“You’re welcome,” I said, lowering my arms from around her waist.
She stepped away, and the moment was over.
“Wish I could stay,” she said, “but I’ve got a homicidal maniac to catch, and my poor husband’s got both feet nailed to the floor.”
“How many times have I heard that old excuse?” I said as I followed her down the hallway so I could aid and comfort the lucky bastard with both feet nailed to the floor.
Chapter 82
The second that Kylie and I walked through the door of the apartment, Spence burst into tears.
“I thought you were dead,” he said, his body still in trauma, now shaking with gratitude and relief.
“That makes three of us,” Kylie said.
She grabbed an afghan throw from the sofa and draped it over his legs. Then she knelt beside him, cradling him in her arms, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, and finally his lips.
I squatted down behind him and cut away the duct tape that bound him to the chair.
As soon as his arms were free, he hugged her tight, and I watched as she quietly rocked him back and forth.
“You guys have got to stop Benoit,” he said, breaking the hug abruptly.
“We will,” she said. “But first we have to do something about getting those nails out of your feet.”
Spence sat back in the chair. “
“I love you, too,” she said, “but I can’t just leave you sitting in the middle of the living room. My mother is coming next weekend, and you know what a neat freak she is.”
The love between the two of them was palpable. I couldn’t imagine how much pain he was in, but just having her near made him smile. She was also frustrating the hell out of him.
“Dammit, Kylie, listen to me. I’m fine. He didn’t hit an artery. I’m not going to bleed to death. I can wait till the fire department shows up. They can cut the floor out from under me and take me to the hospital. After that, all I want is the best foot surgeon in New York and maybe a week on the beach in Turks and Caicos. You have more important things to do than hold my hand.”
“Do you have any clue where Benoit was going next?” she said.
“I’ve got more than a clue. He has a shitload of explosives, and he’s headed for Shelley Trager’s yacht.”
Kylie was blindsided. She’d convinced herself that Shelley’s little sunset cruise was a low-priority target. “Why Shelley?” she said.
“Not just Shelley. Shelley and me. Benoit calls himself The Chameleon, and he thinks we stole his persona and used it for my TV show.”
“That’s insane,” she said.
“I think we’ve pretty much established that the guy is a psycho,” Spence said. “He knows Shelley is screening the pilot on his yacht tonight. Benoit is planning to get on board, wait till they’re somewhere out on the open water, and then blow it up.”
“Did you convince Shelley to bring any security on board?” Kylie said.
“You know how stubborn he is. He finally signed on two rent-a-cops just to humor me. I doubt if they’re any better than a couple of school crossing guards.”
“We have to warn him,” Kylie said. “Maybe we should radio the captain.”
“You do that,” Spence said. “I met him. His name is Kirk Campion. He’s a retired merchant marine, used to be chief mate on one of the Maersk container ships. And guess what-he pitched a movie to me about a yacht getting hijacked by a bunch of Somali pirates, and the captain and the crew take them on. You call him and tell him the madman everyone in New York is looking for is on his boat, and guess what he’ll do?”
“Spence is right,” I said. “The last thing we need is some civilian cowboy trying to save the day. You and I need to get on that boat. Spence, where’s the dock, and when does the boat leave?”
“South Street Seaport. Pier 17. What time is it?”
“A little after six.”
“By now they’ve shoved off, and Gabriel Benoit is somewhere belowdecks wiring it with enough explosives to blow it to Weehawken.”
“How does he expect to get off?” Kylie said.
“Beats me,” Spence said, “but after the way he escaped from half of NYPD at Radio City, I bet he won’t have a hard time figuring out how to-”
There was a pounding on the apartment door.
“Police,” the voice on the other side said. “Open up.”
I opened the door. There were at least ten people in the hallway. All of them in uniform, except one: Captain Cates.
Chapter 83
“Captain,” I said, “I know I should have taken your call, but-”
“We’ll have plenty of time for repercussions later, Detective,” she said. “Right now, I want the short version of what went down.”
I gave it to her in under sixty seconds. Kylie stood by my side and didn’t say a word.
“And you’re sure Benoit is on the yacht?” Cates said.
“As sure as we can be, but he’s fooled us before. I wouldn’t pull any of the units you have covering the other events.”
“Okay,” she said, “what do we need to catch this son of a bitch?”
“A boarding vessel,” I said. “Kylie knows the layout of the yacht, and we can both spot Benoit. Just get the two of us on board.”
“Three of you,” Cates said. “This time you’re not going anywhere without a bomb tech.”
“Fair enough, Captain.”
“You see any C4, you point it out to the tech. You got lucky once, but you will not-repeat, not-attempt to disable any explosives. Your only job is to disable Benoit. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Get moving. I’ll call you with the details.”
I was about to bolt when Cates held up her hand. She stared at me, stone-faced. “And Jordan…make sure your phone is on.”
Chapter 84
Within minutes, Kylie and I were back in the PPV doing ninety on West Street barreling toward South Street Seaport.
There may only be seventy-five cops attached to NYPD Red, but there are another thirty-five thousand brothers and sisters in blue who’ve got our backs-and our fronts. By the time we entered the South Street Viaduct, which tunnels under Battery Park, we had two motorcycle cops from Highway Patrol clearing our path.
“Hot damn!” Kylie yelled. “We’re getting a police escort.”
Captain Cates had the full power of the New York City Police Department at her fingertips, and when we emerged from the tunnel, it was clear that she hadn’t hesitated to use it.
The road in front of us was clear. No, it was empty. FDR Drive, which is often preceded by the words “heavy
