But she should at least consider the possibility that she was overreacting. After all, her fear that Dodo might harm her wasn’t based on much. Only on the belief that he’d ordered Jed killed. Otherwise she had no reason to think he was capable of murder. In his treatment of her personally, he’d never been violent. Okay, maybe when they played S&M games, but that was consensual. And even then he was pathetic. She’d known a lot worse. In fact, she liked worse, she liked rougher. That’s why she’d ended up making him be the bottom, because she couldn’t stand the squirrelly way he whipped her. Earlier, in his office, he’d actually seemed like he might hit her. She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t. Disappointed, but not surprised. Even when he was so upset, he couldn’t. Poor thing, she really did treat him mean. She couldn’t help it, though. He was so tiresome sometimes.
So okay, what made her think Dodo had Jed killed? What was the basis for that belief? She had to admit she didn’t have one shred of proof for it. It boiled down to someone had Jed killed, and who else could it be? Dodo had motive, he had money, and he hated Jed enough to do it. But did that prove anything? Knowing Jed, she was sure that plenty of other people probably wanted him dead, too. Jed was deliciously corrupt, the only person Sarah had ever met whose aura was darker than her own. She was quite broken up by his death. But just because she didn’t happen to know who those others were didn’t mean they didn’t exist. Maybe Dodo was innocent.
If only there were a way to find out, before taking the drastic step of incriminating herself. Maybe she should just ask Dodo whether he’d killed Jed. He’d probably tell her. It was the sort of thing she could imagine him bragging about, if he’d actually done it. Of course, she could imagine him bragging about it even if he hadn’t done it. But no, Dodo was a lawyer at heart. He didn’t like needless exposure to liability, any more than she did. She didn’t really think he’d confess falsely.
She opened her bag. It was that Louis Vuitton one with the pink flowers and the little gold lock that Dodo got for her. She loved pink. Come to think of it, he did buy her some nice things. It was worth giving him another chance. She pulled out her cell phone.
“Dodo. Cell,” she said, enunciating clearly so the voice recognition would register. It rang three times. She was just about to hang up when he answered.
“Sarah,” he said. The way he said her name, he sounded terribly upset. But she wasn’t interested in his mental state right now.
“So, Dodo.”
“Yes?”
“I have a question for you.”
“What?” he choked, almost as if he were crying.
“Did you or did you not order Jed Benson killed?”
The snorting and grunting emanating from the other end of the line was Dodo sobbing, she decided. Really. Couldn’t he just answer the damn question? Crying could mean guilt, or it could just mean he was a pathetic fool. Now she was going to have to coax it out of him, and she was tired of standing out here already.
“Now, Dodo, please. Don’t be so upset. Dodo?”
“I’m going to kill myself,” he sputtered. “I’m driving to the country. I’m in the car right now. And when I get there, I’m going to shoot myself with my hunting rifle.”
“Why on earth would you do a stupid thing like that?” she asked with true bewilderment. Sarah couldn’t imagine suicide. Her survival instinct was much too robust.
“Because,” he choked out, “I hate you. I hate you, and I want to hurt you.”
She laughed, a light, trilling giggle.
He stopped crying instantly. “Why is that funny?” he asked.
“Because, silly. There’s a logical fallacy there. What makes you think it would hurt me if you killed yourself? It would actually solve a lot of my problems.”
“Oh, it’ll hurt you, all right, you ungrateful whore. I’ve made damn sure of that.”
He spoke with such utter conviction that she got nervous.
“Oh. How’s that?” she asked.
“Maybe I did order Jed killed. But maybe it was at your insistence.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Melanie Vargas is about to receive an interesting package in the mail. It’s going to lay out for her how you persuaded me to put out a contract on Jed, so he wouldn’t expose what we did on Securilex. What we both did, Sarah. And I have proof. Very persuasive proof.”
“That’s ridiculous, Dodo. I had nothing to do with Jed’s murder.”
“Neither did I. But once the prosecutor reads what I sent her, she’ll think otherwise. Happy landing, Sarah! I’ll be waiting for you in hell.”
