Most Wanted

by Michele Martinez

  Extracting a small gold key from the pocket of his suit jacket, he knelt in the well under his desk and pulled up a piece of the custom-dyed Stark carpeting, exposing a small trapdoor. He unlocked it and reached his arm in, pulling out a manila envelope, then covered everything back up. A moment later he was seated at his desk, having selected and cued up a particular tape on the elaborate sound system concealed within his credenza.

  He had to fast-forward a bit to get to the spot he wanted.

  “…never do anything of the sort!” he heard his own voice saying. Why did he always sound so fucking nasal?

  His blood pressure shot up at the memory of this argument. God, he’d hated Jed. Hated him, and found his murder gratifying in the extreme. Dolan had been sitting in his big leather chair, just as he was now. Jed sat across from him, smug in a perfectly tailored, five-thousand-dollar Brioni suit. Dolan remembered just itching to take a crowbar and bash Jed’s handsome face to a bloody pulp.

  “Unfortunately, Dolan, you’ll find it’s necessary to protect your interests,” Jed’s recorded voice had said.

  “Twenty percent for nothing? That’s outrageous. Go fuck yourself! Get out of my office!”

  “My silence is not nothing. It’s highly valuable, a bargain at twice the price,” Jed had said smoothly. That phony-baloney baritone of his. So fucking full of himself. “With what I know about the transaction and my contacts in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, you’d be risking a nice long jail term, Dolan.”

  “You’re bluffing. I don’t think you have a fucking clue what went on with Securilex.”

  “Oh, really? I understand how the stock was manipulated better than you do. Would you like a summary?”

  Dolan punched “stop,” his chest heaving with fury. To his chagrin, Jed had proceeded to outline the transaction in minute detail. Looking back, of course, he realized Sarah had double-crossed him, had divulged everything to Jed. At the time he’d been positively flummoxed about that. Had no idea how Jed had found out. Never suspected her for an instant. He had to hand it to her—the girl was a truly gifted double agent. She put Mata Hari to shame. And, if he had anything to say about it, she’d meet the same fate as the famous spy. Death, ultimately, but only after a long and harrowing prison sentence. He’d get her convicted for Jed’s murder. This tape was the means to accomplish that. He fast-forwarded and hit “play.”

  “Of course,” Dolan had protested to Jed, “what you’re suggesting puts Sarah van der Vere at terrible risk. You realize that? She’ll be the innocent victim in all this.”

  “Hardly innocent. Sarah’s getting caught would be regrettable. She’s a charming young woman. But I always say, don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”

  Dolan hadn’t known then that Jed was fucking Sarah. The conversation was all the more remarkable now, in light of that knowledge. Jed hadn’t cared about her in the least. All the damage he’d done, and he never even cared.

  “Oh? I guess you don’t practice what you preach, then,” Dolan had said sarcastically.

  “What are you talking about? I had no role in Securilex.”

  Dolan felt a vein in his temple pulsing as he checked himself from shouting at Jed. Throwing all the dirt he knew about him in his smug fucking face. Because Dolan knew a lot. Jed had been a thorn in his side for long enough that he’d taken steps. Had him followed, investigated. He knew about the money laundering for sure. The rest, he guessed at. But he didn’t say anything just then. Wouldn’t be good poker.

  “So you’d let Sarah be ruined? Arrested, even?”

  “Cost of doing business,” Jed said with a nonchalant shrug.

  “Well,” Dolan said, “I’ll let her know you feel that way.”

  He never had, but he could say he did. Yes, it would do nicely. An excerpt of that tape, a few doctored e-mails, and a long, confessional suicide note from him. Presto, Sarah had motive. Jed had threatened to expose her, ruin her career. Sarah had come to Dolan seeking advice. Against his better judgment, he’d helped her arrange the murder. That last part would be more difficult to fake. He knew very little about murder contracts. But he kept a highly proficient private investigator on retainer. The man, to be effective, naturally had underworld contacts. He could surely provide sufficient insight to manage that aspect of it.

