Cover-up (37 page)

“Melanie Vargas.”

“Curtis Jones here.”

“Hey, Curtis. What’s up?” she asked nonchalantly.

“Benedict Welch is on the move. I’ve got him heading south on Seventh Avenue at a pretty good rate of speed.”

It took Melanie a moment to grasp what Curtis was saying. “You mean…he left his apartment?”

“Yeah, why do you think I’m calling?”

“I’m shocked. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

“Well, he did. Do you want to know where he’s going or not?”

“Yes, of course I do. Let me put you on speaker. Deputy Terrozzi is here.”

Terrozzi, who’d been leaning back in a chair reading the sports section, tossed his paper aside.

“Like I said,” Jones continued, “I got the man heading south on Seventh, doing around thirty, uh, wait a minute, closer to twenty. Uh, he slowed down. I think he hit traffic. He just crossed Forty-ninth Street. He’s picking up speed. Now he stopped. He must’ve hit a light.”

“Are you calling in the FBI?” Melanie asked.

“Not a chance. Prisoner’s in U.S. Marshal’s custody once he’s remanded,” Jones said.

“This is our collar,” Terrozzi agreed.

“I’ll go myself, but I’m waiting for some backup,” Jones said. “We’re short-staffed today.”

“How long will that be?” Melanie asked anxiously.

“Not long. Fifteen, twenty minutes. But don’t worry, we won’t lose him. We got him on the GPS.”

Fifteen or twenty minutes was far too long in Melanie’s view. “We have reason to believe this man is the Central Park Butcher,” she reminded Jones. “You should get him back in pocket immediately. Think of the consequences if he kills again after escaping from home confinement.”

“That
could
be a problem,” Jones admitted. “Reflect badly on the U.S. Marshal’s Service.”

Melanie glared at Terrozzi pointedly. “Deputy Terrozzi can back you up,” she said.

“Yeah, no problem. Curtis, I’ll come meet you,” Terrozzi said.

“He’s still stopped. I got him at the same location for the past few minutes. I don’t think it’s a stoplight. Too long.”

They waited until the blip on Jones’s computer screen had remained stationary for nearly ten minutes, then agreed that Welch had landed at his destination and would probably be staying there for a while. Melanie wrote down the address.

“I know the spot,” Terrozzi said. “I can almost guarantee you this is LaserMania.”

“What’s that?” Melanie asked.

“It’s an arcade and laser tag place right off Times Square,” Terrozzi replied

“Oh yeah,” Jones said, “a real gangbanger hangout, right?”

“Affirmative. They got shootings in there a lot. You see it in the papers.”

“What’s laser tag?” Melanie asked.

“It’s awesome,” Terrozzi said. “You go into this dark room with all your buddies and shoot each other with laser guns.”

“Does it hurt?”

Terrozzi snorted with laughter. “Does it hurt! Of course not. You
wear these special vests. You shoot each other on the vest, and the hit registers on this digital scorekeeper gizmo. That’s how you know who lives and who dies. The team with the most kills after ten minutes wins.”

“Why would Welch be going to some laser tag arcade?” Melanie asked.

Terrozzi shrugged. “It’s a fun place if you like to shoot people.”

“But to break home confinement to do it? That makes no sense. The judge will be forced to remand him now.” Melanie stood up. “I guess there’s only one way to find out what he’s up to. Let’s go.”

T
hey drove to Times Square. Curtis Jones planned to meet them there with a couple of other deputy U.S. marshals. As they hit Times Square, Melanie leaned sideways to appreciate some of the crazy neon signs, tall as skyscrapers and bright as the sun. This place was a party for the eyes. It was full of glitzy office buildings and well-dressed yuppies now, but still with those Vegas-style lights stretching as far as she could see.

The arcade was on a side street. Terrozzi pulled halfway up on the sidewalk right in front of it and turned off the engine, sticking his police placard in the window. Just as Melanie was about to get out of the car, he stopped her.

“You’re staying here,” Terrozzi said.

“What? No way.”

“If I’d been thinking straight, I wouldn’t’ve let you come this far. You can’t go inside. I know this place. Trust me, it’s a fricking zoo. Full of people. Dark. Loud noises from all the video games. It’s too dangerous, with the killer inside.”

“You’re supposed to be my protection detail, Pete. You stick to me like glue, remember? You can’t leave me here undefended.”

