Blonde Ice

by R. G. Belsky

  “I don’t know. I just have this bad feeling. Like we’re missing something. Like she’s still playing a game with us. A game where she makes all of the rules and we don’t even know what they are.”

  “We know now who she is and how she managed to immobilize her men victims. That’s something.”

  “There’s still too much we don’t know. Stuff that doesn’t make any sense.”

  A woman got out of a cab in front of my apartment house now. She had blonde hair and looked attractive. We both sat up straight and stared at her. It was difficult to tell much in the dark.

  “We got something here,” Wohlers said into the police radio. “Woman getting out of a cab in front of the building.”

  “Description?”

  “Can’t tell yet.”

  “But she could be the suspect?”

  “Could be, if . . .”

  Suddenly another door of the cab opened. A man got out, along with two small children. They all walked together up to the front door of the building, where the doorman gave them a big greeting. He obviously knew who they were. The lights of the building were on the family now, and we could see the woman clearly.

  It wasn’t Claudia Borrell.

  “What’s going on?” a voice on the police radio crackled.

  “Nothing, we’re good here,” Wohlers replied.

  “Not her?”

  “Not her.”

  Wohlers reached over now and rummaged around through some of the empty McDonald’s wrappers on the floor of the car to see if there was anything left to eat. There wasn’t. All he could find was some cold coffee. He grimaced, took a big gulp, and then belched loudly.

  “God, I hate stakeouts,” Wohlers said. “They’re so boring.”

  CHAPTER 51

  I WAS sitting at my desk in the newsroom when the call came.

  “I’ve got him,” Claudia Borrell said on the other end.

  “Who?”

  “I’ve got him,” she repeated.

  “Well, this is Malloy you’re talking to and you don’t have me.”

  She laughed loudly.

  “Oh, I never wanted you, Gil. I just needed you to get my message out through the media. As long as you keep doing that so well, I won’t harm a hair on your pretty little head. I must say, though, I got a real kick out of that police stakeout contingent they put up around you. But, you see, they were watching the wrong person. Did you really think I was going to walk into a police trap? Did you actually think I was that stupid?”

  “Who do you have?” I asked.

  “Bob Wylie.”

  Wylie. Of course. He was the one constant in all of this. The picture and warning to me were just more misdirection on her part. Wylie had been her next target all along. Somehow this was all about Wylie.

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “I’ll let Wylie tell you himself.” There was a brief pause on the line. Then another voice came on. Faint. Weak. It was difficult for me to hear at first. But, when I did, I realized that it was definitely Bob Wylie.

  “Help me,” he said in a pleading voice. “Help me.”

  Borrell came back on the line.

  “Convinced?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, wondering what she had done to him but afraid to ask.

  “I will call back later,” Borrell said. “And when I call back, I want whoever is in charge of law enforcement to be there with you. Also, that fat cop, Wohlers. Plus the people shooting that TV show you’re on. And, of course, I want you, Gil. Then I’ll tell all of you my demands.”

  “Demands? Is this about money?”

  “No, this about something far more important than money. It’s about Wylie finally paying the price for things he did a long time ago.”

  “Do you mean Munson Lake?”

  She laughed loudly. “Munson Lake was Melissa’s grudge against Wylie, not mine. He was with her mother that night, you know. He left her to die in the water. Melissa was angry at Wylie when she found out. I convinced Melissa that I would help her get revenge against Wylie and against a lot of other men too. We would be a team. A devastating team against the men who had hurt women like her and me.”

  “She helped you with the first killing, didn’t she?”

  “Actually she didn’t know it was going to be a killing.”

  “And when she found out what you did, she wanted out. Maybe threatened to go to the police. She wanted no part of murder. And so you killed her. Then you drove her body all the way to Munson Lake in Ohio. The same lake where her mother died.”

  “I thought it was such a nice touch—a perfect bit of symmetry—to have Melissa’s body found the same way as her mother’s body had been found years ago in that lake. I like things to be perfect, Gil. I guess I’m kind of compulsive that way.”

  “I still don’t understand,” I said. “Why do you care so much about what Wylie did at Munson Lake? You said that was Melissa’s grudge against him, not yours.”

  “Let’s just say I have my own score to settle with Bob Wylie.”

  “From back in Belleville when you met Wylie at the police station?”

  “I vowed then that one day Wylie would pay for what he did to me, and now I will finally get my revenge.”

  I tried to ask her what it was that Wylie had done to her, but she had already hung up.

  * * *

  By the time Borrell called back, my desk was surrounded by people. Police Commissioner Eaton was there. So were Wohlers, Marilyn, and Stacy. Along with lots of other law enforcement officers and Daily News execs and TV people from Live from New York.

  The cops had rigged my phone again to try to track Borrell’s call when it came in. Eaton had an entire team of technicians there in hopes of getting some kind of location where she was holding Wylie.

  I pointed out that they were probably wasting their time. “She made a big point of telling me she’s not stupid. And she’s not. She won’t give anything away that she doesn’t want us to know about.”