  Dolan nodded grimly to himself, finally satisfied with the plan. He would spend the day preparing his package for that prosecutor. Put it in the overnight mail. Then drive out to the country later this afternoon and eat his shotgun for dinner. All the while crowing over the thought of Sarah’s getting arrested. His only regret would be not witnessing it himself. But he could imagine the scene vividly enough. After all, he knew what Sarah looked like in handcuffs.

  42

  SOPHIE CHO PUSHED THE BABY STROLLER DOWN A pathway darkened by an overhang of lush late-summer trees. With the sun high overhead at eleven o’clock, it was ninety degrees in the shade in Central Park. The air smelled of ozone and baking pavement; the pathway was completely deserted except for a professional dog walker escorting a lethargic group of terriers and poodles. She wondered where the experienced mommies went on a stifling morning like this. They had a secret gathering spot, she was sure—an air-conditioned museum perhaps, or a coffee shop.

  She was heading for a sculpture she’d noticed and admired many times in the past, a whimsical brass rendering of Alice in Wonderland characters that she’d often seen covered in small, climbing bodies. She’d imagined herself there, shouting at a child who had her hair, her eyes—be careful, don’t fall. But as she wilted more with each step and Maya began to fuss, she knew she’d made a bad choice. That sculpture was best on a clear, cool day. Going there in the heat, like so much else in her life these days, was a mistake.

  Dead calm, without the slightest stir of breeze in the trees. Sophie leaned down into the stroller and blew lightly on Maya’s face, earning a delicious giggle for her troubles. How could she possibly run away to Vancouver and leave this baby behind? Melanie’s job was so demanding, and her marriage was on shaky ground. As time went on, Aunt Sophie’s role in the little girl’s life would grow and grow. She imagined buying her clothes, taking her to tea at the Plaza, listening to her childish confidences. Giving up those dreams would feel like ripping her fingernails from her flesh. Yet she’d reached the point where she saw no other way out.

  Maybe if she’d told Melanie that first night, when Jed was murdered and the fire broke out. Then it wouldn’t seem so much like she had something to hide. But would that have made any difference? Either what she did was a crime or it wasn’t. She didn’t know the exact legal answer to that question. The only person she could think of to ask was Melanie. But asking, of course, would reveal her secret, and then Melanie would never let her care for Maya again. Yet if she ran to Vancouver, she wouldn’t see Maya anyway. She just went around and around in terrible circles.

  She reached the sculpture and took a seat on a bench, lifting Maya out of the stroller to sit on her lap. As she’d feared, they were the only ones here today. The sun beat down on her head as she pulled out a bottle filled with a mixture of one part apple juice to two parts water, exactly as Melanie instructed. She’d measured it out with great care. She held it for Maya, who began to suck happily, oblivious to the heat now that she was enjoying her favorite treat.

  “Good girl. See, look over here, Maya. See all those funny critters? Aunt Sophie’s going to tell you a nice story about them. Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Alice.”

  They were no longer alone. A young man came and sat down on the bench opposite. She smiled at him, proud to be observed mothering this child, wondering if he had children, too. Because, despite his intimidating appearance—he had small, cold features and multiple tattoos—he seemed to listen to the story with great interest.

  43

  THEY EAT LUNCH EARLY IN COW TOWN, MELANIE thought grimly, taking a seat on a red leatherette stool at the counter of the metal-sided diner. It wasn’t even el
even-thirty, and all the tables were occupied, the patrons an odd mix of farmhands and flamboyant city types in fashionable outfits. The smell of frying bacon hung in the air, overpowering and unpleasant on a scorching day. A tired-looking waitress with bluish hair slapped a menu down in front of Melanie. Having just been shot at, Melanie was hardly in the mood to eat, but she didn’t think the waitress would take kindly to her sitting there without ordering. Her handbag was where she’d left it, on the floor of Dan’s car. If he didn’t come back for her, she’d be stranded with no money and no identification.

