Most Wanted

7

SHE’D NEVER MET THE GUY SITTING BEHIND HER desk, yet she felt the shock of recognition. As they looked at each other, he blushed and lost the thread of his conversation.

“I didn’t catch that. Say again?” he said into the telephone, making a visible effort to break off eye contact with her.

He must be Dan O’Reilly, the agent Bernadette had told her about. Melanie walked in and leaned back against her filing cabinet, checking him out. He was big and handsome, with a masculine face and thick dark hair, and he looked strangely familiar to her. Maybe she’d seen him around, or maybe he just had that all-American jock look a lot of cops and agents have. But it was more like she’d been waiting to meet someone who looked like him. Even the sound of his voice-the deep, comforting timbre, the slight New York accent-seemed right on the money, like something she’d been expecting to hear for a while without quite realizing it. He kept sneaking glances at her as he talked. Finally he hung up.

“Melanie Vargas?” he asked.

“One and the same.”

“I should have known it was you. You look like your name.”

“Yeah? Someone told me once my name sounded like a stripper’s.” She blushed bright red the second that popped out of her mouth.

“No comment,” he said, laughing gently. He had a boy-next-door quality, clean-cut, sweet. “I’m Dan O’Reilly.”

“I figured. Bernadette told you she’s assigning me to this case?”

“She said probably. She had to work out the details.”

“It’s done. You’re looking at your prosecutor.” She sat down across from him and reached for some folders he’d spread on her desk. “What do you have for me?”

“Not so fast,” he said, grabbing at the folder she’d picked up. They had a tug-of-war over it, their eyes locked together. She lost her nerve for a second and let go.

“What, you don’t let the prosecutor see your files?” she said breathlessly. Her voice sounded young and foolish to her own ears. Stop that, she scolded herself. Act like a professional.

“I like to train my prosecutors early. I handle my files, you handle yours,” Dan said. “That way we don’t end up accusing each other of losing stuff or giving the defense things we shouldn’t. Keeps things friendly.”

“Yeah, well, if those are your files, then that’s my chair, pal. Out,” she said, feeling a need to take charge of the situation.

“Okay, okay.” He laughed. “I guess it remains to be seen who’s training who.”

“Damn straight.”

They switched seats. He was still smiling as he opened the folder and picked out a couple of rap sheets printed on rough yellow computer paper. She watched his hands move. They were solid and strong. He wore no wedding band.

She nodded toward the rap sheets. “You have suspects already? Quick work. I’m impressed.”

“Can’t say for sure they’re the right guys. Ramirez has this idea Benson was hit as payback for locking up Delvis Diaz almost ten years ago.”

“Oh, right. Bernadette said Diaz founded some major gang?”

“Yeah, a unit of it anyway. Heard of the Gangsta Blades?”

“Sure. They’re everywhere. Puerto Rican, mostly retail heroin, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m Puerto Rican, you know. Half,” she said, studying him.

“Really? I thought so from the name, but then you talk just like one of those anchors from the TV news.”

“This is work. I speak the King’s English. Besides, I’m second generation. I barely even speak Spanish at home.”

“Yeah? Where’s home?”

“ Manhattan now, but I’m from Queens originally.”

“Whereabouts? I’m from Queens, too.”

“It’s really the Brooklyn-Queens border. Technically, it’s Bushwick.” She blushed.

“Bushwick? You’re kidding,” he said, clearly surprised. “That’s a tough neighborhood.”

“Well, right near the border with Ridgewood.” She was acting like her mother, she thought, annoyed with herself. Her mother hated Bushwick and used to say they were from Ridgewood when they really weren’t. Bushwick was rough, though, which was the main reason Melanie had worked her butt off to get out.

“You know,” Dan said, “Diaz founded a crew called the C-Trout Gangsta Blades. Named for the corner of Central and Troutman in Bushwick. So if Ramirez is right, the perps in this case are probably Bushwick boys.”

