Gabriel’s fist connected with Spence’s nose, and the screams were replaced by the sound of cartilage crunching and snapping. He pulled Spence’s head back and violently wrapped the duct tape around his mouth three times.
“You not only took my idea,” Gabriel said, holding up the object of Spence’s terror. “You took my life. And now, guess what, pretty boy? It’s payback time.”
Chapter 69
THERE ARE THREE dozen dogs in NYPD’s Emergency Services K-9 Unit. Half of them work narcotics, the other half are bomb sniffers. A few have been cross-trained to find cadavers. Even in a city the size of New York, on any given day, eighteen bomb-sniffing dogs would be more than enough.
But this was not any given day.
I called Sergeant Kyle Warren, the K-9 coordinator for all of NYPD. He’s only thirty-two years old, but he’s been training dogs since he was ten. I laid out the problem, and all he said was “I’m on it.”
Two hours later, Warren called back. He had recruited dogs from the state police in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, and from as far north as the Ulster County Sheriff’s Department. By 5:00 p.m., our K-9 contingent was up to thirty-two.
Kylie and I were at the precinct, sticking pushpins into a map of the city that was tacked to a corkboard wall. Since we didn’t have enough dogs to cover every possible target, we had to decide which of them warranted a canine handler to be stationed there full-time, and which could be swept and then have the dog sent on to the next venue.
“I think Spence is right,” Kylie said. “The meatpacking district has to be the prime target. It’s where most of your A-listers are going to be. We should have at least half a dozen bomb-sniffing dogs working this area.”
“Knowing those A-listers,” I said, “I’ll bet we’d hit the jackpot if we sent in a couple of narco dogs as well.”
Kylie’s cell rang. Except it wasn’t her usual ringtone.
“Has my husband lost his mind?” she said. “It’s a Skype call from Spence. Does he really think I have nothing better to do than video-chat?”
“Consider yourself lucky,” I said. “He only calls me in the middle of the night.”
She held up her iPhone and connected to Skype.
“Oh my God. Zach…”
I looked over her shoulder. There on the iPhone screen was Spence, bound, gagged, and sitting totally naked in a chair.
“Spence…” was all Kylie could get out.
And then Gabriel Benoit stepped into the picture.
“Hello, Detective MacDonald. And there’s your sidekick, Detective Jordan, right behind you. I don’t know if you found my apartment yet,” Benoit said, “but I found yours.”
“What do you want?” Kylie said.
“I want you to suffer the same way you made me suffer. Do you know who that woman was that you killed this morning?”
“She was a cold-blooded murderer,” Kylie said. “She opened fire on a bunch of defenseless people.”
“Lexi was as innocent as a child,” Benoit said. “If she killed anyone, it’s because they deserved it.”
“What do you want?” Kylie repeated.
“Do you know how painful it is to lose someone you love?” Benoit asked.
Kylie didn’t answer.
“You’re about to find out,” he taunted.
He held up a fat block of C4 to the camera. There was a digital timer taped to it with one black wire and one white wire, both connected to a detonator buried deep in the plastic.
“You have thirty minutes,” Benoit said. “And then I will have taken from you, the same way you have taken from me.”
He pushed a button. The digital timer flashed 29:59 and began to count down the seconds. When it got to 29:55, he removed it from view, and once again we were looking at Kylie’s living room. Five seconds later, he hung up.
The screen went dark, but the last image I had seen would forever be burned onto my brain. Spence Harrington, naked, totally helpless, taped to a chair in his own apartment, alone and afraid, waiting to die.
Chapter 70
KYLIE BOLTED.
I grabbed a radio and was right behind her, taking the stairs two at a time.
“I need a PPV!” she yelled at Sergeant McGrath as she careened into the front desk and pushed aside a civilian. “Two-one-seven in progress.”
McGrath didn’t hesitate. If there was any bad blood from the earlier meeting, it was forgotten. A Two-one-seven was an assault with intent to kill, and Kylie was clearly a cop on a mission.
“Sixty-four Forty-two,” he said. “Chevy Caprice out front. Fastest PPV we got. Keys are in it.”
Kylie flew out the door and raced for the Chevy. She opened the front door, and I grabbed her by the arm.