NYPD Red (14 page)

CAPTAIN DELIA CATES sat in silent meditation with her right elbow digging into the arm of her desk chair, her mouth and chin resting on the knuckles of her right hand. It’s the classic pose of Rodin’s statue
The Thinker,
which also happens to be the squad’s favorite nickname for her.

And when the boss lady is in statue mode, everyone else in the room shuts up and gives her time to think. Which is exactly what Kylie and I were doing.

“He’s making a movie,” Cates said for the third time. “Without any camera equipment.”

“He’s making it in his head,” I said, also for the third time.

“That’s the part I’ve been wrestling with. It doesn’t make sense.”

“The man is crazy, boss,” I said. “We can’t expect sense from a guy whose last known address is a loony bin.”

“What about the Ian Stewart murder and the Brad Schuck bombing?” Cates said. “That’s not in his head. Both of those are on film.”

“Yeah, but for the most part he’s acting everything out live.”

“That’s called a play, Zach, not a movie.”

“We will happily point out the difference to Mr. Benoit when we arrest him.”

“And when will that be?” Cates said. “You’ve got his name, you’ve got his photo, you’ve got a lead on his girlfriend—how long before you nail this maniac?”

“Captain, we’re working on it around the clock, but he’s smart.”

“No, Detective, you were right the first time. He’s crazy. Talk to Cheryl Robinson and see if she can help us figure out what’s going on inside his head. Where would he hide, where could he strike next? Run it all past her.”

“I’ve already left messages at her office and on her cell,” I said. “If she doesn’t get back to me tonight, I’ll catch up with her first thing in the morning.”

Cates turned to Kylie. “You’re in the biz. What do you make of all this?”

“I’m not ‘in the biz.’ That’s my husband,” Kylie said. “But I’ve met hundreds of people who are totally immersed in it, and most of them are riddled with insecurity. They walk around as if they’re always being judged. And you know what, Captain—they are.”

“We’re all being judged,” Cates said.

“Not like this,” Kylie said. “Let’s say you sell cars for a living. Someone takes a test-drive, and when it’s over, they look you in the eye and say, ‘This car sucks. I’m not buying it.’ That doesn’t mean they hate you. They just don’t like your product. But in show business, the product most people are selling is themselves.”

“So they take every rejection personally,” Cates said.

“Exactly. And Gabriel Benoit has been kicking around the fringes of this business for years—overlooked, undervalued, ignored, rejected, tossed aside. He keeps on trying, but he’s never broken through.”

“Well, he sure as shit is making up for it now,” Cates said. “Find him.”

Kylie and I know an exit cue when we hear one. We both stood up. But Cates held up her hand and waved us back down in our chairs.

“I’ve been thinking,” The Thinker said. “Maybe Mr. Benoit isn’t so crazy after all. Maybe he
is
shooting a movie.” Cates paused. “Okay, maybe not
shooting
it, but laying it all out. Writing the script for it. Right now, millions of people are caught up in his story. It’s got action, drama, suspense, and everyone is on the edge of their seat waiting to see how it ends. Overnight, this overlooked, undervalued
extra
person has gone from show business loser to world-famous serial killer.”

“But he’s the only one who gets to see himself in the movie,” Kylie said.

“For now,” Cates said. “But by the time we get to the final act, don’t you think that every studio on both coasts will be offering up millions to buy the rights?”

“Captain, he would never see a penny of it. It’s the Son of Sam law. A criminal can’t profit from—” Kylie stopped short. “Oh shit! How did we not think of that?”

Cates smiled. “It looks like Detective MacDonald just had a come-to-Jesus moment.”

“And I’m about three seconds behind her,” I said. “Benoit doesn’t care about the money. He doesn’t need any camera equipment. He’s writing a script. Somebody else will make the movie.”

“His movie,” Cates said. “Starring Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp or George Clooney as Gabriel Benoit. And from the looks of things, he’s well on his way to getting it made.”

“Captain,” Kylie said, “if you’re right, then we’re just in the middle of Act Two, and I’m willing to bet he’s got a hell of a blockbuster finale planned out for Act Three.”

Nobody took the bet.

KYLIE AND I holed up in the office and started digging into all things Gabriel Benoit. We were eating sandwiches from Gerri’s Diner when we got word that Brad Schuck died without ever coming out of his coma.

It didn’t change anything. I updated his file and went back to work. It was after 9:00 p.m. when Cheryl Robinson finally returned my call.

“Zach, I just got your message,” she said talking loudly. The background was noisy. Happy noisy. “I’m out to dinner, my phone was buried in my purse—sorry. What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a suspect, and Captain Cates would like you to jump in and try to get inside this guy’s head.”

“Give me a top line.”

