Most Wanted (21 page)

She tried to shrug off his hands, but he held her fast. “Let me go. I want to see her.”

“Is that really a good idea?”

“It’s not your choice. Let go, I said.” She pulled free and brushed past him, through the dingy lobby and into the elevator. He raced to catch up.

“I’m just trying to help you,” he said, following her into the elevator.

“You want to help me, get more personnel on this investigation. The three of us can’t go on working this alone. Not if we want to keep our witnesses alive, we can’t.”

“You think I haven’t tried to get more men?” Dan said. “The Bureau doesn’t give a shit about straight homicides in this climate! If there’s no terrorists involved, it’s not their problem.”

“When it was just Jed Benson, fine, I understood that. But Slice struck again. He hasn’t stopped, and he’s not going to.”

“Believe me, I’m on
your
side. If it were up to me, we’d have ten more guys right this minute. But the Benson case ain’t the only thing going on in this town.”

“So we don’t fit the mission statement this month? Do I need to write some PR memo, spin it better, so somebody pays attention?” Her voice dripped with disgust at herself, at her own performance, at him and his agency. She was remembering Rosario, the mask of fear on her face when they first met, her brave smile once Melanie had convinced her she would be safe. Rosario, who trusted her. And paid the ultimate price for it. They needed to see, to understand what their inattention had done.

Dan sighed. “Okay, look. I’ll make some phone calls as soon as we get upstairs, but I’m not optimistic. I hate to be crass about it, but the times we live in, two victims aren’t enough to get anybody’s attention. I’m just being honest with you.”

Would he make a serious effort to get more personnel, as he promised, or was he merely humoring her? Was she the only one who took this investigation seriously? If necessary, she’d take matters into her own hands. She had no power to assign investigators, but Bernadette could intercede. Bernadette had pull. Yes, she’d speak to Bernadette, ask her to call the FBI and start making demands. They had to listen now, after this, after an innocent woman died on their watch.

THE FIFTH-FLOOR CORRIDOR WAS CROWDED with local cops and hotel employees straining to see into the open door of Rosario’s room. A stretcher had been pulled across the doorway to block the curious from entering. As Melanie approached, the crew-cut cop from Rommie Ramirez’s squad stepped up to it from inside and whisked it out of the way so she could pass, his eyes hollow. Dan followed, glancing at the cop curiously, his gaze prompting Melanie to wonder herself what Ramirez’ underling was doing here. But as she walked down the narrow entry foyer and looked into the room, any natural thoughts fled her mind.

She absorbed it all in a glance that hit like a punch in the stomach. Rosario’s severed head stared at her from a spot on the dresser right next to the television, its glazed, empty eyes wide open with surprise. Dried, blackish blood was everywhere—in cascades down the dresser, spattering the walls, in great stains on the pink carpet. The bed looked like tornado wreckage—a riot of bloody covers and pillows, a stiffening arm protruding from beneath a blanket. By the time Melanie snapped her eyelids shut a split second later, multiple images of Rosario’s violent death were permanently imprinted on her brain. She would carry them to her own grave.

“Oh, Jesus!” Dan exclaimed. He was one step behind her, his words spoken practically into her ear, but they echoed as if from a great distance. Her legs felt leaden, rooted to the floor, while her head felt hot and prickly. The next thing she knew, she was sitting in the same chair she’d sat in yesterday, her head between her knees, breathing into a paper bag somebody had handed her.

“Better?” Dan asked, his hand on her shoulder.

“I think so. Did I faint?”

“Out cold. Lucky I caught you before you hit the floor. Easy does it. Come up nice and slow.”

She lifted her head slowly, taking deep breaths. “I’m seeing stars, but I think it’s okay.” She sat up straight now, focusing on him kneeling in front of her chair so she wouldn’t have to look at the room. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Holding on to the arms of the chair, she pushed herself to her feet unsteadily.

“C’mon, I’ll take you back to the car,” Dan said, standing up.

“You think I’m stopping after what I just saw? No way! I’m catching this scumbag. I want to talk to the Crime Scene team.”

Dan knew better at this point than to try to stop her. Melanie motioned to Randall, who’d been conferring with a detective by the far window. Randall left him and came over to where she stood with Dan.