  “All you need to do is hold her on the phone long enough so that maybe we can at least pinpoint her general location,” Eaton said.

  The phone rang. I picked it up and nodded to everyone. It was Borrell again. I put the call on speaker.

  “Is the whole gang there?” Borrell asked.

  “This is Police Commissioner William Eaton. I am now in charge here. And I’m warning you that we will hold you personally responsible for Deputy Mayor Wylie’s safety. We demand you release him immediately. It will be easier for you if you do as exactly as I say.”

  “No, Police Commissioner William Eaton,” Borrell said, laying on the sarcasm as she repeated the title he’d just given her. “You better do exactly as I say. That is, if you ever want to see Wylie alive again.”

  “How do we know for sure you have him?”

  “Can you find him?”

  “No.”

  “That’s because he’s here with me.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “In due time, Commissioner.”

  “Let us talk to him,” Eaton said.

  “He already talked to my friend Gil.”

  “So put him on the phone again.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” she laughed. “He’s kind of, well . . . unconscious at the moment.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Wohlers asked.

  “Ah, finally a reasonable question. I like that. The practical and straightforward approach.”

  “What do you want?” Wohlers repeated.

  “I want to do a TV show.”

  “Is that why you asked for the people from Live from New York to be here?” Stacy asked.

  “Exactly. You do live breaking stories that are being covered by the Daily News on the show. Well, I’m going to give you your biggest story ever. And it will all be happening live on the air. With me and Bob Wylie as the stars.”

  “How’s that exactly going to work?” Stacy asked.

  “I want you to
bring a TV camera to where Wylie and I are now,” she said. “And then we will put on a live performance for Live from New York. Send a reporter to interview him. But no one is getting in here except the reporter and someone with the camera to televise it. If I see a cop, I’ll kill Wylie. You already know that I’m capable of that, don’t you? Send a TV camera here, let me broadcast something on Live from New York—and I’ll let Wylie go. That’s all I want.”

  No one said anything right away.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Borrell said. “I want Gil Malloy here. Gil needs to be the reporter asking the questions. I insist on that. That’s a nonnegotiable demand. He has been such a big part of this since it started. He really should be here to see how it all ends.”

  “What’s the location?” Eaton asked.

  “I’ll get back to you on that,” she said, and then the line went dead again.

  * * *

  “How the hell could she have snatched Wylie?” Eaton asked.

  “This woman is brilliant,” I said. “She can do pretty much anything she wants to do.”

  “What are you, president of her fan club?” he snapped.

  “No, he’s just telling the truth,” Wohlers said. “Which is what we all need to do. She’s got Wylie. How she got him doesn’t really matter at this point. We need to figure out what to do next to save him.”

  “Well, we’re not sending a goddamned TV show in there just so she can become famous,” Eaton said.

  “Why not?” Marilyn asked.

  “This isn’t about the media,” Eaton told her. “This is about a law enforcement operation now. You’re not a part of this.”

  “Yes, I am,” Marilyn said. “She specifically asked for my reporter to interview her on TV. Like it or not, she’s setting the agenda—not you.”

  Eaton looked like he was about to explode. He was a bureaucrat, not an experienced street cop like Wohlers. He was in over his head here. He’d never handled an operation like this before, and it was a helluva time to start.

  “I think we should do the TV show with her,” Wohlers said.

  “Why?” Eaton asked.

  “Maybe we save Wylie’s life.”

  “Do you really think she won’t kill him no matter what we do?” Eaton asked.

  “I don’t know, but it’s our best chance to try to save him.”

  There were nods from all around.

  “I say we send a TV cameraman in with Malloy to shoot the whole interview like she wants,” Wohlers continued. “Only the cameraman won’t really be a TV guy. He’ll be a cop. Once they’re in, he assesses the situation. Then he does whatever he can do—whatever he thinks is the right move—to try to end this.”

  Eaton nodded glumly. He still didn’t like the idea. But he had no alternative.

  “Okay,” he said. “Who goes in?”

  “I will,” Wohlers said.

  I shook my head no. “Lieutenant, you can’t. She knows what you look like. She talked about it on the phone. Besides, it can’t just be any cop. It has to be a cop that has some knowledge of TV equipment so that he can convince Borrell he’s for real. Someone who has a general working knowledge about how a TV show works. But is tough enough to do whatever has to be done. I think I know the perfect guy.”

  “Vincent D’Nolfo,” Wohlers blurted out before I could say the name.

  “Right.”

  “Is he a cop?” Eaton wanted to know.

  “He is now,” I said.

  I explained to him about D’Nolfo’s background on Abbie Kincaid’s show and how he had just graduated from the police academy.

  “A recruit? I don’t know. You realize that your life may well rest in this guy’s hands once you’re in there. Are you comfortable with this D’Nolfo?”

  “I can’t think of anyone I’d trust more,” I said.

  * * *

  Now all we could do was wait until Claudia Borrell called back with the location.

  The cops were ready to descend on the spot and position themselves outside while the drama on live TV played out. D’Nolfo was ready too. The TV people had given him a quick course in handling a TV camera, but he pretty much knew how to do that from his days with Abbie.

