and of course that must-read for every wannabe revolutionary,
The Anarchist Cookbook.

“This is incredible,” Gabe said. “You did this for me?”

“No, I bought it at Bombs and Noble.” Mickey hawked up a laugh. “That’s funny, right? You can use that line in your movie. Of course I did it for you, asshole. I told you Mickey Peltz never disappoints.”

“Thanks. Let’s pack this stuff up.”

“You got about a hundred pounds here,” Mickey said. “Can you carry it?”

Gabriel pulled a retractable handle from his backpack, then rolled the bag on its in-line skate wheels. “I can pull it.”

Five minutes later, he stepped out of the lobby, leaned the bag against the side of the building, and took out his cell phone.

And then he saw it.

It turned the corner onto Skillman.
Cop car.

Gabe held his cell phone to his ear and pretended to talk while he watched the car.

It’s just cruising. Looking for bad guys.

Sure enough, it drove past him, and he took a deep breath.
If you only knew what’s in this bag.

Ten yards past the building, the driver hit the brake. Gabriel watched as the reverse lights came on and the cops backed up. The driver rolled down the window.

“Hey, buddy!” the cop yelled. “Stay right there.”

Gabriel froze.

TWO COPS GOT out of the car.

Gabe looked them over. One was male, young, and big. The other was male, young, and bigger.

Officer Bigger walked up to him. The other cop went inside.

“Is this 33-87 Skillman or 33-97? The building address is rubbed off.”

“I’m not really sure,” Gabe said. “I don’t live here.”

The other cop came back out.

“Danny, this is the place. The guy’s name is on the bell. Fifth floor.”

“Looks like my partner solved it,” Bigger said. “Have a good day, sir.”

“You too, officer,” Gabe said.

He watched them take the elevator, and then casually sauntered over to the patrol car. And there it was, painted in blue and white on the rear fender:
19 PCT
.

No wonder these guys had trouble finding this building. They’re from the 19th Precinct—the one Jordan and MacDonald work out of. This is no random parole check. They’re not just here to rattle Mickey’s cage. They’re trying to connect him to me.

Bag full of C4 or not, there was no going home now.

He walked to the corner, crossed Skillman Avenue, and leaned against a traffic light, where he could watch Mickey’s building and still stay out of sight.

Lexi was waiting for him at home. He called her. No answer. He tried her cell. Again no answer. He texted. Nothing.

Dammit. First she kills Fitzhugh, now she’s off the grid, and to top it all off, the cops have come for Mickey.

His heart was thumping. He dialed Lexi again. This time he waited for her voice mail to pick up. As usual, the outgoing message sounded chipper, perky, and happy.

“Hi, this is Lexi. I’m making some changes in my life right now. If I don’t return your call, then you’re one of the changes. Bye.”

“Lexi, it’s me. Things are turning to shit. I’m outside Mickey’s building, and the cops showed up. I’m pretty sure they’re going to pick up Mickey. I got forty-five thousand dollars’ worth of C4 in my bag, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop them. That’s all. Oh yeah, one more thing.
Where the fuck are you?
” he screamed.

Ten minutes later, the cops came out. Mickey was with them. No cuffs.

He’s not under arrest. They’re just bringing him in for questioning. I know Mickey. He’ll play dumb—won’t say a word.

But then his parole officer will show up and give him an ultimatum. Tell me what you know, and I won’t charge you with violating your parole. But if you clam up and I find out you were with Benoit, you’ll be back in Ray Brook in time for dinner.

Mickey would panic. He’d rather die than go back, and if the PO pushes him to the wall, he’ll give me up in a heartbeat.

LEXI WANTED TO scream.

Her calves were on fire, her toes were crushed, and every muscle in her lower back was in knots.

She hadn’t worn heels in years, and these four-inch, half-a-size-too-small black thrift-shop pumps were killing her. But she had no choice. Not only did they complete her disguise as a soulful Upper East Side mourner, but they gave her the added height that she needed to see the front of the funeral chapel.

As it turned out, her line of vision was perfect. The police had set up metal crowd-control barricades on the sidewalk just to the right of the funeral home entrance. And the crowd was much thinner than she expected—fewer than thirty fans—so she found a spot right in front.

She’d been standing there for ninety minutes, and she couldn’t even begin to count how many times Gabe had called or texted. She was dying to answer, but she couldn’t. She’d have to wait till the scene was over. Too bad he wasn’t open-minded enough to log onto TMZ so he could find out about these things right away. But just as well. She’d rather tell him herself over a couple of beers and maybe a nice foot massage. He’d be so crazy happy, he’d forget that whole stupid mess that happened in Jimmy Fitzhugh’s trailer.

The double doors to the funeral parlor swung open, and the uniformed doorman hooked them into place. The funeral director came out first, walking backward, hands gently guiding the highly polished mahogany coffin.

Lexi tensed. Almost on cue, her cell phone vibrated and she flinched. It was Gabriel trying to reach her for the trillionth time. No way she could pick up. She opened her purse, took out a tissue, and dabbed her eyes. She left the purse open and stood in solemn tearful tribute to the departed as he rolled toward the waiting hearse.

A few mourners exited the chapel behind the coffin. But they were nobodies. Like it said in the script—little fish.

And then the old Jewish guy stepped out. Shelley Trager. Edie Coburn was to his left, dressed to the eyeballs in her designer grieving widow’s finery. Bullshit. She hated Ian Stewart as much as anybody did. To Trager’s right was the young director, Muhlenberg. Lexi had seen his early indie work and thought,
Damn, this guy is good,
but he’d been making crap ever since he stepped up to the big leagues.

The trio stopped in the doorway, just out of line with the angle she needed for the perfect shot.

She reached into her purse, put her hand on the grip of Gabriel’s gun, and waited.

And then the cop showed up. The pretty one she had seen on TV. MacDonald. Right behind her was her husband, the TV producer. She knew them both on sight. Google images had hundreds of pictures of the happy couple.

She had planned on shooting only Trager. But now there were five of them.
Oh my God, can you imagine if I killed them all? Gabriel would be over the moon. That would more than make up for screwing up the robbery.

The lady cop and her husband caught up with Trager in the doorway. Lexi had no idea what they were talking about. Logistics, maybe. Like who’s going in which car.

The conversation lasted only a few seconds, and then Trager stepped out onto Madison Avenue. The others followed. Five of them, side by side, headed her way. She didn’t even know how many bullets were in the gun, but she’d bet there had to be at least five.

And action,
she said to herself.

Pandemonia Passionata pulled the Walther PPK out of her purse and opened fire.