Most Wanted

26

HOT SUNLIGHT SHONE THROUGH THE SOARING glass ceiling of the Javits Center, illuminating the tumultuous scene many stories below. Melanie stepped off the enormous escalator, blinding light and bright colors hitting the retina of her eye, making her feel like laughing aloud. She waded through wave after wave of revelers-Japanese businessmen in monochromatic outfits, bridge-and-tunnel types, gangs of hip-hop kids with heavy gold-and-diamond pendants dangling down to their waists-all climbing in and out of gleaming cars that spun on carpeted platforms. Car commercials looped endlessly on colossal video screens attached to sky-high partitions. She looked up, taking in the scene. A space-age cobalt blue concept car circled the room on a steel track mounted thirty feet above her head.

In this chaos she’d never find Jasmine Cruz without asking directions. Spokesmodels were everywhere she looked. Of every race and color, they were nonetheless completely interchangeable, with their gazellelike bodies, heavy eye makeup and identical powder blue leather pantsuits. Jasmine must be something to look at to get this job. Melanie walked up to the nearest one, a redhead, who stood holding brochures in front of an acid yellow race car, its doors opening upward like gull’s wings.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I’m looking for my cousin who’s working as a spokesmodel here. Her name’s Jasmine Cruz.”

“Jasmine? Hmm. If it’s the girl I’m thinking of, try the brochure bar right past Range Rover. Walk all the way to the back, make a left at the Hummer display, and keep going for a while. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

But following the directions proved difficult in the wildly disorienting space. Screens flashing logos and 3-D diagrams were purposely set at odd angles to create eddies in the traffic flow, making it impossible to walk a straight path. She couldn’t get a clear line of sight more than twenty feet ahead. Weaving her way through thick crowds, she made slow progress across the vast floor of the convention center, arriving at her destination drained and a bit dazed.

Two spokesmodels, a blonde and a brunette, stood looking bored behind a tall wood-and-marble bar that displayed an assortment of glossy car brochures. The brunette looked like a cartoon image of a Native American princess, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on, straight black hair, and coffee-colored skin. Her eyebrows arched dramatically over powder blue glitter eye shadow that matched her leather pantsuit.

Melanie walked up to the bar, deciding to take a chance. “Jasmine Cruz?” she asked the brunette.

The woman looked confused. “Uh-huh. Were you here yesterday?”

Melanie took her credentials from her bag and flipped them open in her hand.

“I need to speak with you. I think you know why, but if you want me to say it, I will. It’s just…it might be embarrassing.” She glanced meaningfully at the blonde.

Jasmine’s eyes flashed. “I know the system. I don’t need to talk to nobody if I don’t want to.”

The blonde watched with open curiosity.

“Fine, if that’s the way you want to play it, Miss Cruz, then I need to advise you that you’re suspected of being involved in the murder of Jed Benson. You’re not currently charged with any crime, but I need to ask you some questions. I think it would be in your best interests to answer them.”

“I don’t even know no Jed Benson. You just hassling me because I’m of color.” She tossed her shiny hair dismissively.

“¿Eres boricua?” Melanie asked, in a dead-on imitation of her father’s staccato, rapid-fire Puerto Rican Spanish, studying Jasmine coolly.

Jasmine’s eyes widened. “Sí.”

Melanie tapped herself on the chest with just the right measure of arrogance. “También.” Me, too, so don’t fuck with me, chica.

“Oh,” Jasmine replied, in a more subdued tone.

“And, for your information, you’re all over Jed Benson’s phone records. Plus, we know all about you and Slice.”

Jasmine drew her breath in sharply. “I don’t know him neither. I really don’t know no Slice. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, or else I’m gonna call security.”

“Perhaps you didn’t look at my identification carefully enough, Miss Cruz. I can assure you, security won’t side with you in this situation.”

They stared at each other. Jasmine looked nervous, but she wasn’t giving any ground. The blonde broke the stalemate.