  She ordered egg salad on whole wheat toast and an iced tea, then sat waiting for it to come, spinning back and forth on her stool like an anxious child. She could barely keep her body still. The possibility that the informant might shoot Dan flooded her thoughts, making her crazy with worry. She’d seen so much tragedy in the space of a few days—Jed Benson, then Rosario, then Jasmine, now Amanda. She’d kept going by focusing on getting Slice, on locking him up for the rest of his life. But now, thinking of Dan O’Reilly lying broken and bleeding on the ground, she came undone. Even if he was—maybe, possibly—involved in a string of brutal murders. Even if he’d lied to her. Even if nothing more ever happened between them.

  She checked her watch again. How long should she wait before she asked to use the diner’s phone to call 911? He’d been gone only ten minutes. Dan was an FBI agent, after all. Presumably, if he needed reinforcements, he’d have the sense to call them in. Then again, maybe not. She knew him well enough to imagine he’d be touchy and secretive about soliciting help. The Bureau bred that in its agents, playing things close to the vest. Plus, she thought grimly, there was always the chance he wouldn’t call the police because he was really one of the bad guys.

  The sandwich, when it finally came, looked decent enough, so she forced herself to eat it. Food might seem repellent, but she needed to maintain her strength. She chewed mechanically, barely tasting it, still hearing the sound of bullets whizzing past her ears, still seeing that vicious dog lunging for her. Dan said it was Slice’s dog. How could he know that? Had the snitch told him? Was the story about the snitch even true? Dan had protected her, put his body between her and the bullets. Surely that meant he was on her side. Or was it a show? Designed to convince her he was still on Team America when he wasn’t?

  This diner brought out the child in her, or maybe anxiety was making her regress. She used her straw to slurp the remaining iced tea from the bottom of the glass, her mouth puckering at the tart bite of juice from the lemon slice. She swung her stool around backward, dangling her feet, looking through the plate-glass window. To her astonishment, as she watched, Dan’s G-car pulled into the parking lot. He was alone, and he’d been gone only twenty minutes.

  HE WALKED INTO THE DINER HOLDING HER HANDBAG, and she’d never felt so happy to see anybody in her whole life. But the next second, all the doubts rushed back in.

  “Your phone just rang, but I felt funny answering it,” he said, handing her the bag.

  “What happened? Where’s the informant?”

  He slid onto the stool next to her. “I missed him. But I got some other leads instead.”

  “What do you mean, you missed him?” she asked sharply.

  He avoided her eyes. “He was gone by the time I got back. Win some, lose some, I guess.”

  She searched his face apprehensively. His nonchalance at the informant’s escape seemed like an act. She felt certain he was hiding something.

  “What’ll it be?” asked the blue-haired waitress, shoving a menu at Dan.

  “Nothing, thanks.” He waved the waitress away and turned to Melanie. “Listen, your car’s safe enough sitting in the lot at Otisville. You can deal with it later. We need to get back to the city and find Slice.”

  “I agree completely. Let’s go.”

  Once they were on the highway, Melanie pulled out her telephone and checked her voice mail. The missed call had been from Sophie Cho.

  “Uh, Melanie, it’s Sophie. I’m in the park with Maya and we’re having a slight problem. Can you call me on my cell phone please? Oh, it’s just after eleven on Thursday.”

  Sophie’s voice sounded quiet and anxious, giving Melanie a moment’s worry. Darn, Sophie didn’t leave her cell-phone number, and Melanie didn’t have it with her. She wished she were one of those people who programmed every number she ever came across into her phone. What could the problem be? Was Maya not feeling well? She’d been in perfect form a few hours earlier. Had Sophie gotten locked out of the apartment? Melanie’s mother had keys, and she should be arriving within an hour. But even though Melanie was sure it was nothing serious, Sophie’s message weighed on her mind. Without a way to reach Sophie, though, there was nothing Melanie could do except hope she would call back.

  She closed her phone and leaned over to put her bag in the back. A large green trash bag sat on the backseat. It had not been there earlier when they drove from Otisville to Millbrook.

  “What’s in that bag?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Dan said offhandedly, like it had slipped his mind, “I opened the trap.”

  “What?”