“Yeah, well, my mother never used to let us walk down that way.”

“I don’t blame her. Central and Troutman’s been a major drug supermarket for the past twenty years.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“You really from Bushwick? ’Cause you sure don’t seem like it.” He glanced up at the diplomas on her wall, then looked back at her, scrutinizing her closely, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“Trust me, it’s there. You can take the girl out of the block, but you can’t take the block out of the girl. What about you? Where in Queens?”

“ Belle Harbor, out in the Rockaways,” he replied, naming a solidly middle-class neighborhood of mostly cops and firemen.

“Oh.” She nodded.

“Could’ve guessed, right? I haven’t come that far in life. Put me in a groove and I stay in it.”

He looked down at the papers in his hands, seeming suddenly shy. There was something endearing about him.

“Okay, well. Diaz was a big local kingpin. Benson locked him up for a triple homicide and heroin distribution about eight years back,” Dan said.

“He still locked up?” she asked.

“Yup. Three consecutive life terms at Otisville. He’ll die there.”

“So we track down Diaz’s known associates on the outside and, bingo, find the killer? That sounds too easy. Besides, if Diaz was in for eight years already, why go after Benson now?”

“Good point, Counselor. Revenge doesn’t usually wait that long. Look, I’m not saying this is the answer. The hit could’ve been for some other reason entirely. But I have to admit, there is some support for the Diaz angle.”

“Such as?”

“We got two eyewitnesses. Benson’s teenage daughter, who’s not well enough to talk yet, and a Filipino housekeeper, Rosario Sangrador. Me and my partner, Randall Walker, already interviewed Rosario. She’s scared to death.”

“From what I saw last night, I can’t say I blame her.”

“You were at the murder scene?”

“Yes.”

“Now it’s my turn to be impressed. I saw the autopsy photos this morning. That was some nasty shit. You got a strong stomach for a girl.”

He grinned at her admiringly for a long second. His eyes were very blue. Melanie looked down at the desk, trying not to notice. What was it about this guy? Handsome, yes. But normally stuff like that didn’t even register with her.

“So where’s the housekeeper now?” she asked.

“What?” Dan was looking at her, still smiling.

“The housekeeper. Where is she now?”

“Stashed out of town so nobody gets to her. She tells quite a story. Typical gangland home-invasion MO. Four or five guys wearing ski masks. We recovered one of the masks from a Dumpster near the scene. It’s at the lab getting examined for hairs and fibers. Anyway, one guy rings the doorbell. When she answers it, they all push in. They got a big dog with ’em, kind of unusual, right? She never sees their faces. But she hears ’em talking to each other and she gets some aliases. I gotta admit, the akas come up in the NADDIS database as known C-Trout Blades. That’s what makes me think Ramirez could be right with this retaliation idea. Why else would these gangbangers target Benson? Anyway, it’s a place to start. Here, I’ll take you through it.”

He opened a folder and plucked out two mug shots.

“By the way, the reason me and Randall got tapped for this case is, we did a wiretap on the C-Trout Blades a few years back. Took down about forty guys, learned a lot about the organization. They’re a nasty crew.”

He laid the two mug shots on the desk in front of her. She picked one up and examined it, feeling a tingle of déjà vu. The boy in the picture looked to be about thirteen or fourteen, but he had a pointy, feral face, small eyes, and a cold, sullen expression that chilled her.

“Who’s this? He looks very familiar,” she said.

“His street name is Slice, but we don’t have a true name for him.”

“You have a mug shot, so he has a criminal record. How could you not have his true name?”

“The mug shot’s from a juvie arrest about ten years ago. Apparently he was arrested under the name Junior Diaz, but it turned out to be false.”

“Diaz? Like the gang leader.”

“Yup, interesting coincidence.”

“Maybe it’s not a coincidence. A family relationship to Delvis Diaz would fit with the retaliation theory, right? Like, say, Delvis’s little brother whacking Benson to avenge the conviction or something,” Melanie said. “But why do you say it’s a false name?”