“Go ahead, hon. I’ll cover for you for a while,” she said, examining her long fingernails, painted the same shade of blue as her outfit, her face expressionless.

Jasmine looked at Melanie for another moment. Then she shrugged, as if the situation were of little concern to her. “Whatever. I need a Starbucks anyway.”

She emerged from behind the bar and began walking with studied casualness toward an escalator, looking straight ahead. Melanie fell into step beside her. The escalator led to a mezzanine that held food stands and tables. Their feet hit the first step in unison, and they began to glide up over the crowd wordlessly, as if they shared the escalator by chance.

Melanie leaned toward Jasmine to make eye contact. “Sorry about what I said in front of your friend,” she began.

Jasmine turned away, pivoting until she rode nearly backward. She stared at the convention-center floor receding beneath them, jaw jutting stubbornly, ignoring Melanie.

“Jasmine,” Melanie continued evenly, “I tried not to embarrass you, but you need to talk to me. You know more about Slice and Jed Benson than anybody left alive. That’s a very dangerous position to be in. I’m concerned for your safety.”

“Look, you wasting your time,” Jasmine said. Her tone was less resentful, but she still wouldn’t look at Melanie. “So Jed and me hook up or whatever. He give me money and shit, pay for my implants. That all it is as far as I’m concerned.”

“I believe you weren’t doing anything illegal, Jasmine, but you need to explain it to me. Help me understand.”

“They a lot of shit going on with Jed y’all don’t know about. Some nasty shit, too.”

“Did it have anything to do with Slice?”

“I told you, I don’t know nobody by that name.”

“Jasmine, there’s no point denying it. Your phone was tapped. I have a tape of you talking to Slice. And he sure doesn’t sound like a nice guy.”

As they reached the mezzanine and stepped off the escalator, Jasmine turned to Melanie. She tried to look defiant, but the fear in her eyes undermined her cool facade.

“He treat me better than he treat other girls,” she said.

“If he treats you so good, Jasmine, why do you look so scared?”

“I ain’t scared,” she insisted, but her voice shook.

“Come on, let me buy you a coffee. We’ll find a table. I’ll explain what my office can do to protect you.”

A long metal concession counter lined one wall of the low-ceilinged mezzanine. Melanie spied a Starbucks logo halfway down the counter and headed toward it. She was glad when Jasmine followed compliantly. They got their drinks and waited for a table to open up in the jam-packed seating area, not speaking. Only once they were seated did Melanie raise the difficult subject of Slice again.

“Jasmine, I’m here to help you,” Melanie began as the girl sipped her iced Frappuccino through a straw, eyes fixed on the table. “We both know that Slice is a cold-blooded killer. That puts you in serious danger. The closer we get to arresting him, the more nervous he gets. The more nervous he gets, the more likely he’ll try to eliminate people who could testify against him. With what you know, you’re at the top of that list.”

“I know he do some bad things to other people, but he always good to me,” Jasmine insisted, looking up at Melanie imploringly. “I’m his baby’s mama.”

“You have a baby with Slice?”

“Yeah, a little girl. Destiny. She two. He give me money for her, come by, bring her stuff. That’s why I always stick by him. I want my baby to have a father.”

“Oh,” Melanie said, stunned into momentary silence. Jasmine’s words hit home. How far could you excuse a man because he was-by whatever your standards-a good father? Should you stay in a bad relationship for your child’s sake? In Jasmine’s case the answer was obviously no. Staying with Slice could mean the difference between life and death. In Melanie’s own life, the choice was less stark, the answer not as clear. Although, deep down, she knew that it wouldn’t be good for Maya to grow up with parents who were unhappy together.

“Jasmine, can I tell you something?” Melanie said ur gently. “I’m a mother myself. I totally hear you about sticking with your baby’s father. But I’m from Bushwick, too. I know what it’s like on the block. Some guys are ticking time bombs. You know that, I know that, we both know that just from where we grew up. They can be all right one minute and turn on you the next. Slice is like that. He’s killed upwards of twenty people.”

