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  A few seconds later the answer came back: Scoopin fast as I can.

  He sat all the way up in bed so he could watch her scooping.

  Scooping is what she was doing the first day he met her—only it wasn’t ice cream. She was selling popcorn at the Paris Theatre, one of the last single-screen movie houses in New York.

  “You must be a big Hilary Swank fan,” she said, ignoring the prefilled bags and digging deep into a batch of hot, fresh-popped corn.

  “Not really,” he said.

  “This is the third time you’ve come to see the movie this week,” Lexi said. “It can’t be the popcorn.”

  He laughed. “You know the scene in the beginning where the guy at the bar tries to hit on her, and she blows him off? That’s me.”

  “Get out of here,” Lexi said. “You’re acting in the movie that’s playing right here at the Paris? Just for that I’m giving you a medium popcorn and you only have to pay for the small.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He didn’t even want the small one. The popcorn sucked, but he kept buying it so he could talk to the popcorn girl.

  “One question,” she said. “Why do you stay for the whole movie if you’re only on in the beginning?”

  “My name is in the end credits. ‘Jerk at the Bar—Gabe Benoit.’ That’s me.”

  “Hey, Gabe, nice to meet you. I’m Lexi Carter—Jerk at the Popcorn Stand.”

  He stayed and watched the movie two more times until Lexi got off work. Then they walked over to the Carnegie Deli on Seventh Avenue and split one of their foot-high celebrity sandwiches—an artery-clogging, towering pile of corned beef and pastrami called the Woody Allen.

  “Wouldn’t it be cool if one day you got so famous that they named a sandwich after you?” Lexi said.

  “I have a better idea,” he said. “They can name half a sandwich after me and the other half after you.”

  They took the subway downtown to her apartment for coffee.

  “I lied,” she said as soon as she locked the door. “I don’t have any coffee.”

  “What’ve you got?” he said.

  She peeled off her T-shirt, stepped out of her jeans, and stood there naked.

  God, she was gorgeous. Lexi was one of those women who actually looked better naked than she did with clothes on. Thick auburn hair, bottomless blue eyes, and creamy white skin all the way down to her frosted pink toenails.

  “You have the most incredible body I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, really. I mean it.”

  “Thanks. Most guys prefer tits the size of volleyballs. Mine work better if you like tennis.”

  “They’re perfect,” he said.

  “You know what my mom always said—the perfect breast is just big enough to fill a champagne glass.”

  The next night he bought her a gift. Two Baccarat champagne glasses. Since then, she used them for everything. Diet Coke, M&M’s, sunflower seeds—it didn’t matter. It was, she told him, the best present she ever got.

  Right now the champagne glasses were filled with ice cream. She twirled out of the kitchen, a glass filled with Rocky Road in each hand. She gave him one and plopped down on the bed next to him.

  “Go ahead,” she said, digging into the ice cream. “Vent.”

  That was part of their deal. When he got home, the first thing he had to do was share all the best parts of his day with her. She gobbled up all the gloriously horrid details. Then she bubbled over with questions. What was Roth wearing? Blazer, yellow shirt, no tie. What did he finally end up ordering for breakfast? Smoked salmon platter, toasted bagel. Were there any movie stars at the Regency? Just me.

  When she finally ran out of questions, they made love. After that Lexi was happy to listen to him bitch and moan about whatever went wrong during the day.

  “There were two detectives from NYPD Red,” he said. “It’s pretty obvious that whoever switched the magazines could still have been right there in the studio. So you’d think they would question me. But no. They just walked off, and I got interviewed by some young Chinese-Japanese-Korean cop.”

  “Don’t be a racist,” Lexi said. “It’s not nice. They’re called Asian.”