“Gabriel Benoit, thirty-four, only child, born in Stuttgart, Germany, father was an officer in army intelligence. Family bounced around—South Korea, Alabama, Georgia—and eventually Dad wound up at the Pentagon. Gabriel went to high school in northern Virginia, where he was a B student with a keen interest in film studies. Dropped out of college in his freshman year. After that, it’s spotty till he moves to New York, where he’s in hundreds of movie and TV productions, using his real name and Social Security number. Two years ago, his mailing address changed from an apartment to a PO box, and finally to a mental health facility, which is where we tracked him, but he vacated a few months ago.”

“Two years ago he either became so paranoid he didn’t want anyone to find him, or that’s when he started planning these murders,” Cheryl said.

“Or both,” I said.

“Email me whatever you have on him. I’ll try to make sense of it when I get home tonight and I’ll meet you at the diner in the morning. Is five too early?”

“Not for this case. Thanks, Doc. Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “He totally understands. He’s a cop too.”

She hung up.

He? She was having dinner with a guy? And he’s a cop? It sure as hell didn’t take her long to replace Fred.
I wondered how this guy felt about opera.

Kylie and I worked another two hours, and I crawled into bed at midnight. Four hours later, my cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was Kylie, but I knew better.

“Hello, Spence,” I said.

“This is not Spence,” Kylie said. “I read him the riot act yesterday. ‘If you have any bright ideas in the middle of the night, don’t wake Zach, wake me.’”

“Well, tell Spence thanks for not waking me,” I said.

“Listen up, I’m serious,” she said. “I brought home a copy of the video of Benoit tossing the Molotov. I’ve watched it a dozen times. Sometimes Spence is in the room, sometimes he’s not. Tonight he wakes me and says, ‘I just figured it out.’”

“Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick?”

“Zach, I know you think Spence is…I don’t know…creative. But this time I think he has something.”

“Sorry. I’m listening.”

“I don’t know about you, but when I watch that tape, I tend to zero in on Benoit. Spence did a freeze-frame on the Molotov cocktail. There’s no wick on it. No oily rag. No flame.”

“So?”

“So according to Spence, that’s one of the tricks of the trade. If the bottle is flaming, you can’t hand it to some megastar actor who’s insured for millions. Rather than have a stuntman stand in for the shot, they go wickless. We know Benoit had an accomplice in the robbery, so maybe his partner is a special effects guy.”

“I don’t mean to shoot down another one of Spence’s middle-of-the-night epiphanies, but any kid with a chemistry set and a mean streak can make a basic incendiary device—with or without a tampon for a wick. The simplest way is to take brake fluid, Drano—”

“A kid didn’t make this, Zach. Spence said it looks very professional, and whatever else you think about him, give him some credit for knowing the film business.”

“Kylie, let’s not argue. We’re both exhausted. Tell Spence I appreciate the input.”

“He gave me a list of special effects guys he thinks fit the specs. There are only six of them, and even if they’re all clean, one of them may see something in the video that points us to the guy who built it. I know it’s grasping at straws, but what other clues do we have?”

“Okay, I’m meeting with Cheryl Robinson in about an hour,” I said. “After that we can track down these special effects guys and talk to them.”

“You didn’t tell me you were meeting with the profiler,” Kylie said.

“I’m meeting her at five in the morning. I thought you might want to get some sleep.”

“Hell no. Besides, I’m awake now anyway. Where are you guys meeting?”

“Gerri’s Diner on Lex around the corner from the precinct.”

“Great. I’ll see you there. Order me some coffee and a toasted English.” She hung up.

And just like that, I had plans for breakfast. Just me, the beautiful old girlfriend I was trying to get over, and the beautiful new woman who, the more I thought about it, might be just what I needed to help me get over the old one.

I got down on the floor and unrolled my yoga mat.

I DECIDED I’D show up ten minutes late. I figured it would give Cheryl and Kylie a chance to get to know each other. I also thought that if I got there last, it might be less awkward—even though I was the only one who saw this little threesome
as
awkward.

I was wrong. As soon as I walked in the door, Gerri Gomperts came out from behind the counter and cornered me.

“What’s going on?” she said, wiping her hands on an apron that already showed the signs of a hectic morning behind the grill. “The lady shrink was waiting for you, and that other one plops down right next to her.”

“That’s
Detective
Other One to you,” I said. “She’s my new partner.”

“I don’t care who she is,” Gerri said. “Pick one.”

“Tough call,” I said. “They’re both smart, beautiful, and fun to be with.”

“Trust me, kid,” Gerri said. “Go for the one without the wedding ring.”

I ordered coffee and a bagel and sat down at the booth. Kylie and Cheryl were in the middle of an animated conversation. I don’t know what it is about women. They barely knew each other, and they were already bonding.