Jasmine gasped, shaking her head in mute horror.

“You didn’t know?” Melanie asked.

“I know he done murders, but not how many.”

“Well, that’s how many, and it’s a lot. He kills for a living. Not only for a living, for pleasure. Maybe he treats you okay sometimes, but I heard him on tape threatening you. Just from what I heard, I could tell he abuses you.”

Tears welled in Jasmine’s eyes. “Okay, maybe. But I got it under control. I learn how to not piss him off. He don’t beat on me so much these days.”

“You’re willing to stake your life on that? How long before Slice has a bad day? How long before you say the wrong thing or don’t cook his food just how he likes or the baby cries too loud? What happens then? Who’s gonna raise your daughter if you’re dead, Jasmine?”

Jasmine sprang to her feet, knocking over her metal chair and taking several steps back, her eyes focused on a point beyond Melanie’s shoulder.

“Jasmine, please, wait!”

Melanie leaped up and tried to grab for Jasmine’s hand, but a vague sense of someone approaching from behind distracted her. She took her eyes off Jasmine for a split second, turning to see who was there. Just then the girl bolted, and Melanie watched in astonishment as Jasmine plunged frantically into the crowd of customers swarming the concession area, running as if she feared for her life. Melanie hesitated for a second, wondering if she should go after Jasmine or let her calm down before they talked more. But the next instant a man brushed by her from behind, following Jasmine’s receding figure in its blue pantsuit. Jasmine hurried toward the escalators on the other side of the mezzanine-the man, clad in baggy black jeans and a tan T-shirt hanging to his knees, hot on her trail. He matched Slice’s general description. Medium height, slim build, close-cropped brown hair. But didn’t a lot of people? Melanie couldn’t be sure it was Slice unless she saw his face.

She took off after them, yelling Jasmine’s name. Jasmine whirled, panic-stricken when she saw the man gaining on her. As Melanie fought her way through the crowd toward them, Jasmine turned and ran, colliding hard with an overweight woman wearing a loose-fitting black dress.

“Aaagh, you crazy bitch, I think you broke my arm!” the woman cursed, grabbing hold of the lapel of Jasmine’s jacket.

Caught in the woman’s grasp, Jasmine hauled back and punched her in the head with all her strength. The woman hit the floor with a thud, the crowd surging in confusion around her prone figure, further obstructing Melanie’s path. Jasmine ran. The man sidestepped onlookers, doggedly pursuing her. Melanie tried desperately to follow, but it was like swimming against the tide, with more and more people rushing over to gawk at the fallen woman.

“She’s out cold! Is there a doctor here?” a man shouted.

“Call 911,” somebody else suggested.

Her own progress toward the escalators virtually stopped, Melanie watched with her heart in her throat as the man caught up to Jasmine and grabbed her by the arm. The phony, terrified smile plastered on Jasmine’s face as he yanked her around told Melanie everything she needed to know. She’d never gotten a clear look at him, but she didn’t need to. It had to be Slice. Who else would Jasmine try to mollify with that pitiful smile? Just then the crowd closed ranks, and Melanie lost sight of them.

By the time Melanie fought her way to the escalators, crucial minutes had elapsed. She hadn’t seen which way Jasmine and Slice went, and now they were nowhere in sight. Think, think. Jasmine was trying to escape. She would have headed down, toward the exits. Melanie hopped onto the down escalator, scanning the floor below for them as she moved. Everywhere she looked in the crowd, tall girls in powder blue leather pantsuits tricked her eye. None of them was Jasmine. Desperately, she pulled her cell phone from her bag, dialing Dan’s pager as she rode downward, beeping him to her phone. Where was Dan now? Could he already be inside the Javits Center looking for her? Please, let him be. She needed backup, fast.