  “The Road Runner trap? You know, in Benson’s car? I managed to get it open.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re gone for maybe twenty minutes total. In that time you manage to search the entire Benson estate, figure out the snitch is gone, and open the Road Runner trap? How is that possible?”

  “Hold your horses, princess. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  To hear Dan tell it, his return to the Benson property had been largely uneventful. He drove back up the driveway to find the dog’s carcass gone and an eerie silence pervading the whole property. He drew his gun and kept his eyes open, moving stealthily around to the rear of the large house, until he found a sliding glass door on the terrace, already jimmied open by somebody else. Then he did a quick room-to-room search for the informant. He didn’t find him, but he found plenty of evidence that he’d been there. The place was ripped apart. Every drawer, every cabinet, every closet had been emptied, its contents scattered wildly across the floor. Furniture was upended and pictures torn off walls, presumably in search of hiding places. Sofa cushions and mattresses bled stuffing where they had been savagely slashed open.

  “He was looking for something. Probably what I got out of the trap,” Dan said.

  “I don’t get it. How the hell did you figure out how to open it?”

  “Dumb luck. My specialty.”

  The search of the house had taken no more than ten minutes, start to finish. Once he was confident the informant was no longer around, Dan, unwilling to give up on the Road Runner trap, sat down at the wheel of the SUV and fiddled with the controls, searching for the magical sequence that would pop it open.

  “In the trap-recognition course I went to, they told you which vehicle functions can be used as triggers. You know, wipers, signal light, whatever. They said the Road Runner likes sequences of six, so I sat there and tried every sequence of six I could think of.”

  “That’s practically an infinite number. I can’t believe you hit it—and so fast.”

  “Fortune was smiling on me. I knew I got it right when I heard the hydraulic lock release. The sound came from under the backseat, so I got down on all fours and felt around in there. I found this little opening, maybe eight or ten inches across. You woulda never noticed it, it was carpeted so good. But I was able to get my fingers along the top and yank it open. The trap went back at least two feet under the rear compartment. And I found a lot of nice goodies inside. Three handguns—two Tec-9s and a Glock, all with defaced serial numbers. A pair of metal handcuffs, a bag with about fifteen grand cash in it. Oh, and some blueprints. You know, like architectural drawings? Those, I don’t really know what they’re doing in there.”

  “Are you being straight with me?” she asked, eyes wide, mouth open with pure astonishment.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “How did you possibly m
anage to accomplish all that in the twenty minutes you were gone?”

  “Fast hands, sweetheart.”

  Coming from Dan, she almost believed an answer like that. Almost, but not quite.

  Curious about what he’d found in the trap, she reached behind her and felt around inside the trash bag, extracting a long, shiny red cardboard tube. She pried off the inset plastic lid with her fingernails and held the tube up to her eye. A ream of grayish white onionskin paper lay coiled inside. Working it out with her fingertips, she unfurled it. There were at least twenty sheets of thick, spongy paper, smelling of ink and toner, bearing delicate blue elevations of the interior and exterior of a town house. In the lower left-hand corner was written Jed Benson’s address and the legend “Sophie Cho, architect.”

  “Hmmm. These look to me like the blueprints for the renovation of the Bensons’ town house. A good friend of mine was their architect. I can ask her to take a look and verify that’s what they are. But isn’t that strange? Why would Benson hide blueprints in a trap?”

  “Beats me. That one I can’t answer.”

  She put them in her handbag, where they protruded from the top. The thought of Sophie made her anxious. She pulled out her phone again and called home. If her mom had arrived, she could find Sophie’s cell-phone number in the address book and read it to Melanie. But nobody picked up.

  “Okay,” she said, turning back to Dan, “next question: Why was your snitch up here trying to open the trap in Benson’s car?”

  “I wondered that myself. Why drive all the way to Buttfuck just for a couple of guns and some cash? They got plenty of that stuff in Bushwick. He musta been looking for something else.”

  “Who the hell is this guy anyway?”

  Her cell phone rang.

  “Saved by the bell,” Dan said.

  She answered it, hoping it would be Sophie calling back to tell her all was well.

  “Hello?” she said.