47
MELANIE WAS IN TERRIBLE SHAPE. THOSE TEN extra pounds—she felt every one of them. Rushing toward the model-boat pond in her high-heeled shoes, gasping for breath, she had an agonizing stitch in her side. The paved pathway was nearly deserted in the stifling heat, the air wet and pungent, smelling like rain. Her body ached to stop, but she had to keep going, had to find Sophie Cho before the skies opened.
Slice didn’t fuck around. He would murder Sophie with less thought than he’d give to crushing a cockroach under his shoe. Melanie refused to let that happen. Whatever Sophie’s entanglement with Jed Benson, she was fundamentally a good person, whereas Slice was an animal. Thinking about Slice hurting her friend, pure rage shot through her. She felt capable of terrible violence, imagined hurting Slice, clawing him with her fingernails, ripping into him with her teeth. She felt the animal within herself.
She got to the open plaza housing the model-boat pond and slowed to a walk. The sweat dripping down her back made her dress stick to her skin. Black thunderclouds loomed overhead. In the gathering gloom, she focused her mind, scanning the shiny green benches around the pond’s perimeter. They were largely deserted because of the heat and the threatening rain. A few people sat fanning themselves, waiting hopelessly for a cool breeze, but Sophie wasn’t among them. Had Slice overtaken her on the empty pathway? Was she lying dead or injured in the bushes Melanie had just passed? Central Park was a big place. She could use some help, but there was no one to call, no one to trust.
Not seeing Sophie, she picked up her pace again. The sky darkened to a lurid gray-green. The first fat drops of rain hit her arm and forehead. Within seconds it became a downpour. Everybody scattered. Melanie flew up shallow bluestone steps to a small brick building housing a concession stand, huddling along with several others under its green copper awning. Rain beat down on the metal like sticks on a tin can. Drops fell sideways in sheets, pricking her skin and stinging her eyes.
If Sophie wasn’t at the model-boat pond, where was she? Hands racing, Melanie dialed Sophie’s cell phone. It picked up on the first ring.
“Yo, Big, what up?” a man’s voice answered, low and dangerous. She recognized it instantly, from the tape.
“Slice,” she said.
“Who this?” Slice asked.
“Where’s Sophie? What have you done with her?”
The phone went dead in her hand.
If she hadn’t been certain before, she was now. Slice had Sophie’s cell phone; ipso facto Slice had Sophie. Melanie trained every neuron on figuring out where he would take her. She felt the answer beckoning just at the edge of her grasp. What was the connection between Sophie, an architect, and Jed Benson’s murder? It had something to do with the town house, with the blueprints Sophie had filed with the Buildings Department. They were fakes, she’d told Melanie over the phone. Fakes? Fakes! Duh! Melanie didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until the woman standing next to her looked at her with a start. No, she wanted to say, I’m not mentally ill, but I am a complete moron.
Melanie reached for the red cardboard tube she’d been carrying, protruding from her handbag, since this morning. Why would Jed Benson bother hiding blueprints of his town house in his trapped-out car? Why would Dan’s snitch travel all the way to Millbrook to find them? Because the blueprints were valuable, that was why. She’d been carrying around the originals, the real ones, the whole
time. They revealed something, hid something, contained some secret, that the phonies on file with the Buildings Department didn’t. Based on what she knew, the secret must be about one of two things: either the Securilex deal or drugs. The evidence pointed to one of those two motives being behind Jed Benson’s murder. Melanie was betting on the latter. Something that had to do with drugs. Drugs, drugs, drugs. Yes! She thought about the Road Runner sticker on Benson’s Hummer, about the secret trap in his car. It all made sense. She held the real blueprints in her hand, and with them the key to the whole case.
SHE SPRINTED TO JED BENSON’S TOWN HOUSE in the pouring rain, skidding and slipping, wrenching her ankle, swearing. People on the street got out of her way as if she were a crazy woman. Her dress was soaked, her hair plastered to the side of her face, but she wouldn’t stop. Slice was taking Sophie there to find what was hidden in the blueprints. Once he got what he wanted, he would surely kill her. Every second that passed brought Sophie’s murder one second closer.
