Michele Martinez: Most Wanted

That left only one logistical hurdle-what to do with Maya while she went inside. Sophie regularly baby-sat for Maya. Unhappily single and dying for a child of her own, she begged to, in fact. But Melanie couldn’t tell if she was too upset tonight. That reminded her-she’d promised to let Rommie know that Sophie wanted to help the firemen.

“Rommie,” Melanie said, “before we go in, I need to introduce you to my friend Sophie Cho. She’s the architect who worked on redesigning the Bensons’ house. She knows it inside out. She wants to help any way she can.”

“Architect?” That got his attention.

“Yes,” Sophie answered.

“Do you have the blueprints for this building?” he asked.

Sophie froze up. “They’re on file with the Buildings Department,” she responded stiffly. “Why?”

“I need them right away.”

“I don’t have them,” Sophie said, shaking her head emphatically. “But I could go inside and-”

“No civilians inside. You don’t keep a copy for yourself?” Rommie scrutinized her suspiciously, as if he didn’t believe her. He started to say something else, but one of a group of fire officials standing nearby called his name, gesturing toward the town house.

“All clear,” Rommie said to Melanie. “I gotta get in there. I’ll follow up with you later about those blueprints, miss. Here, gimme your name and number.” He pulled a small memo book from his breast pocket. Sophie gave him the information. He jotted it down and disappeared back in the direction of the town house, leaving Melanie to follow.

“What was that about? Why did he want the blueprints?” Sophie asked.

“They’re probably trying to figure out where the fire started.”

Melanie reached out and smoothed Sophie’s hair, studying her friend’s face. Sophie’s eyes were dry, but Melanie knew her well enough to understand she could be upset and never show it. Sophie kept everything bottled up inside. A short, intense Korean girl from Flushing, struggling to get to the top of what was, in New York at least, a cutthroat profession. She took a lot of things hard, and Melanie couldn’t quite tell how she was taking this.

“Are you okay, chica ?” Melanie asked gently.

“Me? I’m fine. It’s the Bensons we should worry about. You need to do something, Melanie. I’ll feel so much better if I know you’re on the case. Let me take Maya home for you so you can do your job.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Well, if you’re really up for it. I know how good you are with her.” It was true. Melanie totally trusted Sophie with Maya.

“Okay, then it’s settled. Don’t worry, take as long as you need. If I get tired, I’ll snooze on the couch.”

“You’re the best, Soph! Thank you so much.”

Melanie gave Sophie her keys and some quick instructions. They hugged, and then Sophie grasped the stroller handles and headed off.

Melanie turned to the crew-cut cop, back at his post alongside the barricade.

“I’m going in with the lieutenant.”

She must have sounded more confident than she felt, because he immediately pulled it aside for her. He had no way of knowing this was her first murder scene. She’d seen autopsy photos, all right, but no matter how graphic or disgusting, pictures were pictures. Hardly the same as real human flesh, slashed, ripped, burned, staring you in the face. She hoped she wouldn’t gag or faint. It’s all part of the job, she told herself, nodding at him as she drew a deep breath and marched toward the town house to view what was left of Jed Benson.

THE FIREMEN PACKED UP THEIR GEAR, FACES weary in the glow of the flashing lights. Their job was done. The cops and prosecutors were in charge now. Melanie splashed through murky water, hurrying to the basement entrance where she’d seen Rommie Ramirez disappear a moment earlier.

The wooden door tucked under the curving limestone staircase opened into blackness. As she approached, a Crime Scene detective clad in protective jumpsuit and face mask emerged, shutting off a heavy-duty flashlight. He yanked off his mask and hard hat and wiped his arm across his weather-beaten face, leaving a trail of black.

“Butch Brennan, right?”

“Hey, Melanie. Haven’t seen you since that grand jury. You the prosecutor on this case?”

“Yes, I’m with Lieutenant Ramirez. I need to view the evidence.”

“Seriously? Jeez, no offense, I know it’s your job and all. But what’s in there is nothing for a woman to see.”

“I appreciate the concern, Butch, but I can handle myself.”

“Okay, if you say so. The lieutenant’s toward the back with my team, where the body is. I gotta go talk to the fire chief, or I’d take you in myself. You better cover your nose and mouth. The smell is pretty bad for a kill this fresh.”

Butch marched off, and Melanie stepped through the door into the darkness. The stench hit her instantly. A powerful combination of charred meat, burned hair, and blood. A human being slashed to bits, fried to a crisp. The smell stopped her dead in her tracks, throwing her right back to that night. The smell of blood, on that night she tried never to remember.

“PAPI?” MELANIE CALLED, STARING AT THE sliver of light shining out from under the closed door to her father’s office. Something didn’t feel right here .

She was thirteen. It was night, mid-January in Brooklyn. They lived over her father’s furniture store. She’d come downstairs to get away from her mother’s screaming, to do her homework in peace and quiet. Her father was in his office in the back, avoiding her mother as usual. But all the lights were off in the showroom, and she’d just heard a strange noise. Like a grunt of pain.

As she reached for the door handle, a muffled thud sounded from behind the door.

“Papi?” she called again, her voice trembling. No answer .

She turned the knob and pushed the door open. Her father sat in his customary place behind the desk. But the overhead light was off. The desk lamp cast a yellowish glow on the desktop, leaving his face and the rest of the room in shadows. There was something odd about him, about his posture, his expression. And something smelled funny. Metallic, almost, yet gamy.

She moved a step farther into the room and squinted to see better. Her father’s longish black hair flopped over his brow as it always did, but beneath it an angry cut slashed downward across his forehead. Dark blood oozed down the side of his face, disappearing into his hairline, then reappearing again on his chin. He stared back at her, eyes glazed with pain, not moving.

“What-” she began.

“¡Corre!” her father choked out. “Run ! ¡Fuera de aquí!”

A STRING OF EMERGENCY LIGHTS FLASHED ON, snapping Melanie back to the present. The basement was intact, though damaged by smoke and water. Cops’ voices floated out from a room down the hall, so she headed for it. The odor got worse as she approached. She gagged, yanking the neckline of her white T-shirt up over her nose and mouth, just as Butch Brennan came up behind her.

“Got the lights on,” he said.

“Right.” Her voice was muffled by her shirt, so he didn’t notice its unsteadiness.

“Here. I got a spare face mask,” he said, pulling one from a pocket of his jumpsuit. She put it on as they entered the room.

The square, windowless space had obviously been a home office. The richly carved shelves lining three walls were filled with the charred remains of books. Inside, the room reeked of vomit more than anything else.

“Jesus, which one of you faggots lost his lunch?” Butch called to three crime-scene cops who stood in a loose knot around Jed Benson’s blackened corpse.