Terrozzi reached into a storage compartment between the two
front seats and pulled out her Beretta. “Take this. You’re not undefended now. I’m going in to find this guy Welch. When Curtis gets here, you show him where to go. You know how to work the radio?”

She looked at it. It was just like the one in Julian Hay’s Navigator. “Yes.”

“Okay, good. So call somebody if you have a problem, okay? And
don’t
follow me inside or I’m gonna have to go up the chain on you. There’s nothing I hate more than reporting protectees to their supervisors, but I do it if I’m forced to.”

“I won’t,” she said. “Really. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”

Terrozzi smiled. “Thank you. That’s nice to hear.”

As Terrozzi disappeared in the direction of the arcade, Melanie put her gun in her handbag and resigned herself to a long, boring wait.

50

I
t was a thick summer afternoon
in New York City, nearly ninety degrees, and the car heated up quickly. Terrozzi had turned off the engine and taken the keys, and in his rush, hadn’t thought to open the windows. Melanie opened her door to let some air in. Sitting parked halfway up on the sidewalk with a police placard in the window and the passenger door wide open, she felt too conspicuous. Not just conspicuous, but nervous. Out in the open. Without protection. The side street hummed with traffic. Blazing sunlight beat down on car windows, so she couldn’t see the drivers of the passing vehicles. Melanie told herself not to worry. Welch couldn’t hurt her. He was inside, with a federal marshal after him.

Of course, the marshal
was
Pete Terrozzi, not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Curtis Jones and the others from the U.S. Marshal’s Service hadn’t shown up yet. She pulled her bag onto her lap, keeping one hand on the gun.

Her phone rang, and Melanie jumped.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s Dan.”

“Where have you been?”

“Working. Listen, I got your message. You’re absolutely right. I want to talk, too. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Where are you?” she asked. With everything that was going on, she’d nearly forgotten about their fight. She’d forgive him on the spot if he’d come here and protect her. She’d feel a hell of a lot safer with Dan watching out for her than with Pete Terrozzi.

“I’m in Queens,” Dan said. “I’ve been trying to get a lead on this guy Edward Allen Harvey.”

“Who told you about Harvey?”

“CODIS told me.”

“What?”

“We got the DNA results back. You didn’t hear?”

“No.”

“The sample taken from under Suzanne’s fingernails matched to one Edward Allen Harvey, released four weeks ago from Pelican Bay in California. So I pulled his mug shot, and guess what?”

“What?” Melanie grasped the gun tighter. Her nerves were tingling. If Harvey was the Butcher, what did that mean for Melanie, sitting out here in Terrozzi’s car with the door open?

“We already had a picture of him in line at the post office,” Dan said. “Big, inbred-looking guy with blond hair and little piggy eyes, remember?”

“I do remember.” That must be why, when Pauline Estrada had shown Melanie a picture of Harvey as a teenager, she hadn’t quite recognized him. She’d seen the picture from the post office, but in that shot, he’d been twenty-five years older.

“Harvey mailed the box of dog shit to Suzanne Shepard,” Dan said. “Harvey’s our Butcher. I tracked him to this flophouse in Flushing. I’m in his room right now. He’s not here, but it’s a goddamn treasure trove. I found a laptop computer with e-mails on it that he sent to Welch.”

“Do they prove Harvey and Welch were in on the Suzanne Shepard murder together?” Melanie asked.

“No,” Dan said firmly. “From everything I’ve seen, Harvey acted alone.”

“That can’t be right,” Melanie insisted. “We found Suzanne Shepard’s missing driver’s license in Welch’s desk. And Welch was the one e-mailing me, remember? The tech squad traced the last e-mail to his office.”

“
Harvey
e-mailed you from Welch’s office. And Harvey planted the driver’s license. He’s trying to frame Welch. To get back at him for walking on the Cheryl Driscoll murder. Judging by these e-mails, they’ve known each other for a lot of years and pulled a lot of sick shit together. Welch sedated Cheryl Driscoll and handed her over to Harvey. Then he watched while Harvey raped and murdered her. It pissed Harvey off to no end that he did time for that crime and Welch didn’t. He says Welch is gonna pay for covering up his role in that one.”

“So where is Harvey now?” Melanie asked. She scanned the crowded street nervously. The man who wanted to torture and kill her
wasn’t
inside LaserMania. He was at large. He could be anywhere. He could be right here on this very block.