“Who’s that? Is he in charge?” Melanie asked him.

“One of the Jersey guys. They haven’t actually touched anything yet. Rosario was discovered by a cleaning lady who called the local cops. They responded a couple hours ago, but when they learned that Rosario was here under our protection, they had the good sense to call us before they did anything else.”

“Some protection,” Melanie said bitterly.

Randall ignored her remark. “Right after the locals arrived, the officer who was detailed to watch the door came back. I just debriefed him before you folks walked in.”

“The guy with the crew cut?” She looked around the room but didn’t see him. He must have left while she was blacked out in the chair.

“Yeah. He’s devastated. More than that, he’s scared, worried about his job.”

“He fucking better be,” Melanie said. She didn’t usually swear like that, but it gave her some relief.

“Don’t prejudge, Melanie,” Randall said. “It really wasn’t his fault. O’Reilly and I have been going around like beggars with our hands out to find people to work this case. Ramirez loaned me this kid. He was watching Amanda Benson yesterday, but she hired private protection, so he freed up.”

“Smart idea, private protection,” Melanie said sarcastically.

“Look, with funding cuts and all, Ramirez is terribly understaffed,” Randall said. “He’s only doing this out of respect for Jed Benson’s memory. His squad had an emergency last night. They get a tip about a major cocaine shipment in a disabled tractor-trailer on the BQE, and when they go in to investigate, they wind up in a shoot-out. I’m not shittin’ you—heard it over the radio myself. So this kid gets called away to assist. He’s told a replacement is on the way, so he leaves. Turns out dispatch screwed up. Nobody got that call. The kid worked all night on the bust and came back here to relieve that other guy, only to find the place swarming with Jersey cops because of this mess.”

“I feel for him. Poor thing.”

Randall’s jaw tightened. “Strikes me you’re looking to point fingers. I don’t really hold with that. People try their best, but shit happens.”

“Our witness is dead—no, a lovely, decent, scared
human being
is dead, and the best you can do is say ‘shit happens’? That’s pathetic, Randall. You’ve been on this job too long.”

“Hey, enough, don’t get personal,” Dan said firmly. “That’s not productive. I know you’re upset, but we got work to do.”

Randall glared at her. “That’s right, Melanie. You’re wasting time and energy on this blame game. Meanwhile, our friend with the knife is thinking about where to strike next.” He turned to Dan. “They haven’t canvassed the hotel staff yet. I’m gonna start with that.”

“Okay. I’ll call over to the squad and see if we can get some more personnel,” Dan said.

“What, like roadblocks and helicopter support?” Randall asked.

“Nah. Useless. From the looks of the blood, she was killed hours ago.”

“I agree. Why chase a quarry that’s long gone?”

“I’m talking about anticipating his next move.”

Melanie looked back and forth between them. It was obvious what Slice’s next move would be. “You mean Amanda Benson,” she said.

“Yes,” Dan said.

Randall nodded soberly. “You better make those calls fast. For all we know, Slice left here and headed straight for that hospital.”

Randall walked away just as Butch Brennan and his crime-scene team arrived in force.

“Whoa, looks like you guys got a serious psycho on your hands,” Butch said, dumping a load of equipment in the corner of the room and walking over to the dresser. “Look at this. My first severed head in five years. A real clean cut, too. Guy can chop, I’ll say that for him. Hey, Castro, we need a few nice pictures of this one.”

“You got it, boss. Pictures of the head. What else?”

“Any cuts on the body that show the size of the blade. ME’ll compare ’em to cuts on Benson’s body, and the murder weapon, if we get lucky enough to find it.”

The crime-scene team took control efficiently, herding the rest of the New Jersey police out of the room and confining Dan and Melanie to the tiny entry hall so the team members could work without interference. While they waited, Dan and Melanie started working their cell phones, looking for reinforcements. Melanie tried without luck to reach Bernadette, who was out of the office until midafternoon. Dan left several messages for guys who he said owed him favors. Bottom line, they both came up empty-handed for the moment. After a while Randall returned, shaking his head.

“Of course nobody saw or heard a thing,” he said. “Nothing that could help with time of death. No physical description either. Only thing is a pile of cigarette butts in a closet down the hall.”

