Hooked by Polly Iyer Page B

Martell’s history have slipped under the radar? Colin had done a thorough background check on him, taken the necessary precautions. That was one of the things Benny required, along with paying his taxes on time and keeping his properties in tip-top condition so he wouldn’t have trouble with either the building inspectors or the fire marshals. He paid well, mistreated no one. But you couldn’t catch everything. You couldn’t catch a client who suddenly flipped his marbles and went off the deep end. Now an innocent young girl was dead.
    Serena was another story. If the cops went full force, eventually someone would turn in Upper Eighties in a trade, if they hadn’t already. Benny wasn’t naïve enough to think that burying ownership of his buildings in a tangle of red tape would keep them off his back. Someone would talk. That was human nature. So why hadn’t the cops busted the place? What the hell were they waiting for?
    Benny felt like he was sitting on a live grenade. Aside from one instance of rough sex getting out of hand and a client’s heart attack, tonight was the only time Benny experienced an occupational hazard. Cindi’s brutal murder swirled in his head. Then he pictured big Rick Martell. And Mario Russo. One of the fucking crime bosses of New York . Sweat poured off him. He didn’t think even Eileen could make the jitters disappear. He’d be awake all night thinking what he was going to say to the accountant.
    Don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Martell. Your secret is safe with me. Oh, and yes, there are a few more people who know you squashed a sweet, innocent girl like a cockroach. And we have the film to prove it.

Chapter Seven
    An Inkling of Disaster

    B enny woke early. He’d slept fitfully on a chair in his apartment, visions of bodies in suitcases filling what little sleep he managed. Periodically, he dragged himself out of bed and woke Melody, per doctor’s instruction. Colin slept in one of the apartments, something he rarely did. Since Colin and Reggie were accessories in the murder cover-up, Benny knew they’d keep their mouths shut.
    Charles was another story. He lived rent-free in an outside-accessed basement apartment and doubled his doorman duties with maintenance responsibilities. He’d never married, and as far as Benny could tell had no interest in women. Benny didn’t think he was gay, more likely asexual. He solved puzzles at the lobby desk, listened to new wave music, and performed his duties diligently. Charles knew what went on at Upper Eighties―how could he not?―and acted respectful and non-judgmental to the women. Had he put together what happened last night? If he had, Benny hoped and prayed he’d keep his s ilence.
    Afraid to let Melody sleep too long, Benny woke her at eight. She wrapped herself in the terry cloth bathrobe he offered and disappeared into the bathroom.
    “How do you feel, sweetheart?” Benny asked when she plopped down on the chair in the breakfast nook. Silly question, he thought to himself. She looked like shit. Eyes red and swollen, complexion albino pale.
    “Like I wish I had amnesia.”
    “Here. Have a cup of coffee. It’s Sumatran.” He poured the coffee and put it in front of her.
    “Thanks for this. I really need it.” She blew the steam off the surface and sipped cautiously. “How’s Cindi?”
    Benny’s stomach hit the floor with a thud. He didn’t know what to say. Of course she didn’t know. She’d been knocked out cold. Benny had chewed the inside of his bottom lip raw during the night. He bit the soft, pulpy mass again and sucked in a pained breath. No point in beating around the bush. Out with it, front and center. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Martell crushed her. She was dead when we found her. There was nothing we could do.”
    A mournful wail escaped from under her covered mouth. “Oh, no.” Then she burst into big, wet sobs.
    Benny handed her a tissue, and she blew her nose. His heart wrenched at seeing sweet