“It didn’t check out. At the time of arrest, he gave a false Social, false address. Apparently they didn’t figure it out until later.”

“Hmmm,” she murmured. She was performing the same calculation she always did, whenever she came across the right type of suspect. A Bushwick kid, Puerto Rican, rough, a gangbanger. Certain things matched. But no. This one was too young, and according to the physical description on the pedigree sheet, much too small. She didn’t see how it could be the same guy, that one she’d been looking for for so long.

“You say Slice looks familiar to you, though? Did you run across him in a case of yours?” Dan asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t place him-it’s just a feeling. What else do you have on him?”

“Nothing solid. He’s very careful. Won’t talk business over the telephone, won’t deal with strangers except through trusted subordinates-that type of thing. But my informant from that old wire tells me about Slice from way back. Says he’s the real deal. Maybe twenty bodies on him. Real psycho. Likes to torture his victims first by cutting pieces off ’em. That’s where he gets the aka. Oh, and generally kills all witnesses. That’s how he stays out of jail.”

“Then maybe it’s not the same guy. Our perp left witnesses. He didn’t kill the housekeeper or Benson’s daughter,” she pointed out.

Dan was quiet for a moment, pondering that. Their thoughts must have been following the same path, because when he opened his mouth to speak, she knew what he was going to say.

“He didn’t kill ’em. Yet.”

“Yet,” she repeated.

“Don’t worry. We got security on both of ’em. In fact, I’m gonna call right now to tell those guys don’t even leave their posts to use the john.”

“Yes. Do that. I’m pretty good, but even I can’t make a case if the witnesses are dead.”

AS THEY TALKED, MELANIE FILLED PAGES OF a yellow legal pad with notes on what they needed to do. And do fast. Identifying and apprehending Slice was the top priority. If he was the perpetrator, they could assume he would try to eliminate the housekeeper and Jed Benson’s daughter. They needed to stop him before he did any more damage.

Dan pointed to the second mug shot, of a huge, hulking guy who wore his hair in dreadlocks wrapped in a bandanna. “Jason Olivera, street name Bigga, a known C-Trout Blade. We should go after him because he’s gonna be easier to find than Slice. Bigga has a rap sheet a mile long, small-time stuff mostly, but nasty. Assault, weapons possession. He’s been getting arrested his whole life, never done a stretch longer than six months, and he’s left a trail of addresses. I’m gonna start beating the bushes for him, hit all the locations from that old drug wire, see what crawls out.”

“Okay, order your files from the old drug wiretap,” she said, jotting on the legal pad with a felt-tip marker. “I’ll order the records from the original Delvis Diaz case, the one Jed Benson prosecuted years ago. Who knows, maybe those locations are still active. And what about the informant you mentioned? Would he have any leads on where we can find Bigga?”

“If I can find my informant, I’ll find Bigga,” he said. “But so far the son of a bitch isn’t returning my beeps. I’ve been working terrorism, so I haven’t kept up with my old drug snitches.”

“What about posting a lookout with the police in other jurisdictions?”

“Already taken care of. I had my office teletype all known information about Slice and Bigga to every state law-enforcement agency as well as Immigration and Customs. If they come into contact with the law or try to leave the country, we’ll hear about it. But that’s a big if. It can take years for something like that to pan out. To find ’em fast, there’s no substitute for good old-fashioned shoe leather.”

“I want to speak to the housekeeper and Benson’s wife right away,” Melanie said, “and his daughter the minute she’s able to.”

“Write that down. Oh, and I’ll contact the lab to get copies of any test results. They already called me this morning. Apparently the crime-scene guys lifted a latent fingerprint from a can of kerosene left behind in Benson’s house. They can’t identify the print. It doesn’t belong to any of the Bensons, but it doesn’t match up with any violators in the FBI database either. If one of the perps left it, he has no criminal record.”

“Was the print checked against our people?” she asked.