She stepped off the escalator onto the convention-center floor. Which way would Jasmine have run? Which way would Slice have taken her if he caught her? Straight for the nearest exit probably, but which way was that? She sprinted off in what seemed like the right direction, but again the crowds made for slow going. Running on the uneven floor was difficult-one moment plush carpeting dragged at her high-heeled shoes; the next, without noticing it, she’d stepped onto a rotating platform.

Disoriented and out of breath, she almost didn’t stop to investigate when several people ahead of her, who’d been milling around an enormous red Hummer, began pointing upward, toward the skylit ceiling. But then she heard their gasps.

“What the hell is that girl doing?” one of them asked.

“She’s out on the catwalk!”

Melanie looked up. Fifty feet above her head, a delicate metal catwalk hung suspended, connecting the mezzanine to the outside of a sky booth that overlooked the main floor. Jasmine Cruz stood completely motionless halfway across its expanse, gripping the flimsy handrail, paralyzed with fear. Up. Running, crazy with fear, Jasmine had gone up.

Melanie pulled out her credentials, displaying them as she waded into the crowd.

“U.S. Attorney, coming through, coming through,” she said, elbowing her way to a spot directly under the catwalk.

“Jasmine!” Melanie shouted as loud as she could. “What are you doing? Go back! Go back, and I’ll meet you at the top of the escalator.”

Jasmine didn’t appear to have heard her. The girl didn’t move a muscle. Melanie turned and ran back toward the escalators. Her phone began to howl from inside her bag. She dug it out as she ran, nearly dropping it.

“Hello?”

“You beep me?” Dan asked cheerfully.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Just pulled into the parking garage. Why, what’s wrong?”

“Slice is here! He chased Jasmine out onto a catwalk that goes to the sky booth! I’m trying to get up there to help her off!”

“Go! I’m coming as fast as I can.”

She hung up, throwing her phone into her bag. She was just about to step onto the up escalator when a piercing shriek split the air behind her. She whirled around to see Jasmine’s blue-suited figure hurtling to the ground, black hair streaming up toward the soaring ceiling.

MELANIE CLIMBED ONTO THE SLOWLY REVOLVING platform and approached the silver concept car, lit so brilliantly by overhead spotlights that it seemed to exude a supernatural force. Jasmine lay on her back on the car’s broad hood, staring numbly at the ceiling turning many stories above her. The stretchy blue leather of her pantsuit still hugged every curve of her perfect body, but her slender limbs were oddly twisted-splayed out, rigid, her feet in their stiletto-heeled boots pointing inward. Beads of sweat glistened on the heavy foundation makeup that coated her forehead.

“Just hang on, sweetie, help is on the way,” Melanie said softly. Jasmine’s hand hung off the side of the car. Melanie reached for it, squeezing the long, slender fingers, already cold and clammy to the touch. Feeling the slightest return of pressure from Jasmine’s fingers, Melanie stood on tiptoe and leaned forward.

“Do you want to say something?” she asked.

Jasmine’s lips worked, but no sound emerged at first. Melanie leaned closer, placing her ear against Jasmine’s mouth.

“What is it? Tell me.”

“Des-tiny,” Jasmine whispered hoarsely. Her daughter. She was thinking about her daughter, just as Melanie would if she were about to die.

Two paramedics carrying a folded stretcher made their way through the gawking crowd.

“ EMS! Over here, over here!” Melanie screamed.

“Somebody move her?” the taller paramedic, a commanding black woman with a powerful voice, asked, climbing up onto the platform. Her name tag read B. JONES. “The call said assault victim on the mezzanine level.”

“That’s somebody else,” Melanie said. “Take care of this woman first. She fell from that catwalk up there.”

“Two of ’em? Jesus! Miguel, call for backup while I get the collar on her,” Jones instructed her companion as she removed a large neck brace from her satchel. “Decerebrate posturing, indicates brain damage. We need to get her in right now!”

Melanie jumped out of Jones’s way, praying something could still be done. But Jasmine expelled a long, sighing breath-and then stopped breathing.