  “I thought Asians were supposed to be smart. This guy was an idiot. He asked me questions like ‘Did you go anywhere near the prop table?’ It’s the same as saying ‘Did you put real bullets in the gun so it would kill Ian Stewart?’ Of course I’m going to say no. I think he took one look at me and decided I wasn’t even worth the trouble. Like, you’re not good enough to be the killer. You’re just some extra who sits in the background and mumbles walla-walla-walla all day long for two hundred and twenty-five bucks. You know what, Lex, he’s the goddamn racist.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Tonight you’ll show them who the real star is. You’re gonna rock. I got your wardrobe and your makeup all ready.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Gabe…”

  He knew by the way she said his name what was coming next.

  “No,” he said. “Out of the question. Not this scene. It’s too dangerous. You can’t come with me.”

  “Please,” she said. “It’s no fun sitting around wondering what’s going to happen.”

  “You can watch it on TV,” he said. “Just turn on the E! channel and you’ll see it all.”

  “But I want to see it with you.”

  “Put the DVR on and record it,” he said. “When I get home, we can watch it together.”

  She lowered her head and sulked. “Not as much fun.”

  He dipped his finger into her champagne glass, scooped out a small dollop of cold creamy chocolate, and rubbed it gently against her left nipple. He leaned into her and slowly, tantalizingly, ran his tongue around her breast until he finally arrived at the sweet chocolate center. He sucked it off and she squirmed.

  “I promise you’ll get to do a scene, but this one is too chancy,” he said.

  “You promise I’ll get one?”

  “I swear.”

  She kissed him. “You want dinner when you come home?”

  “I’ll bring back pizza,” he said. “All you have to do is wash out those champagne glasses.”

  “For what?”

  “Champagne,” he said, kissing her other breast. “Tonight, we’ll be drinking champagne.”

  Chapter 21

  KYLIE AND I were in our office on the third floor. And when I say “our office,” I mean the flat gray, high-ceilinged half a football field, filled with two long rows of institutional desks, very few partitions, and even less privacy.

  Being a cop has its perks, but luxurious accommodations have never been one of them.

  “The captain has me on the inside, you on the outside,” Kylie said. “Are you okay about splitting up?”

  For a second I thought she was kidding, but she wasn’t. We were partners, and for Kylie that meant working as close to each other as possible.

  “It makes sense,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”

  “I can’t believe this is my first day at NYPD Red, and I’m going to work in an evening gown,” she said.

  “Let’s not tell Omar,” I said. “I wouldn’t want him to get jealous.”

  “You realize I’m going to have to explain to Spence that I’m wearing a wire,” she said. “I can’t just talk into thin air.”

  “Actually, he’ll be good cover for you,” I said. “You can talk to the Command Center, but it’ll look like the two of you are just having a normal conv—”

  I heard her heels click-clacking on the tile floor, and then I saw her walking toward my desk. Cheryl Robinson. She saw me see her, and she smiled—second time today, that killer smile that lights up a room, even one as drab as this.

  “Hi, Zach,” Cheryl said. “This must be your new partner, Detective MacDonald.”

  She reached out, and the two women shook hands. I don’t know why I felt uncomfortable, but I tried not to let it show.

&
nbsp; “Cheryl Robinson, department psychologist.”

  “Kylie MacDonald, NYPD Red probie. I hope you’re not here to pick my brain, because it’s on serious overload, plus I have to get home and make sure the gown I’m wearing tonight covers my ankle holster.”

  “I’m guessing you’re working the crowd at Radio City,” Cheryl said.

  “The in crowd,” Kylie said. “It was part of my plan for the evening anyway—one of the joys of being the wife of a TV producer. Now I’m getting paid to do it, and if we’re lucky, Zach and I will catch our first madman together. Win-win. It’s nice to meet you, Cheryl, but I’ve got to run home and suit up.”

  “Break a leg,” Cheryl said.

  We watched Kylie leave. “In case you hadn’t noticed,” I said, “she loves being a cop.”

  Cheryl just nodded.

  “Come on, Doc, if you’re going to make a house call, give me a little more than a head nod.”

  “I’m off duty,” she said. “I just stopped by to see you personally.”

  “Oh…well, here I am.” Still uncomfortable. Still not sure why.

