NYPD Red

mouth and chin resting on the knuckles of her right hand. It’s the classic pose of Rodin’s statue The Thinker, which also happens to be the squad’s favorite nickname for her.

And when the boss lady is in statue mode, everyone else in the room shuts up and gives her time to think. Which is exactly what Kylie and I were doing.

“He’s making a movie,” Cates said for the third time. “Without any camera equipment.”

“He’s making it in his head,” I said, also for the third time.

“That’s the part I’ve been wrestling with. It doesn’t make sense.”

“The man is crazy, boss,” I said. “We can’t expect sense from a guy whose last known address is a loony bin.”

“What about the Ian Stewart murder and the Brad Schuck bombing?” Cates said. “That’s not in his head. Both of those are on film.”

“Yeah, but for the most part he’s acting everything out live.”

“That’s called a play, Zach, not a movie.”

“We will happily point out the difference to Mr. Benoit when we arrest him.”

“And when will that be?” Cates said. “You’ve got his name, you’ve got his photo, you’ve got a lead on his girlfriend-how long before you nail this maniac?”

“Captain, we’re working on it around the clock, but he’s smart.”

“No, Detective, you were right the first time. He’s crazy. Talk to Cheryl Robinson and see if she can help us figure out what’s going on inside his head. Where would he hide, where could he strike next? Run it all past her.”

“I’ve already left messages at her office and on her cell,” I said. “If she doesn’t get back to me tonight, I’ll catch up with her first thing in the morning.”

Cates turned to Kylie. “You’re in the biz. What do you make of all this?”

“I’m not ‘in the biz.’ That’s my husband,” Kylie said. “But I’ve met hundreds of people who are totally immersed in it, and most of them are riddled with insecurity. They walk around as if they’re always being judged. And you know what, Captain-they are.”

“We’re all being judged,” Cates said.

“Not like this,” Kylie said. “Let’s say you sell cars for a living. Someone takes a test-drive, and when it’s over, they look you in the eye and say, ‘This car sucks. I’m not buying it.’ That doesn’t mean they hate you. They just don’t like your product. But in show business, the product most people are selling is themselves.”

“So they take every rejection personally,” Cates said.

“Exactly. And Gabriel Benoit has been kicking around the fringes of this business for years-overlooked, undervalued, ignored, rejected, tossed aside. He keeps on trying, but he’s never broken through.”

“Well, he sure as shit is making up for it now,” Cates said. “Find him.”

Kylie and I know an exit cue when we hear one. We both stood up. But Cates held up her hand and waved us back down in our chairs.

“I’ve been thinking,” The Thinker said. “Maybe Mr. Benoit isn’t so crazy after all. Maybe he is shooting a movie.” Cates paused. “Okay, maybe not shooting it, but laying it all out. Writing the script for it. Right now, millions of people are caught up in his story. It’s got action, drama, suspense, and everyone is on the edge of their seat waiting to see how it ends. Overnight, this overlooked, undervalued extra person has gone from show business loser to world- famous serial killer.”

“But he’s the only one who gets to see himself in the movie,” Kylie said.

“For now,” Cates said. “But by the time we get to the final act, don’t you think that every studio on both coasts will be offering up millions to buy the rights?”

“Captain, he would never see a penny of it. It’s the Son of Sam law. A criminal can’t profit from-” Kylie stopped short. “Oh shit! How did we not think of that?”

Cates smiled. “It looks like Detective MacDonald just had a come-to-Jesus moment.”

“And I’m about three seconds behind her,” I said. “Benoit doesn’t care about the money. He doesn’t need any camera equipment. He’s writing a script. Somebody else will make the movie.”

“His movie,” Cates said. “Starring Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp or George Clooney as Gabriel Benoit. And from the looks of things, he’s well on his way to getting it made.”

“Captain,” Kylie said, “if you’re right, then we’re just in the middle of Act Two, and I’m willing to bet he’s got a hell of a blockbuster finale planned out for Act Three.”

Nobody took the bet.

Chapter 51

Kylie and I holed up in the office and started digging into all things Gabriel Benoit. We were eating sandwiches from Gerri’s Diner when we got word that Brad Schuck died without ever coming out of his coma.

It didn’t change anything. I updated his file and went back to work. It was after 9:00 p.m. when Cheryl Robinson finally returned my call.

“Zach, I just got your message,” she said talking loudly. The background was noisy. Happy noisy. “I’m out to dinner, my phone was buried in my purse-sorry. What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a suspect, and Captain Cates would like you to jump in and try to get inside this guy’s head.”

“Give me a top line.”

“Gabriel Benoit, thirty-four, only child, born in Stuttgart, Germany, father was an officer in army intelligence. Family bounced around-South Korea, Alabama, Georgia-and eventually Dad wound up at the Pentagon. Gabriel went to high school in northern Virginia, where he was a B student with a keen interest in film studies. Dropped out of college in his freshman year. After that, it’s spotty till he moves to New York, where he’s in hundreds of movie and TV productions, using his real name and Social Security number. Two years ago, his mailing address changed from an apartment to a PO box, and finally to a mental health facility, which is where we tracked him, but he vacated a few months ago.”

“Two years ago he either became so paranoid he didn’t want anyone to find him, or that’s when he started planning these murders,” Cheryl said.

“Or both,” I said.

“Email me whatever you have on him. I’ll try to make sense of it when I get home tonight and I’ll meet you at the diner in the morning. Is five too early?”

“Not for this case. Thanks, Doc. Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “He totally understands. He’s a cop too.”

She hung up.

He? She was having dinner with a guy? And he’s a cop? It sure as hell didn’t take her long to replace Fred. I wondered how this guy felt about opera.

Kylie and I worked another two hours, and I crawled into bed at midnight. Four hours later, my cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was Kylie, but I knew better.

“Hello, Spence,” I said.

“This is not Spence,” Kylie said. “I read him the riot act yesterday. ‘If you have any bright ideas in the middle of the night, don’t wake Zach, wake me.’”

“Well, tell Spence thanks for not waking me,” I said.

“Listen up, I’m serious,” she said. “I brought home a copy of the video of Benoit tossing the Molotov. I’ve watched it a dozen times. Sometimes Spence is in the room, sometimes he’s not. Tonight he wakes me and says, ‘I just figured it out.’”

“Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick?”

“Zach, I know you think Spence is…I don’t know…creative. But this time I think he has something.”

“Sorry. I’m listening.”

“I don’t know about you, but when I watch that tape, I tend to zero in on Benoit. Spence did a freeze-frame on the Molotov cocktail. There’s no wick on it. No oily rag. No flame.”