Adrenaline pumping, Melanie didn’t spare a thought for her own safety, until suddenly she pictured Maya’s precious, funny face. Maya made her want to take care of herself, to take precautions. If ever there was a moment to call in reinforcements, this was it, but who to call? Damn that Dan O’Reilly, making her feel she couldn’t trust him. Because there was simply nobody else. Randall, Bernadette, Rommie Ramirez. All of them would hurt her before they would help her. Wouldn’t they?
Before she knew it, Melanie stood panting, gazing up at the Bensons’ town house. Boarded-up windows lent its facade an eerie, derelict appearance. The rain was letting up, but the sky overhead was still black with storm clouds. Once she caught her breath, she crept around to the basement entrance. It was hidden from the street, tucked behind the grand, curving limestone steps to the main floor. Tattered remnants of yellow crime-scene tape fluttered from its carved wooden door. She rattled the heavy brass doorknob. It wouldn’t budge. Just as well. She needed time. Time to gather her nerve. Time to formulate an escape plan.
She did the only thing she could think of to alert anyone to her whereabouts—dialed Steve at work. No matter how things stood between them, he cared about her safety. The thought gave her a sharp pang of nostalgia for him. But his secretary came on the line and said he was out of the office at a meeting. Melanie left a quick voice mail saying where she was and hung up wondering if she’d achieved anything beyond telling him where to find her dead body.
She stashed the blueprints in a nearby planter and knelt down to examine the lock. Maybe she could jimmy it with a credit card like she’d seen in the movies. She’d give it a try, maybe do a little reconnaissance, but not go inside just yet. She was digging in her handbag for her wallet when she heard a noise behind the door.
It swung open, and before Melanie could get to her feet, two men sprang out, one lean and slight, the other huge and hulking, both wearing black ski masks over their faces. The big one tackled her. She went over backward, slamming her head against the rough sidewalk, letting out a startled grunt.
“Yo, what you up to, bitch?” the small one asked in a low, intimate tone, leaning down so she felt his fetid breath, warm on her face. He thrust a large silver semiautomatic against her cheek. She felt it there, enormous and cold, blocking her view of the sky.
“Well, lookit this, Bigga. It the prosecutor. Melanie Vargas. She come for a visit. Ain’t that nice? You got something you wanna tell me, Melanie?”
It frightened her that he knew her name. Obviously she recognized him, even through the ski mask. Not just from his old mug shot either, but from everything she’d heard. The height and build, the attitude. Killer’s freaky energy radiating through the ski mask, body twitching with adrenaline. This guy had to be Slice. But the fact that he recognized her—what could that mean, other than that he’d followed her?
“I know you come for a reason, bitch, so don’t play cute,” Slice repeated softly, prodding her cheek even harder with the gun. The answer he was looking for was in the blueprints sitting a foot away in the planter, obscured by dark leaves, but she wasn’t about to give it up so easily. The information was too valuable. She would use it to trade—for Sophie’s life, for her own.
Slice nodded at Bigga, who yanked her up and twisted her arms roughly behind her back. Dragged to her feet so suddenly she saw stars.
“Where’s my friend?” she demanded when her vision cleared.
“You hear that, Big? This bitch think she in charge. She gonna learn her lesson when she dead ’fore the night’s through.” Slice’s tone was casual. Killing was just what he did.
“If you let my friend go, I have some information for you.”
Melanie heard the deadly calm in her own voice. She wasn’t afraid. This felt like a dream. Or a nightmare, really. A nightmare she’d lived through before. The man behind the door, the blast, her father lying in a pool of blood, eyes staring, breathing ragged.
“What information?” Slice asked.
“No. First you show me she’s okay,” Melanie insisted.
“Who you talking about? That Chinese bitch? The architect?”
“Yes.”
“She your friend? Small world, ain’t it? She inside, resting. Come on in, we’ll have a nice talk.” He laughed deep in his throat, like a growl.