  “When we had coffee this morning, we were both looking at a tough day. I did pretty well with mine. And you helped. I just wanted to say thanks for the advice.”

  “It was good advice. I wish I’d thought of it myself.”

  “I know I’m the one who said it, but you’re the one who helped me hear it. So thanks.”

  “Any time.”

  “I really did stop by just to say thank you,” Cheryl said, “but as long as I’m here, how’s the new-partner dynamic going?”

  “We had two homicides in less than eight hours, so even if I wanted to dwell on the past, I don’t have the time.”

  “I guess there’s an upside to everything,” Cheryl said. “Maybe that means you’ll get a good night’s sleep.”

  “We’re on high alert tonight,” I said. “The way things are shaping up, I’m not sure if I’ll get any sleep.”

  “In that case,” she said, turning on the million-dollar smile, “I’ll see you at the diner in the morning.”

  Chapter 22

  NYPD HAS DOZENS of command posts on wheels. The one parked on the corner of 50th Street and Sixth Avenue is the biggest, baddest one in the fleet. It’s a joint product of American, British, and Israeli ingenuity—a two-million-dollar, forty-eight-foot-long rolling nerve center affectionately known as Copzilla.

  “Hard to believe we need all this hardware to catch one guy,” Captain Cates said.

  “If it is one guy,” I said.

  Cates had changed from her civvies to her dress blues and stopped by before heading out to spend the rest of the night within screaming distance of the mayor, who wanted to be—quote—kept in the goddamned loop every goddamned step of the goddamned way.

  “I just spoke to Mandy Sowter at the Public Information Office,” Cates said. “Ian Stewart led the evening news. Mainstream media is still calling it a ‘tragic incident that’s under investigation,’ but the tabloids are hitting hard on the Jealous Wife Shoots Cheating Husband in Front of Hundreds of Witnesses angle.”

  “Technically, they’re both right,” I said.

  “Sid Roth’s autopsy isn’t public yet, so most people haven’t connected his death with Stewart’s. But the bloggers have picked up on TMZ’s poison story, and now the social networks are buzzing with serial-killer rumors. You’d think that the threat of a murderer on the loose would keep people as far from the red carpet event as possible, but look at that mob out there.”

  “Die-hard fans,” I said. “If their favorite celebrity is going to get gunned down, they don’t want to miss it.”

  “Even if a couple of stray bullets come their way?” Cates said.

  “Like I said, die…hard…fans.”

  Cates left, and I sat down at the console with Jerry Brainard, a civilian dispatcher who knew every inch of Copzilla’s hundreds of miles of microfiber.

  “My partner should be in the lobby of the Music Hall,” I said. “Can I get a picture?”

  Brainard cued up the corresponding camera and zoomed in on Kylie. She was wearing a silky, cream-colored, jaw-dropping gown that hugged her waist, then flared out to the floor—an absolute fashion must for anyone wearing an ankle holster. I had no idea who the designer was, but the handsome guy at her side was definitely Spence Harrington.

  I keyed the mic. “Command to Yankee One,” I said.

  A big smile spread across her face and she shook her head in obvious protest to the code name I’d assigned her. “This is Yankee One.”

  “What are you looking at so far?” I said.

  “It’s like DEFCON One in here,” she said. “There are more cops than Rockettes. So far there have been metal detectors, radiation detectors, and four-legged bomb detectors. If the mayor is looking for security, he’s got it.”

  “And if they gave out awards for best undercover wardrobe, you guys would win. You both look terrific,” I said. “How’s Spence doing? Is he okay with this?”

  “Are you kidding? He does cop shows for a living. Now he feels like he’s in one.”

  “Just make sure he doesn’t try to do any of his own stunts,” I said. “Command out.”

  I turned to Brainard. “Pan the crowd,” I said.

  Our truck is thirteen feet high. There’s a camera on the roof that’s mounted on a telescoping mast that extends another twenty-seven feet into the air. Brainard did a slow three-sixty of the people below. It was more than just a cursory sweep. The lens on the camera was powerful enough to zoom in on a license plate a city block away.

