NYPD Red (17 page)

DELIA CATES IS not the kind of cop who shows up at a crime scene just because the mayor is there. She’s smart enough to give her team enough time to pull together some information. When she got there, twenty minutes after the mayor left, we had plenty. Some of it downright scary.

“Give me what you’ve got,” she said.

“The shooter was Benoit’s girlfriend, Alexis Carter, a.k.a. Lexi. Her cell phone is a treasure trove. Nothing is password-protected,” I said. “From what we can put together from the texts between her and Benoit, she knew what he was up to, but she didn’t go with him when he killed Roth, Stewart, or Schuck.”

“She definitely made up for it this time around.”

“All of it behind her boyfriend’s back. Benoit had no idea she was going to pull this. In his last few messages he was looking for her frantically. And you were right. They’re plotting out a movie. We found the script for this scene in her purse. It had two endings.”

“One where she gets away, and one where she dies tragically?” Cates said.

“No. One where she gets away, and one where she gets caught by NYPD Red, and she stands up to us, protecting her man.”

“With Tammy Wynette on the sound track?” Cates said.

“She even uses my name and Zach’s in the script,” Kylie said, unfolding one of the pages we found in Lexi’s purse. “Her character is called Pandemonia Passionata. I’ll give you some of the dialogue.”

“That’s the way she saw this going down?” Cates said. “We either catch her, or she gets away? Did she ever write the ending the way it happened?”

Kylie shook her head. “No. She was blissfully delusional to the very end.”

“We need the rest of the script,” Cates said. “Do you have any idea where it is?”

“It may be in her computer, but she has an out-of-state license and all her last known addresses in New York are dead ends,” I said. “But we do have something. Remember Cheryl Robinson predicted that Benoit is about to do something big—much bigger than the previous murders? Listen to this.”

I pushed the message retrieval button on Lexi’s cell phone.

“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?”

“Forty-five thousand?” Cates said. “That’s a lot of C4.”

“It’s enough to call in Homeland and anybody else we need to help us track him down,” I said.

“I don’t want to track him. I want to be three steps ahead of him.”

“Zach and I have a list of all the events happening connected to Hollywood on the Hudson. But they’re spread all over town—hotels, theaters, restaurants, private parties. I don’t think we can find enough bomb-sniffing dogs to handle it all.”

“Can Benoit do this on his own?” Cates said. “It’s one thing to rig a Molotov cocktail, but that’s a lot of plastic for him to be handling without his resident bomb guy. We’ve got Peltz in custody. We can hold him for seventy-two hours.”

“That might slow him down, but I don’t know if it will stop him,” I said. “Benoit is smart. He had to figure we’d be paying a visit to a bomb expert who just got out of prison. That’s why he didn’t leave the explosives at Peltz’s place. More likely he used Peltz to score the fireworks and give him a short course in how to use them. C4 is not all that complicated.”

“Well, if Peltz taught Benoit how to use that plastic, then Peltz would have to know what the targets are,” Cates said. “Get back to the station as soon as you can wrap it up here and put the fear of God into Mr. Peltz.”

“Are we still waiting for his PO to show up?” Kylie asked.

“That’s the rule, isn’t it?” Cates said. “Don’t question the parolee without his parole officer present.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kylie said. “That’s the rule.”

“And you of all people ought to know, Detective MacDonald…some rules are meant to be broken.”

IT WAS A half hour before shift change when we finally got back to the station house, and a steady stream of people were either coming, going, or waiting to speak to the desk sergeant.

The One Nine is one of the busiest precincts in the city, and it takes an old pro like Bob McGrath to man the front desk.

When we got there, he was dealing with two women in their early twenties—one of them an amazingly beautiful Latina. Four more civilians were stacked up in a holding pattern.

Kylie and I went to the front of the line.

“Sorry to interrupt, Sarge,” I said, “but Captain Cates sent a patrol car to pick up this guy Mickey Peltz in Queens. Did they?”

“Yeah, Detective, hold on, I got his intake sheet here somewhere,” McGrath said. “Either of you two guys
habla español?
”

“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!”

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.

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.