“I just let Cheryl in on Captain Cates’s theory,” Kylie said.

“And it’s frighteningly plausible,” Cheryl said.

“Did you get a chance to look at the backgrounder on Benoit?” I said.

“I went through it twice. The army officer father is always a red flag. I hate to stereotype, but that’s what profilers do. Military fathers can be hard on their sons. Gabriel probably had very little control over the events in his life, especially if Dad was abusive or controlled him to the extreme. He would develop significant rage, which he had to suppress in order to survive. So he created a world he could control—a world of fantasy.”

“I thought all kids had fantasies,” I said.

“We all had imaginary friends, but in Benoit’s case the movies he played out in his head became more reality than fantasy. He was the writer and the director. He controlled everything. The problem probably began when he started working in the real-world movie business.”

“Where he controlled nothing,” Kylie said.

“Exactly. He’s an extra, practically superfluous. It’s not his fault that he’s not a star. He blames those Hollywood people—especially the ones at the top. They’re the oppressive force preventing him from succeeding.”

“Let’s face it,” Kylie said. “In real life, those goons prevent a lot of people from succeeding.”

“And in real life they get away with it, but in Benoit’s script, he gets to kill them off.”

“Do you have any guess where he’ll hit next?” I said.

“Cates’s theory makes a lot of sense, and if she’s right, his next scenario will be huge. He started with a quiet little poisoning, escalated to a shooting, then ratcheted up to a firebomb with color commentary by Ryan Seacrest. Our boy is not going to go back to spiking someone’s tomato juice. He’s playing this out for his audience, and the murders will get more dramatic, more cinematic, and probably have a higher body count as he moves along. If I were talking to my fellow psychologists, I’d probably say he’s suffering from psychogenic paranoid psychosis. But cop to cop, he’s a sicko killer with a vendetta. And he’s about to do something really nasty, so get him off the streets fast.”

“Get him fast,” I repeated. “You’re starting to sound like our boss.”

Kylie’s cell rang.

“It’s Karen Porcelli from Central Records,” she said.

“At this hour?” I said.

“Right after you and I spoke, I left a message for Sergeant Porcelli to call me as soon as she got in. I want her to do background checks on the special effects guys Spence gave us. I’ll be right back.”

She stepped outside to take the call.

“She’s one dedicated cop,” Cheryl said. “And a terrific person to boot.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Doc. Thanks for the insight. Sorry to sandbag you with all this crap so late last night.”

“Don’t apologize. In my job, I live for sociopaths. Of course lovesick cops are my bread and butter,” she said playfully. “You and MacDonald will make a great team. If there’s anything I can do to help you get rid of that old baggage you’re hanging on to, just give me a buzz.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. “Maybe we can start with a little opera therapy.”

GABRIEL FONDLED THE Walther. He now realized it was too hot to ever use again, but it was like an ancient hound dog. Too old to hunt, but he loved it too much to get rid of it. He put it back in his closet, then tucked the Glock into his backpack.

“Where you going?” Lexi said. She was still in bed.

“Out.”

“You need a partner in crime?”

“I thought we had a deal,” Gabriel said. “Coproducers work on the script, supervise wardrobe and makeup…”

“Sleep with the director,” she said. “I thought maybe because the sex has been so good, you’d change your mind.”

He sat down on the bed, rested one palm on her breast, and kissed her lips softly. “The sex was so incredible, I just want to think of you lying here naked while I’m out,” he said.

“You’re full of shit,” she said, “but I love you for it. When will you be back?”

“A couple of hours.”

Excellent,
she thought.
The longer you’re gone, the better.

He left, locking the door behind him. She listened as the elevator arrived at their floor, the doors closed, and she could hear the whir of the motor as it descended to the lobby. Then she tiptoed to the window and watched him walk out the front door and down the street toward the subway.

She knew there was no way he’d let her go to Mickey’s with him, but she had to ask. If she didn’t ask, he’d get suspicious. That was her character. Now that he was gone, she was ready to become her new character.

She hadn’t been able to decide whether to call herself Pandemonia or Passionata, so she opted for both. She was Pandemonia Passionata, Satan’s beautiful lover.

She had found the perfect outfit in a thrift shop on Mulberry Street—a dull-looking gauzy black silk dress, trimmed with lace and velvet ribbon. It was at least fifty years old, and cost all of eighteen bucks. For another twelve she bought some jet-black beads and a little black ostrich feather hat with a black veil. She pinned her hair up, then carefully put on her makeup. The final touch was the lipstick—the brightest red she could find. Without that, she thought, the whole scene could have been shot in black and white.

She checked her watch. She still had plenty of time to get uptown and find a good spot.

She looked in the mirror.

Perfect. All she needed now was one last prop.

She went to Gabriel’s closet and took down the Walther.