“Hello.”
He couldn’t believe it. Mickey picked up.
“Mick, where are you?”
“Manhattan. Cops picked me up and brought me to the 19th, put me in an interrogation room, and told me to wait for these two detectives.”
“Jordan and MacDonald?”
Mickey let out a low whistle. “Man, you’re good.”
“It was easy. Those are the same two who are looking for me.”
“Well, don’t worry about me saying anything. I’m not under arrest. They just want to talk to me, and trust me, I’m not talking.”
“Did they call your parole officer yet?”
“They made me call him from the loft. That’s the deal. He’s supposed to be in the room when they question me, but he’s in Sing Sing at a hearing till one o’clock. So now I’m just sitting here with my thumb up my ass till he shows up.”
“Mickey, I can’t hear you,” Gabe said. “Bad cell connection.”
“I said I’m just sitting here waiting for my parole-”
Gabe hung up.
Mickey was an idiot. He’d be oh so cool and cavalier with the cops, but the PO would crush him in no time. Gabe was already writing the scene in his head.
INT. 19TH PRECINCT-NEW YORK CITY-DAYMickey Peltz is sitting in the interrogation room with DETECTIVES JORDAN and MACDONALD. His PO walks in.
PO
Hello, Mickey. You ready to play ball with me?
MICKEY
Sure, coach. Always.
PO
Football or baseball?
MICKEY
What do you mean?
PO
With football, you’re going back to prison for six to twelve. With baseball, it’ll be two to four.
MICKEY
Go back? Why? I didn’t do nothing.
PO
I hear you’ve been associating with a wanted criminal. A mass murderer. Gabriel Benoit.
MICKEY
I told these cops I haven’t seen or heard from Gabe in years.
PO
In that case, when I go back and search your loft, his DNA won’t be there.
MICKEY
So what if his DNA is there? He used to visit me back in the old days. Or maybe he broke in when I was out. That’s no proof that I met with him.
PO
Cops need proof, Mickey. I don’t. All I need is reasonable cause to believe you lapsed into your old criminal ways and you’ve violated the conditions of your parole. Now, listen carefully, because I’m only going to say this once. Tell me what Gabriel Benoit is planning next, and I’ll be too busy to look for his DNA at your loft. But I want every detail and I want it on a gold platter, because the silver platter is already off the table.
And that would be that. Mickey would open up like a three-dollar hooker at a lumberjack convention.
Gabriel’s cell rang.
Lexi. Please let it be Lexi.
He checked the caller ID. Mickey.
He didn’t answer. Talking to Mickey was a waste of time. What he had to do now was shut the bastard up.
He had till 1:00.
Chapter 59
By the time he got back to the apartment, Gabriel’s clothes were sweat-soaked all the way through. He wheeled the explosives into the bedroom, stripped down, took a quick shower, and tried to figure out what to wear for the next scene.
Lexi would know, but she wasn’t here. He rummaged through their wardrobe supply and did the best he could.
It was 10:30. He had time before Mickey’s parole officer showed up, but first he needed a drink. He grabbed one of Lexi’s champagne glasses from the dish rack and poured a shot of vodka. Not enough to get him buzzed. Just a little something to take the edge off.
He sat down at Lexi’s computer, booted up, opened Firefox, and checked her recent browser history to see what sites she’d been visiting. It was the usual crap-Perez Hilton, TMZ, Astrology Connection.
He checked her email. Maybe she sent him something and he didn’t get it on his cell. But there was nothing.
He opened her recent document folder. And there it was at the top of the list-AltScene.doc with yesterday’s date.
Alt. Scene? Lexi, what are you thinking?
He double-clicked and the document filled the screen.
ALT. SCENE: EXT. FRANK E. CAMPBELL FUNERAL CHAPEL, MADISON AVENUE AND 81ST STREET-DAY
PANDEMONIA PASSIONATA looks so pretty in her little black mourning dress as she waits patiently behind the police barricade at Ian Stewart’s memorial service. The mourners file slowly out of the chapel, but she ignores the little fish. She’s here for the Big One. This is Pandemonia’s moment. Redemption time.
Who the hell is Pandemonia Passionata?
He kept reading. Halfway through the scene, he stood up, and stormed off to his closet.
The Walther wasn’t there.
He flung the champagne glass against the wall.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” he screamed, pounding his fist against the closet door.
It wasn’t anger. It was agony.
Chapter 60
There were at least thirty cops on the scene and none of us saw the gun. But as soon as I heard the first shot, I had no doubt what we had on our hands. Active shooter-an individual actively engaged in killing or attempting to kill people in a confined and populated area.
Our Counterterrorism Bureau issued a book on the subject. I’ve read it three times, and what stands out for me is this: Active-shooter attacks are dynamic events. Police response depends on the unique circumstances of the incident.
In other words, when the bullets start flying, we can’t tell you what’s going to happen. You’re on your own.
The first shot hit Shelley Trager. He stopped abruptly, his hands to his chest. A potted plant, one of two that stood in solemn repose on either side of the front door, broke his fall, and he slid to the ground, his face contorted in pain.
The crowd hemorrhaged in every direction, and that’s when I got my first look at the shooter. A woman in black. She was standing directly behind the metal barricade, right arm outstretched, gun pointed at the people caught in the front doorway of the funeral home.
Her? Ninety-six out of every hundred active shooters are men. Our heads had been wrapped around looking for a man.
My gun was out, and I bolted across Madison as she pulled the trigger a second time. She was not a pro. Her one-armed shooting stance was all wrong, and her hand kicked back when she took the shot. I have no idea who she was aiming at, but I watched as the bullet drilled through Henry Muhlenberg’s skull, exiting in a trail of blood, bones, and brains.
The crowd was in chaos. With the barricade trapping them on one side, and the funeral home on another, a handful of people ran north toward 82nd Street, but the bulk of them came running straight at me, heading for the opposite side of Madison. The shooter, who was less than ten feet from Spence and Kylie, turned her gun toward them.
I stopped, trying to line up a clean shot.
And then I went down hard.
A large man in a purple sweatshirt had broadsided me, kicked the gun out of my hand when I hit the ground, fell on top of me, and screamed, “I got him, I got him!”
I heard another shot, then another, then a third, as more wannabe-hero civilians piled on top of me.
I had counted five shots in all. And then nothing. Five seconds passed. Seven. Ten. The gunfire had stopped.