  I studied the faces. Fans hoping to reach out and touch their favorite movie star, paparazzi hoping to get the one picture that the media would pay through the nose for, and cops, in uniform and plainclothes—nearly a hundred strong, working the crowd—New York’s Finest doing what they do best.

  I had no idea where or how or even if the killer would strike, but sitting behind that console, looking up that wall of monitors, I knew one thing for sure. We were damn ready for him.

  Chapter 23

  EXT. RADIO CITY MUSIC HALL—NIGHT

  The Chameleon understands the power of a uniform. Dressed in blue, badge pinned to his shirt, he walks past the food carts doing a brisk business on 51st Street and works his way to the front of the crowd on the west side of Sixth Avenue.

  He’s twenty years older now, with a fringe of gray hair sticking out from under his cap and a neatly trimmed gray goatee. Thick horn-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses, with the lenses tinted amber, and a bulbous prosthetic nose are all he needs to make sure anyone who sees him on the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper won’t recognize him.

  A bored cop, standing in front of the police barrier and wishing he could be home sucking down a beer, sees him. The Chameleon flashes his photo ID. The cop lifts the barrier and waves him through.

  The Chameleon gives him a nod and heads for the thirty-foot-high TV camera tower across the avenue from the red carpet.

  Let the fun begin.

  THE SCENE DIDN’T go exactly as writ. It went better. There were two cops at the barricade, an older white guy and a young Latina woman.

  “What’s that mean on your ID,” she said. “‘Best Boy’? You don’t look like no boy.”

  “It’s a film term,” The Chameleon said. “It means I’m the main assistant to the gaffer—you know, the head electrician.”

  “Funny,” the second cop said. “I always see ‘Best Boy’ in the credits at the end of a movie. Never knew what it meant.”

  “Well, next time you see it, you can think of me,” The Chameleon said.

  “What happens if the main assistant is a woman,” the female cop said.

  The Chameleon gave her his most charming grin. “Then the head electrician does whatever she tells him.”

  Big laugh, and the two cops ushered him through the barrier.

  The E! channel had set up three TV camera scaffolds—one on 50th Street, one on 51st, and t
his one on Sixth Avenue, directly across from the theater.

  It was dark under the scaffold, and he turned on his flashlight. The ground was a hodgepodge of feeder cables snaking off in different directions, but the transformer where they all met was clearly labeled.

  He found the two cables he was looking for and yanked them both.

  He couldn’t hear over the crowd, but he’d bet that thirty feet above him the TV cameraman was cursing up a storm.

  The Chameleon climbed three quarters of the way up the scaffold.

  “You having power problems?” he yelled up to the cameraman.

  “Yeah. I got no picture. No audio to the booth. No nothing.”

  “Tranny problem,” The Chameleon said. “I can fix it. But I need a third hand. Can I borrow one of yours?”

  “Not my union, bucko.”

  “I just need you to hold the flashlight. I promise I won’t report you to the gaffers’ union.”

  “All right, all right,” the cameraman said.

  He followed The Chameleon down to the bottom of the scaffold.

  “Can you get down there and shine the light directly at the fun box,” The Chameleon said, pointing at the unit that picked up the power from the generator truck.

  The cameraman grunted as he squatted. “Hurry up, I don’t have the knees for this kind of sh—”

  The blow to the temple was swift and accurate. The cameraman collapsed in a heap. He was out cold, but that wouldn’t last long.

  “What you need now is a little vitamin K,” The Chameleon said, sticking a syringe into the man’s right deltoid and injecting him with ketamine. “You have a nice nap. I’ll go upstairs and operate the camera,” he said, plugging the two cables back into the box and rebooting the audio and video feeds.

  He climbed to the top of the scaffold and put on the headset that was dangling from the camera.

  “Camera Three,” the voice came from the production truck a block away. “Brian, you there?”