Slice went inside, and Bigga shoved her through the door after him. The lights were on, the foyer looking just as it had when she’d been there the night of the murder. It smelled different, though—the burned-flesh odor replaced by a powerful, acrid combination of basement damp, water damage, and the smoky aftermath of the fire. Thick enough to taste, but better than a charred corpse. Slice headed down the hallway toward Jed Benson’s office, and Bigga pushed her from behind, making her follow.
As she walked through the office door, she saw two feet sticking out from behind the blackened remains of Jed Benson’s desk, and she gasped. The feet were clad in Sophie Cho’s favorite black Nikes. Melanie lurched forward, trying to reach her friend, but Bigga grabbed her arm savagely and stopped her.
“Where the fuck you think you going?” Bigga yelled.
“That’s Sophie! What did you do to her?” Melanie exclaimed, craning her neck but unable to see any more of Sophie than her feet.
“She fine. We just give her a little taste of something, keep her quiet on the way here,” Slice replied, a sadistic glint in his tiny eyes.
If Sophie had been unconscious since they brought her here, Melanie realized, they couldn’t have gotten any information from her yet. That was a positive sign. Because the second they had what they wanted, Melanie knew, they would have no reason for keeping Sophie alive. Or Melanie either.
Slice shoved Melanie down into a damaged leather swivel chair. Popped springs from the scorched seat poked into her back and thighs. She wondered if it was the same chair Jed Benson had been tortured and died in. The thought made her angry rather than afraid. Slice leaned close, his sweaty ski mask emitting a sour wool smell.
“Listen up, Melanie,” he said, “we can do this real easy or we can do it the hard way. The easy way, you tell me what I want to know. The hard way, you end up dead like Jed.”
“Dead like Jed,” Bigga said. “My man shootin’ the rhymes.”
“You a pretty girl. Be a shame if you got cut so you wasn’t pretty no more,” Slice said, rubbing his gun along her cheek, pushing back her hair with the barrel. The sexual menace in the gesture enraged and nauseated her. She honed the anger, realizing that it was helping her stay in control.
“If you want to talk to me, Slice, back the fuck off,” she commanded icily, as if she were in her office. She’d talked to scumbag criminals like him a hundred times before. Pretend this is no different, she told herself. She was the boss. She wasn’t surprised when it worked. Confidence was everything in life. Slice laughed and took several steps backward, dropping the gun down to his side.
“The bitch got cojones, I say that much,” he said to Bigga. “And she know our names.
No point in being uncomfortable, then. We can go plain-face.”
Slice stripped off his ski mask. Bigga did the same. Melanie was overwhelmed with rage, this time at herself. By using his name, showing him she knew who he was, she’d signed her own death warrant for sure. No way he would ever let her live, now that he knew she could identify him. Her only remaining chance was to drag out giving him the information he wanted as long as possible, and try to figure a way to escape. She had no hope that anybody would come save her. She’d have to rely on her wits.
“What is it exactly that you want to know?” she asked, making an effort to keep her voice steady.
“Don’t play games, bitch. Where the product?” Slice demanded. “We know it’s here. You show us where.”
“We know it’s here, you show us where,” Bigga chanted, laughing. Slice shot him a look, and he fell silent.
So her theory was right. There was an elaborate trap built into the walls of Jed Benson’s town house, concealing a king’s ransom of drugs, revealed in the blueprints she’d left outside. Sophie, Sophie, what did you do? But Sophie, lying on the floor in deep sleep, couldn’t answer her silent question. It had been a classic home invasion from the start. The bad guys were looking for drugs, like they always were. When Jed Benson wouldn’t give up the goods, Slice killed him, as often happened. The same brutal story had played out a thousand times before on the streets of Bushwick. She just hadn’t recognized it in this fancy neighborhood.
Just then the cell phone in her pocket began to howl. Somehow she knew it was Steve; she could feel his worry in each piercing shriek. Slice leaned over and dug his hand into her pocket, his fingers creeping grotesquely against her thigh. He withdrew the phone, turned it off, and threw it to the floor. It skidded to rest against the desk. Melanie looked at it longingly, saying a silent prayer that he would call the police.
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