“They don’t do that unless you ask for it special. It’s like you’re saying somebody screwed up the crime scene, mishandled evidence.”

“They need to run that check. I like to know before the grand jury if the crime scene was contaminated. I can’t worry about hurting somebody’s feelings.” She made another note.

“Okay. That’s your call.”

“That’s all I can think of right now,” she said, shaking her hand to stop it from cramping.

“That’s plenty for starters. Let me have that list so I can burn a couple copies, wouldja? I’m gonna get with Randall Walker and divide up the work.”

She tore off the pages and handed them across the desk. As he stood up to go to the copy station, she stopped him.

“Uh, can I ask you something about Randall?”

“What about him?”

“This investigation is gonna be pretty fast-paced. He’s definitely up for the job, right?”

He sat back down, brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Um…well, Bernadette said Randall’s kind of burned out.”

“Burned out? That nasty bitch. She has to bad-mouth everybody.”

“So it isn’t true?”

He sighed in frustration. “Look, normally I would never dignify bullshit like that with a response. But you seem like a nice person. I hate to see Bernadette poisoning your mind with lies before you even meet Randall Walker, who happens to be one of the finest detectives I’ve ever worked with.”

“Okay, so he’s on his game? You’ll vouch for that?”

“Maybe he has a little too much on his plate now, personal-wise, but he’s still a great detective.”

So there was something to this. She looked Dan straight in the eye. “What’s the problem? Drinking? Marriage troubles?”

“I don’t like to talk about my partner’s personal business.”

“Just give me enough so I understand.”

“Okay. But it stays in this room.”

She nodded, feeling honored he would confide in her. “Cross my heart.”

“Randall’s son died of a drug overdose about five years ago. His only kid. Randall’s okay, but his wife is a mess. Never got past it. She’s got a lot of problems, mental and physical. Diabetes, asthma, major depression. It really brings him down.”

“That’s awful!”

“Yeah. But seriously, Randall more than pulls his weight.”

“Okay.” She stared into his eyes, trying to decide if he was telling her everything. He fidgeted under the intensity of her gaze.

“And if for some reason he can’t pull his weight, I pull it for him.”

“Okay. Now I get the picture.”

He stood up again, shaking his head.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He broke into a grin.

“What?”

“Nah, it’s just…I gotta watch myself with you. It’s not smart to go telling the prosecutor everything. Only causes trouble. But I can already see that you’re gonna get stuff out of me whether I like it or not.”

He was looking at her eagerly, in a way she found flattering and uncomfortable at the same time. Could it be that he liked her? Instinctively she scooped up Maya’s photograph, which sat on her desk in a frame that said I LOVE MY MOMMY.

“She yours? Can I see?” he asked quietly, glancing at her wedding ring. She remembered that she almost hadn’t worn it this morning. Good thing she had. She wouldn’t want to give a wrong impression.

“Her name’s Maya.” She handed him the photograph.

He smiled. Everybody always smiled when they saw those cheeks.

“What a cutie! How old?”

“Six months.”

“I always wanted kids. Always thought I’d have a passel of ’em. Guess life never works out how you expect,” he said, eyes somber as he handed the picture back.

Melanie carefully set it in its place. Dan left to make the copies. When she was sure he was gone, she kissed her fingertip and brushed it lightly across Maya’s picture. She felt strange. Sad and weirdly guilty at the same time. She realized that it was because she found Dan attractive, and finding him attractive brought home to her how damaged her marriage was.

Dan returned from the copy machine. As he gave her back her list, she looked up at his face and couldn’t help wondering how someone like him ended up single. He must be around thirty and so good-looking-maybe he was just a ladies’ man. Maybe the stuff about wanting kids was only talk. Somehow she didn’t think so, though. His sadness at the mention of kids had seemed genuine, making her identify with him, making her want to hear the story behind his solitude. But she would never ask him about it. She’d keep things on a professional footing-that was obviously the right thing to do. She just had a funny feeling it might not be so easy.