  D’Nolfo would have a gun hidden deep in the bag of television equipment he’d be carrying. That would make it harder for him to get at the weapon, but also more difficult for Borrell to find the gun if she did any kind of search when we got there. Our big dilemma was that we had no idea what kind of situation we were walking into.

  “She’s got to have something wherever she is to protect her when you go in, something that gives her the upper hand,” Wohlers said. “We just won’t know what that is until you get in there.”

  “A gun?” Eaton said.

  “She’s never used a gun yet.”

  “I think she’ll somehow use Wylie as a hostage,” D’Nolfo said. “Set it up so there’s no way we can get at her without putting him in danger. That’s got to be the plan of action she’s working under.”

  “So what do we do?” I asked.

  “Wait for our chance,” D’Nolfo said. “And, when it comes, I’ll kill her.”

  More nods all around.

  “Any other questions?” Eaton asked.

  “I have one,” I said. “How does she plan to get out? If this woman is so smart, why is she doing this? She has to realize the entire New York City police force will be outside waiting to take their best shot at her when this is over. What’s her exit strategy? What’s the end game for her?”

  “Maybe it’s a suicide strategy,” Eaton said. “Maybe she has no exit plan.”

  I shook my head no. “She always has a plan. She boasts about how she’s always one step ahead of us because she’s so smart. So what’s her plan here?”

  No one had any answer for that.

  She called back a short time after that. She still wouldn’t tell us right off where she was. She wanted to know first if all of her demands had been met for the live TV broadcast. We explained the details to her. She asked some more questions, and we were able to give the right answers to satisfy her.

  “Where are you with Wylie?” I asked finally.

  “Funny you should ask that,” Borrell laughed.

  Suddenly one of the police tech team members frantically signaled to Eaton and Wohlers.

  “We just pinpointed her location,” he said.

  “Where is she?” Wohlers asked.

  “The address is 25 Waterview Terrace.”

  “That’s Wylie’s address,” someone said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Eaton said, “she’s inside Wylie’s apartment!”

  CHAPTER 52

  CLAUDIA Borrell was waiting for us when we got to Wylie’s apartment.

  With a gun in her hand.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “This woman never uses a gun. Except, as you can see, I do have one. You should know by now, I’m not predictable. And no matter how hard you try, you can never keep up with me. Because I’m smarter than any of you.”

  Wylie lived on the twenty-third floor of a big high-rise along the East River. We were standing in the living room, which had a sweeping view of the water and the Brooklyn skyline on the other side. I had no idea how Borrell found out where Wylie lived. Or how she’d managed to get inside. But, like she told us, she always seemed to be one step ahead of us.

  In person, Borrell looked amazing. She was dressed in a tight miniskirt, a low-cut blouse, and high heels—with long blonde hair. Did she pick up Wylie by using sex as a lure like she did with the others? That made no sense at all. Wylie knew what she looked like and who she was. He never would have gone along willingly. She must have drugged him. But how?

  “Gil Malloy, what a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said. “I’ve admired you from afar for so long. I imagine you’ve admired me and my work too, right, Gil?”

  “There’s nothing to admire about killing innocent people.”

  “They’re only men,” Borrell shrugged.


  She turned now and looked at D’Nolfo, the gun still pointing at both of us. “Who’s this?” she asked.

  “He’s going to shoot this for Live from New York, like you wanted,” I said.

  “By himself?”

  “Sure,” D’Nolfo said.

  Normally there’s a video person and a sound person on a TV crew. But no one wanted to expose any of the TV people to the potential danger, and D’Nolfo said he could handle both jobs. I sure hoped he was right.

  “Well, I’m going to have a TV on where we’re going and I better see myself on that screen.”

  There was a pile of clothing lying nearby. Plain-looking clothes. Not the kind of clothes Borrell was wearing now. There was something else on the chair too. A brunette wig.

  “Yes, I’ve been wearing all that,” she said, noticing me looking at the wig. “The brunette wig and the drab clothes. Because everyone was looking for a sexy blonde, I had to blend in, not stand out or call attention to myself. So I wore the wig and those clothes. But I hate to look like that. So, as soon as I got here, I changed back into this outfit. I want to look really good. For the TV cameras. This is my big moment. I’m going to be famous now.”

  So far there was no sign of Bob Wylie.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Bob will be part of this too.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Of course. Let’s go talk to him.”

  * * *

  It was a big apartment, with five bedrooms and even a library. Wylie was in the one of the bedrooms—still alive, but barely.

  He was tied by all sorts of restraints to a chair in the center of the room. He was hardly recognizable as the dynamic leader I’d seen before. There was blood all over his face and body. Lots of blood. I wasn’t sure at first if Wylie was conscious or not. His eyes were open, but they looked dead and unseeing.

  Borrell picked up something off a table and held it under Wylie’s nose. His eyes jerked open wide now, filled with confusion and terror. Some kind of smelling salts, it seemed. And she definitely must have filled him with drugs. I don’t think he even realized D’Nolfo and I were in the room.