“Shit, went apneic on me!” Jones shouted to her colleague. Clambering onto the hood of the car, she began administering CPR as Jasmine’s eyes stared unseeing at the light streaming in from above.

“YOU SURE IT WAS HIM?” DAN ASKED Melanie as they watched the medical examiner’s van holding Jasmine Cruz’s body pull away from the Javits Center.

The afternoon was hot and airless. The scorching sun beat down on her as she struggled to breathe through the exhaust fumes. Dan and the police had searched the Javits Center thoroughly, but Slice had apparently made a clean getaway.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Melanie exclaimed furiously, overwrought that they hadn’t been able to stop Slice, to save Jasmine, or even to apprehend him after the fact. “I never saw his face, but I know it was him!”

“I had the exits sealed as soon as I got off the phone with you. A guy at every door, couldn’ta been more than five minutes after we talked.”

“That obviously wasn’t fast enough to catch him.”

“I’m keeping an open mind, but you should, too, okay? Just hear me out on this scenario. You’re putting the screws to Jasmine. She freaks out, gets up and runs off like a bat out of hell, bumping into people left and right. She punched that broad so hard she fractured her jaw, you know. A guy grabs her. Not Slice, okay, just some moke she pissed off by bumping into him. He grabs her, but he doesn’t do anything to her. End of the day, she’s so freaked out, she runs out onto a catwalk, and she falls. By accident. A hundred people saw it. Every one of ’em says she lost her footing accidentally.”

Incensed, Melanie shook her head. “No, no way!”

“Okay, why not?”

“Because! The guy came from behind me. Jasmine only ran in the first place because she saw him coming, over my shoulder. And he followed her-I watched him. He followed her all the way to the escalator, at least fifty feet through a crowded room, before he grabbed her. That’s why! I’m telling you, it was Slice! I’m not saying he pushed her. But he chased her out there. He caused her to fall.”

Dan looked down at her steadily, an indulgent smile slowly spreading over his face.

“Okay. Melanie Vargas is so damn sure that’s what happened, then that’s what happened.”

“Don’t humor me. It’s condescending.”

He sighed. “What do you want me to say? Based on all the facts, honestly, maybe it was Slice, maybe it wasn’t. You never saw his face, so you can’t say for sure. Even if we caught him, you couldn’t ID him. Plus, maybe it’s too upsetting for you to think Jasmine freaked out after talking to you, ran away, and fell off a ledge, right?”

She grabbed Dan’s arm fiercely, her fingers digging into his forearm. “You’re kidding me! You’re not seriously suggesting I’m imagining things so I won’t have to feel guilty? I’m not like that.”

“Uh.” He looked down at her hand. “No, I take that back.”

She let go. “Sorry.”

“Man, wouldn’t want to face you down in a dark alley!”

“I may be upset, but I know what I saw.”

“Okay, I hear you.”

“Don’t you even care that this girl is dead?”

“Of course I care. Jasmine was a civilian, even if she went with that animal Slice. She wasn’t a bad kid, and she was actually a decent mother.”

“Mother? You knew about her baby?” She looked at him sharply.

“Oh,” he said, startled, “yeah.”

“You knew she had a baby with Slice?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Guess I heard that at some point.”

“You heard it when? Why didn’t you say so when I told you about that tape last night? You acted like you didn’t even believe she was Slice’s girlfriend!” She took a step backward, hands clenching. “What the hell is going on?”

“Whoa, calm down, okay? Let’s get my car, and then I’ll explain.”

“How are you gonna explain that? I feel like you lied to me, Dan. You better not’ve, because you’re the only person in my life I trust right now.”

As she said that, she realized how true it was. The thought scared her as much as anything else that had happened recently.

He took a step closer, looking down at her with earnest blue eyes. He had such an honest face. Such a handsome, all-American, innocent face. Could he be lying with a face like that?

“Melanie, please. Don’t be upset. I promise, I want to catch this guy every bit as bad as you do, okay?”

