“Melanie Vargas is about to receive an interesting package in the mail. It’s going to lay out for her how you persuaded me to put out a contract on Jed, so he wouldn’t expose what we did on Securilex. What we both did, Sarah. And I have proof. Very persuasive proof.”

“That’s ridiculous, Dodo. I had nothing to do with Jed’s murder.”

“Neither did I. But once the prosecutor reads what I sent her, she’ll think otherwise. Happy landing, Sarah! I’ll be waiting for you in hell.”

47

MELANIE WAS IN TERRIBLE SHAPE. THOSE TEN extra pounds-she felt every one of them. Rushing toward the model-boat pond in her high-heeled shoes, gasping for breath, she had an agonizing stitch in her side. The paved pathway was nearly deserted in the stifling heat, the air wet and pungent, smelling like rain. Her body ached to stop, but she had to keep going, had to find Sophie Cho before the skies opened.

Slice didn’t fuck around. He would murder Sophie with less thought than he’d give to crushing a cockroach under his shoe. Melanie refused to let that happen. Whatever Sophie’s entanglement with Jed Benson, she was fundamentally a good person, whereas Slice was an animal. Thinking about Slice hurting her friend, pure rage shot through her. She felt capable of terrible violence, imagined hurting Slice, clawing him with her fingernails, ripping into him with her teeth. She felt the animal within herself.

She got to the open plaza housing the model-boat pond and slowed to a walk. The sweat dripping down her back made her dress stick to her skin. Black thunderclouds loomed overhead. In the gathering gloom, she focused her mind, scanning the shiny green benches around the pond’s perimeter. They were largely deserted because of the heat and the threatening rain. A few people sat fanning themselves, waiting hopelessly for a cool breeze, but Sophie wasn’t among them. Had Slice overtaken her on the empty pathway? Was she lying dead or injured in the bushes Melanie had just passed? Central Park was a big place. She could use some help, but there was no one to call, no one to trust.

Not seeing Sophie, she picked up her pace again. The sky darkened to a lurid gray-green. The first fat drops of rain hit her arm and forehead. Within seconds it became a downpour. Everybody scattered. Melanie flew up shallow bluestone steps to a small brick building housing a concession stand, huddling along with several others under its green copper awning. Rain beat down on the metal like sticks on a tin can. Drops fell sideways in sheets, pricking her skin and stinging her eyes.

If Sophie wasn’t at the model-boat pond, where was she? Hands racing, Melanie dialed Sophie’s cell phone. It picked up on the first ring.

“Yo, Big, what up?” a man’s voice answered, low and dangerous. She recognized it instantly, from the tape.

“Slice,” she said.

“Who this?” Slice asked.

“Where’s Sophie? What have you done with her?”

The phone went dead in her hand.

If she hadn’t been certain before, she was now. Slice had Sophie’s cell phone; ipso facto Slice had Sophie. Melanie trained every neuron on figuring out where he would take her. She felt the answer beckoning just at the edge of her grasp. What was the connection between Sophie, an architect, and Jed Benson’s murder? It had something to do with the town house, with the blueprints Sophie had filed with the Buildings Department. They were fakes, she’d told Melanie over the phone. Fakes? Fakes! Duh! Melanie didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until the woman standing next to her looked at her with a start. No, she wanted to say, I’m not mentally ill, but I am a complete moron.

Melanie reached for the red cardboard tube she’d been carrying, protruding from her handbag, since this morning. Why would Jed Benson bother hiding blueprints of his town house in his trapped-out car? Why would Dan’s snitch travel all the way to Millbrook to find them? Because the blueprints were valuable, that was why. She’d been carrying around the originals, the real ones, the whole time. They revealed something, hid something, contained some secret, that the phonies on file with the Buildings Department didn’t. Based on what she knew, the secret must be about one of two things: either the Securilex deal or drugs. The evidence pointed to one of those two motives being behind Jed Benson’s murder. Melanie was betting on the latter. Something that had to do with drugs. Drugs, drugs, drugs. Yes! She thought about the Road Runner sticker on Benson’s Hummer, about the secret trap in his car. It all made sense. She held the real blueprints in her hand, and with them the key to the whole case.

SHE SPRINTED TO JED BENSON’S TOWN HOUSE in the pouring rain, skidding and slipping, wrenching her ankle, swearing. People on the street got out of her way as if she were a crazy woman. Her dress was soaked, her hair plastered to the side of her face, but she wouldn’t stop. Slice was taking Sophie there to find what was hidden in the blueprints. Once he got what he wanted, he would surely kill her. Every second that passed brought Sophie’s murder one second closer.

Adrenaline pumping, Melanie didn’t spare a thought for her own safety, until suddenly she pictured Maya’s precious, funny face. Maya made her want to take care of herself, to take precautions. If ever there was a moment to call in reinforcements, this was it, but who to call? Damn that Dan O’Reilly, making her feel she couldn’t trust him. Because there was simply nobody else. Randall, Bernadette, Rommie Ramirez. All of them would hurt her before they would help her. Wouldn’t they?

Before she knew it, Melanie stood panting, gazing up at the Bensons’ town house. Boarded-up windows lent its facade an eerie, derelict appearance. The rain was letting up, but the sky overhead was still black with storm clouds. Once she caught her breath, she crept around to the basement entrance. It was hidden from the street, tucked behind the grand, curving limestone steps to the main floor. Tattered remnants of yellow crime-scene tape fluttered from its carved wooden door. She rattled the heavy brass doorknob. It wouldn’t budge. Just as well. She needed time. Time to gather her nerve. Time to formulate an escape plan.

She did the only thing she could think of to alert anyone to her whereabouts-dialed Steve at work. No matter how things stood between them, he cared about her safety. The thought gave her a sharp pang of nostalgia for him. But his secretary came on the line and said he was out of the office at a meeting. Melanie left a quick voice mail saying where she was and hung up wondering if she’d achieved anything beyond telling him where to find her dead body.

She stashed the blueprints in a nearby planter and knelt down to examine the lock. Maybe she could jimmy it with a credit card like she’d seen in the movies. She’d give it a try, maybe do a little reconnaissance, but not go inside just yet. She was digging in her handbag for her wallet when she heard a noise behind the door.

It swung open, and before Melanie could get to her feet, two men sprang out, one lean and slight, the other huge and hulking, both wearing black ski masks over their faces. The big one tackled her. She went over backward, slamming her head against the rough sidewalk, letting out a startled grunt.

“Yo, what you up to, bitch?” the small one asked in a low, intimate tone, leaning down so she felt his fetid breath, warm on her face. He thrust a large silver semiautomatic against her cheek. She felt it there, enormous and cold, blocking her view of the sky.

“Well, lookit this, Bigga. It the prosecutor. Melanie Vargas. She come for a visit. Ain’t that nice? You got something you wanna tell me, Melanie?”

It frightened her that he knew her name. Obviously she recognized him, even through the ski mask. Not just from his old mug shot either, but from everything she’d heard. The height and build, the attitude. Killer’s freaky energy radiating through the ski mask, body twitching with adrenaline. This guy had to be Slice. But the fact that he recognized her-what could that mean, other than that he’d followed her?