“Harvey’s gone,” Dan said. “The night-vision goggles are gone, too, but the stun gun is here, along with rope and handcuffs and a bunch of other tools of his trade. And something else…I don’t know if I should tell you.” He paused. “Your protection detail is with you, right?”

“What did you find, Dan?”

“I don’t want to upset you. Listen, put the guy on the phone.”

“What guy?”

“Your deputy marshal.”

“He’s not here. He’s inside the laser tag place, looking for Welch.”

“Inside where?”

“LaserMania. In Times Square. Welch broke confinement, and we came to look for him.”

“I don’t like that place. It attracts scumbags in droves.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve been waiting outside in the car. Terrozzi went in without me.”

“That doesn’t make me happy, either, sweetheart. Welch isn’t the Butcher. Harvey is. You’re in danger just sitting there. Call your marshal right away and have him come out and get you.”

“Okay.”

“Do it now.”

“I will. But, Dan, what did you
find
? You have to tell me.”

“Polaroids. Of you. He’s been following you.”

“We knew that.” She tried to sound calm, but her heart thudded sickeningly.

“You call that marshal right this second, understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’m coming over there myself, but I’m out in Queens. It could take a while. You hang up and make that call.”

“I will. I’m doing it right this second.”

51

A
s soon as she broke the connection to Dan,
Melanie felt vulnerable, and very alone. With trembling fingers, she dialed Pete Terrozzi’s cell phone. It rang once and rolled over to voice mail. She hung up and dialed again, breathing faster. Same result. Had Terrozzi turned his phone off? Was it getting no reception?

Melanie got out of the car and slammed the door. She had no choice but to go inside and find him. LaserMania’s enormous neon sign boasted a half-naked woman with big boobs in thigh-high boots shooting what appeared to be a machine gun. Gold coins spurted from the gun in a steady stream, forming an arrow that pointed directly at the entrance. She ran for it, nervous about being exposed on the street, hoping to find protection inside. A bunch of guys with fade haircuts and gang tattoos hung around the door. They eyed Melanie with cool indifference and moved aside so she could pass. The panic in her face was nothing to them. They’d seen women running like that before.

Inside the door, a black rubber staircase led straight down for several flights, the walls and ceiling surrounding it painted a dead black.
After the bright sunshine and vivid neon outside, Melanie could barely see. She plunged down, praying not to fall. In the basement arcade, light blazed everywhere, assaulting her vision. Video-game pods and slot machines flashed like firecrackers, making carnival noises and spitting out long strands of yellow tickets. The games had ten-foot-high TV screens, and guns and wands bristling from them. A hip-hop kid whirled around, pointing a silver pistol at her, and Melanie jumped.

“I could have shot you!” she shouted. He saw the Beretta in her hand and his eyes widened.

She put her gun away. It was more of a danger than a help in here. There were kids around. She pulled out her phone to try Terrozzi again. But she was deep underground, in a subbasement. There was no reception. That’s why he hadn’t answered.

The place was jammed. Groups of men and boys clustered around every machine, a weird mix of gangbangers and private school kids in blazers and ties. Between the low ceiling, the soaring machines, and the pulsating crowd, Melanie couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. A wild clanging of bells and buzzers rang out all around her, making it impossible to hear any sound originating more than a foot or two away. How would she ever find her people in this chaos? She walked forward as calmly as she could manage, looking into each face she passed. But in the lurid, smoky light, all the players melded together into a swirling mob. After a few minutes, she came to a driving game dominated by a life-size replica of a Harley-Davidson, and realized that she’d passed it once before. She must have made a wrong turn. The space was so confusing and mazelike, and each part of it looked so much like the next. She was disoriented, with no sense of which direction she should walk to get back to the entrance. Full fledged panic set in, and Melanie started to run. She immediately body-slammed into a guy in a wifebeater and baggy jeans who must’ve weighed at least three hundred pounds.

“Watch it!”

“Sorry!” Melanie cried.

Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. Finally! She’d recognize that dark head stubble anywhere. Pete Terrozzi was sitting in a chair in front of a game called Wild Wild West, his back to her. What the hell was he doing playing some cowboy shoot ’em-up thing at a time like this? But as Melanie approached, she realized with a horrible sinking in her stomach that something was very wrong. Terrozzi wasn’t playing. He sat utterly still, his body at an odd angle, the screen before him flashing
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