“Then why cover up the fact that Jasmine and Slice had a baby together?”

“I was protecting a source.”

“You were protecting a source, so you lied to me?”

“Hey, I didn’t lie, all right? Maybe I didn’t give up every last detail, but that’s a big difference.”

She said nothing, shaking her head incredulously.

“You gotta understand,” he said, “I have my own priorities and obligations. Every agent does. But we’re still on the same team.”

“Oh, gee, glad to hear it.”

“That’s right! Never doubt it either. You’re upsetting me, you know.”

“I’m upsetting you!”

“That’s right!”

He looked away, seemingly stung. She had a powerful urge to reach out and touch him. But she kept her hands at her sides. Dan obviously had his own agenda, and she had no idea what it was. Maybe this whole thing was a con, start to finish-his admiration, the way he looked at her. She was surprised how much that idea hurt. But it would serve her right, for being weak. She’d known the instant they met that she found him attractive. She knew how vulnerable she was, how devastated by Steve’s affair, and yet she’d let her guard down. It wasn’t smart. She had to stop. She’d fight it harder. Keep her eyes open. Remind herself not to trust him, not to like him too much.

Dan looked back at her. “I’m only this upset because I care what you think.”

Can it, she wanted to say. With everything I’ve been through, I’m sharp enough to see through your bullshit.

“Dan, please,” she said instead. “Can we focus on Jasmine right now?”

“Sure. Of course.” His eyes were wary, as if he expected her to say something else to hurt him.

“Do you have an address for her?” she asked. “We need to notify the next of kin.”

“Us? That’s not our job. Somebody from the ME’s office-”

“We’re doing it,” she said flatly.

He looked at her and saw how much it mattered.

“Okay, yeah. I know where she lived. Come on, my car’s down in the garage.”

OF COURSE JASMINE LIVED IN BUSHWICK. DAN seemed to know his way around, so Melanie restrained herself from giving him directions. She knew if he went the most direct route, he’d take her old street, drive by the house she grew up in. She planned to keep quiet about it.

She was looking out the window, and, bam, there it was. It’d been years since she’d seen it. The attached brick house looked exactly the same. Maybe a little smaller, but the passage of time played tricks like that. The unisex hair salon that had replaced her father’s furniture store on the ground floor was still there. Through the plate glass, she caught a glimpse of Inez, the owner, sitting in a chair smoking. She looked the same. Heavy, with a big mole on her lip. There were no customers. Amazing how these small businesses could survive year after year on practically no income. Her father’s store had been like that, hanging on, a fixture in the neighborhood, just surviving. Until, one day, it didn’t. The banners were in English and Spanish. CASH AND CARRY. NAME YOUR PRICE. At the end of the day, as the Salvation Army truck drove off with what was left, Uncle Freddy handed her mother a pile of cash. “But where will Papi work when he comes back?” Melanie asked desperately. Her mother just looked at her, then walked into the house.

“You okay?” Dan asked, glancing at her with concern.

“Sure.”

“I’m really sorry about Jasmine. First Rosario, then her. That’s a lot in two days.”

“Yeah.”

She had no interest in explaining herself. She watched the familiar blocks roll by until they got to Jasmine’s street.

The apartment was what she expected-a third-floor walk-up with peeling paint and the smell of urine in the hallway, but otherwise all right. Could’ve been a lot worse. Standing on the landing, she heard a small child crying inside. She looked at Dan grimly, then pushed the buzzer.

A woman opened the door a crack and peeked out, keeping the chain on. She was short and plump, with dark hair permed into kinky curls, but she had Jasmine’s eyes.

“Yeah, who you?” A dark-eyed toddler clambered about the woman’s legs, sniffling. She reminded Melanie of Maya. The woman shoved the child back from the door.

“My name is Melanie Vargas. I’m looking for Jasmine Cruz’s family.”

“The DCYS been here last week already. Why again?”

“No, I’m not from Children’s Services, ma’am.”