“That’s something, anyway,” Melanie said. “Let’s have Butch’s guys collect them for DNA sampling.”

“Will do.” He nodded gravely.

“Listen, Randall, I owe you an apology.”

“I owe you one, too. I can see how upset you are. First time you lose a witness?”

“Yes, and I’m gonna make damn sure it’s the last.”

“Nothing worse than that. Except maybe losing a partner. I been through that, too. Look, honey, let me pass along something it took me a lotta hard years to learn. Play for your own team. Maybe that sounds cynical, but useful things often are. There’s us and there’s them. Pointing fingers at
us
only helps
them
. And this is one guy you don’t want to help.” His glance took in the whole blood-spattered room.

She wasn’t sure she agreed with Randall’s message, but before she could open her mouth to reply, Butch Brennan came over to give them a report.

“Whaddaya got, Butch?” Dan asked.

“Off the bat, different MO from the last time.”

“How’s that?” Melanie asked.

“Well, as far as I can tell, this is a straight knife job. No dog attack, no gunshot, no setting the remains on fire. As far as I can
tell
.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Melanie asked.

“Not everything’s here to examine.”

She felt light-headed again, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “What’s missing?”

“Quite a bit. One of the arms. Both legs. The torso’s here. It was under the blankets. But it’s been cut open and, like, scooped out. You wanna know exactly what’s missing from inside, you need to ask the ME.”

“Why would he do that?” Dan asked.

A vision of the stolen animal-torture photographs flashed into Melanie’s mind with such clarity that she gasped. They all looked at her.

“For his dog,” she said with absolute conviction, remembering the bloodied paws and muzzle in the bottom corner of the Polaroid. “Slice took the parts for his dog.”

“I bet you’re right,” Dan said. “That sick fuck.”

“We’ve got to stop him. And we’d better get to Amanda Benson right away.”

THE CAVERNOUS MAIN FLOOR OF SAKS WAS JAM-PACKED and noisy at lunch hour. Nell Benson strolled past the cosmetics displays, stopping occasionally to spray perfume across her wrist as she looked in every direction. Her senses were sharp, but they weren’t doing her much good in this chaotic place. Vast flower displays and mirrored partitions impeded her view. Sound floated upward, became muddy, and disappeared into the vine-covered ceiling as into the dome of a cathedral. Still, she was relatively confident she wasn’t being followed.

She took the lumbering wooden elevator to the fourth floor. Here everything was bright and open. She was certain now she was alone. Even so, she walked around, fingering a garment now and then, looking over her shoulder discreetly. Best to be careful. A saleslady, noting her expensive bag and the diamonds weighing down her hand, stepped forward and asked if she needed help.

“Just looking,” Nell said. After a moment she headed for the ladies’ room.

The waiting area smelled bad, so she raised her perfumed wrist to her nose. A young mother sat on the upholstered bench by the pay telephone, nursing her baby. Nell looked at her, frowned, and disappeared into a stall for a while. When she came back, the mother was still there. Nell walked casually over to the makeup mirror and opened her bag, taking her time choosing a lipstick shade. She watched in the mirror as the mother closed her blouse, tucked her baby back into the stroller, and left.

When the waiting area was empty, Nell went over to the pay phone. She dug around in the bottom of her bag, the blinking green light of her cell phone providing just enough illumination to help her find a quarter. The plastic receiver was greasy in her hand as she dropped the quarter into the slot. God knew what you could catch from these things, but at least they still took change. She’d had a moment of fear about that in the elevator. When she got the dial tone, she punched in the number.

“Hello?” Rommie answered.

“It’s Nell.”

“Well, hello. What’s this number you’re calling from? I don’t recognize it.”

“It’s a pay phone.”

“A pay phone?” He sighed. “You watch too many spy movies.”

“I’m just being careful. People could draw conclusions from our friendship.”

“What’s wrong with us being friends? I was friends with Jed, I’m friends with you. Big deal. Besides, I’m seeing Bernadette. Everybody knows that.”

“Still, in a situation like this, with the will getting probated and all, appearances matter.”

“So I take it that’s why you haven’t returned my calls?”

“Don’t be so touchy. I called you yesterday. About that prosecutor, remember? The one who’s harassing Amanda? And I’m calling you now.”