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
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.