“Oh. You look like the social.”

“No. Are you related to Miss Cruz?” Melanie asked. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“I’m her mother.”

“May we come in? I’m here with my colleague, Special Agent O’Reilly.”

The woman unchained the door and stepped back. Melanie entered the small foyer. It was bare of furniture, decorated with an enormous framed print of the Virgin Mary. The living room beyond was dominated by a large television playing a Spanish-language soap, which faced a battered old sofa. The little girl toddled over and plopped down on her diapered behind in front of the TV. She picked up a plastic bottle filled with apple juice from the floor, put it into her mouth, and proceeded to ignore them.

Jasmine’s mother stared at Melanie with wide eyes. The expression on her face was awful to see. She knew what was coming.

“Mrs. Cruz-”

“Yolanda. Call me Yolanda.”

“Yolanda, I’m so sorry, but your daughter was killed-”

“¡Ay, Dios mío!” Jasmine’s mother cried, rocking back and forth and keening. “¡Dios mío, Dios mío! ¡Mi hija preciosa!”

As Jasmine’s mother sobbed, Melanie patted her ineffectually. She felt so helpless. There was nothing she could do for this woman, so why had she insisted on coming? To see for herself, to bear witness to her grief? As if she needed any more motivation to find the killer, with her background. As if she didn’t fully understand the consequences of leaving someone like Slice on the street. She understood better than anybody, so well that she had no words now. Dan took control of the situation.

“Let me help you, ma’am,” he said gently, and led the grief-stricken woman to the sofa. Melanie fetched a glass of water and a roll of paper towels from the tiny kitchen.

“There somebody who can come stay with you?” Dan asked.

Mrs. Cruz sobbed into the paper towel Melanie handed her.

“Downstairs,” she choked out, “my neighbor, Carmen.”

“What’s her number?” Dan asked, pulling out his cell phone.

“No, she don’t got no telephone. Just go downstairs.”

Dan nodded to Melanie, then walked out the door. Melanie sat beside Mrs. Cruz on the sofa and put her arm around her shaking shoulders. The woman looked up, her face streaked black with tears and mascara.

“Where is she? I want to see her! I want to go to her!”

Melanie explained the procedure for identifying and claiming Jasmine’s body. Mrs. Cruz resumed crying loudly.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” she asked, between sobs. “Junior? I tell Jasmine, that one is gonna kill you someday. But she don’t listen. ¡Ay, de mí!”

“You mean Slice? Yes.” Melanie took a business card from her wallet and held it out. “Look, if he comes by, or if you see him, act like you don’t know, okay? But then call me. Here’s my number. Will you do that?”

“Yeah, sure. I call you,” she said, taking the card and examining it through her tears. “Prosecutor?”

“I’m investigating Slice for a murder. I think your daughter knew something about it, and that’s why he went after her today. So you’ll call me if you see him?”

“Yes, believe me, I wanna get that bastard.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Dan returned with a thin middle-aged woman, who wore a denim skirt, white athletic socks, and plastic sandals.

“¡Ay, Yolanda, qué terrible!” she shouted, and ran into Mrs. Cruz’s arms. The two sat sobbing together on the sofa. Dan and Melanie left quietly, pulling the door shut behind them.

In the car neither of them wanted to talk about what they’d just witnessed.

“What’s our next move?” Melanie asked, pushing the images from the apartment out of her mind.

“I have Slice’s description out to the PD and all the federal agencies. Plus, I’m shaking down every snitch in Brooklyn.”

“All good, solid police tactics, but just not fast enough. What’s to stop him from striking again while you’re doing all that? The city is so big. There are so many places for him to hide. And we don’t have enough resources to follow up every lead.”

“Those are the constraints we have to work with. None of that’s gonna get better anytime soon.”

“We’ve been saying all along he’ll probably hit Amanda Benson next. So I vote we set up on her room and don’t move till we get him. I’m not leaving that animal out on the street to kill again.”