“And it’s frighteningly plausible,” Cheryl said.
“Did you get a chance to look at the backgrounder on Benoit?” I said.
“I went through it twice. The army officer father is always a red flag. I hate to stereotype, but that’s what profilers do. Military fathers can be hard on their sons. Gabriel probably had very little control over the events in his life, especially if Dad was abusive or controlled him to the extreme. He would develop significant rage, which he had to suppress in order to survive. So he created a world he could control-a world of fantasy.”
“I thought all kids had fantasies,” I said.
“We all had imaginary friends, but in Benoit’s case the movies he played out in his head became more reality than fantasy. He was the writer and the director. He controlled everything. The problem probably began when he started working in the real-world movie business.”
“Where he controlled nothing,” Kylie said.
“Exactly. He’s an extra, practically superfluous. It’s not his fault that he’s not a star. He blames those Hollywood people-especially the ones at the top. They’re the oppressive force preventing him from succeeding.”
“Let’s face it,” Kylie said. “In real life, those goons prevent a lot of people from succeeding.”
“And in real life they get away with it, but in Benoit’s script, he gets to kill them off.”
“Do you have any guess where he’ll hit next?” I said.
“Cates’s theory makes a lot of sense, and if she’s right, his next scenario will be huge. He started with a quiet little poisoning, escalated to a shooting, then ratcheted up to a firebomb with color commentary by Ryan Seacrest. Our boy is not going to go back to spiking someone’s tomato juice. He’s playing this out for his audience, and the murders will get more dramatic, more cinematic, and probably have a higher body count as he moves along. If I were talking to my fellow psychologists, I’d probably say he’s suffering from psychogenic paranoid psychosis. But cop to cop, he’s a sicko killer with a vendetta. And he’s about to do something really nasty, so get him off the streets fast.”
“Get him fast,” I repeated. “You’re starting to sound like our boss.”
Kylie’s cell rang.
“It’s Karen Porcelli from Central Records,” she said.
“At this hour?” I said.
“Right after you and I spoke, I left a message for Sergeant Porcelli to call me as soon as she got in. I want her to do background checks on the special effects guys Spence gave us. I’ll be right back.”
She stepped outside to take the call.
“She’s one dedicated cop,” Cheryl said. “And a terrific person to boot.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Doc. Thanks for the insight. Sorry to sandbag you with all this crap so late last night.”
“Don’t apologize. In my job, I live for sociopaths. Of course lovesick cops are my bread and butter,” she said playfully. “You and MacDonald will make a great team. If there’s anything I can do to help you get rid of that old baggage you’re hanging on to, just give me a buzz.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Maybe we can start with a little opera therapy.”
Chapter 53
Gabriel fondled the Walther. He now realized it was too hot to ever use again, but it was like an ancient hound dog. Too old to hunt, but he loved it too much to get rid of it. He put it back in his closet, then tucked the Glock into his backpack.
“Where you going?” Lexi said. She was still in bed.
“Out.”
“You need a partner in crime?”
“I thought we had a deal,” Gabriel said. “Coproducers work on the script, supervise wardrobe and makeup…”
“Sleep with the director,” she said. “I thought maybe because the sex has been so good, you’d change your mind.”
He sat down on the bed, rested one palm on her breast, and kissed her lips softly. “The sex was so incredible, I just want to think of you lying here naked while I’m out,” he said.
“You’re full of shit,” she said, “but I love you for it. When will you be back?”
“A couple of hours.”
Excellent, she thought. The longer you’re gone, the better.
He left, locking the door behind him. She listened as the elevator arrived at their floor, the doors closed, and she could hear the whir of the motor as it descended to the lobby. Then she tiptoed to the window and watched him walk out the front door and down the street toward the subway.
She knew there was no way he’d let her go to Mickey’s with him, but she had to ask. If she didn’t ask, he’d get suspicious. That was her character. Now that he was gone, she was ready to become her new character.
She hadn’t been able to decide whether to call herself Pandemonia or Passionata, so she opted for both. She was Pandemonia Passionata, Satan’s beautiful lover.
She had found the perfect outfit in a thrift shop on Mulberry Street-a dull-looking gauzy black silk dress, trimmed with lace and velvet ribbon. It was at least fifty years old, and cost all of eighteen bucks. For another twelve she bought some jet-black beads and a little black ostrich feather hat with a black veil. She pinned her hair up, then carefully put on her makeup. The final touch was the lipstick-the brightest red she could find. Without that, she thought, the whole scene could have been shot in black and white.
She checked her watch. She still had plenty of time to get uptown and find a good spot.
She looked in the mirror.
Perfect. All she needed now was one last prop.
She went to Gabriel’s closet and took down the Walther.
Chapter 54
Kylie and I went to the office and tried to figure out where Benoit might strike next.
It was only Day Three of Hollywood on the Hudson week, which meant the city would be chock-full of potential victims between now and the time they all headed west on Friday.
We called Mandy Sowter, the public information officer, at home and told her to fax us a list of everyone who was invited, and to flag the targets with the highest profiles. We also asked for the schedule of events.
“You realize that the PI office will only have access to the official schedule they get from the film commission,” I said. “There’s probably going to be fifty more private meetings, lunches, and cocktail parties that aren’t on her list.”
“And Shelley Trager will know about every one of them,” Kylie said. Without missing a beat, she speed-dialed Spence and asked him to get us the names, times, and venues of every event, big or small, that Trager was aware of.
Ten minutes later, Spence phoned back. I could hear only Kylie’s end of the conversation. “Okay, okay, tell him we’ll be there.”
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“Spence called Shelley. He’s happy to help, but he also told Spence to remind us that the memorial service for Ian Stewart is this morning, and he expects to have police presence there.”
“That actually sounds like a good idea,” I said.
“Glad you agree, because even if you didn’t, I’d have to go as Mrs. Spence Harrington,” Kylie said.
Ten minutes later, Karen Porcelli called from Records. Kylie put her on speaker.
Anybody who handles explosives has to register with NYPD, so Porcelli had no trouble tracking down all six men on the list.
“You’re going to love this,” Porcelli said. “One of them was just released from the Adirondack Correctional Facility in Ray Brook. His name is Mickey Peltz.”
“What was he in for?” Kylie asked.
“He siphoned off some of the studio’s money earmarked for explosives, bought cheap crap, and blew off somebody’s arm. They had him on grand larceny and assault one, but he pled it down to assault two and took four years.”
“Any connection to Benoit?” Kylie asked.
“They’ve worked on at least half a dozen different productions together. No record of Benoit visiting him in prison.”
“Where do we find Mr. Peltz?”