Most Wanted by Michele Martinez

and a cold, sullen expression that chilled her.
    “Who’s this? He looks very familiar,” she said.
    “His street name is Slice, but we don’t have a true name for him.”
    “You have a mug shot, so he has a criminal record. How could you not have his true name?”
    “The mug shot’s from a juvie arrest about ten years ago. Apparently he was arrested under the name Junior Diaz, but it turned out to be false.”
    “Diaz? Like the gang leader.”
    “Yup, interesting coincidence.”
    “Maybe it’s not a coincidence. A family relationship to Delvis Diaz would fit with the retaliation theory, right? Like, say, Delvis’s little brother whacking Benson to avenge the conviction or something,” Melanie said. “But why do you say it’s a false name?”
    “It didn’t check out. At the time of arrest, he gave a false Social, false address. Apparently they didn’t figure it out until later.”
    “Hmmm,” she murmured. She was performing the same calculation she always did, whenever she came across the right type of suspect. A Bushwick kid, Puerto Rican, rough, a gangbanger. Certain things matched. But no. This one was too young, and according to the physical description on the pedigree sheet, much too small. She didn’t see how it could be the same guy, that one she’d been looking for for so long.
    “You say Slice looks familiar to you, though? Did you run across him in a case of yours?” Dan asked.
    “I don’t know. I can’t place him—it’s just a feeling. What else do you have on him?”
    “Nothing solid. He’s very careful. Won’t talk business over the telephone, won’t deal with strangers except through trusted subordinates—that type of thing. But my informant from that old wire tells me about Slice from way back. Says he’s the real deal. Maybe twenty bodies on him. Real psycho. Likes to torture his victims first by cutting pieces off ’em. That’s where he gets the aka. Oh, and generally kills all witnesses. That’s how he stays out of jail.”
    “Then maybe it’s not the same guy.
Our
perp left witnesses. He didn’t kill the housekeeper or Benson’s daughter,” she pointed out.
    Dan was quiet for a moment, pondering that. Their thoughts must have been following the same path, because when he opened his mouth to speak, she knew what he was going to say.
    “He didn’t kill ’em.
Yet
.”
    “Yet,” she repeated.
    “Don’t worry. We got security on both of ’em. In fact, I’m gonna call right now to tell those guys don’t even leave their posts to use the john.”
    “Yes. Do that. I’m pretty good, but even I can’t make a case if the witnesses are dead.”
     
     
    AS THEY TALKED, MELANIE FILLED PAGES OF a yellow legal pad with notes on what they needed to do. And do fast. Identifying and apprehending Slice was the top priority. If he was the perpetrator, they could assume he would try to eliminate the housekeeper and Jed Benson’s daughter. They needed to stop him before he did any more damage.
    Dan pointed to the second mug shot, of a huge, hulking guy who wore his hair in dreadlocks wrapped in a bandanna. “Jason Olivera, street name Bigga, a known C-Trout Blade. We should go after him because he’s gonna be easier to find than Slice. Bigga has a rap sheet a mile long, small-time stuff mostly, but nasty. Assault, weapons possession. He’s been getting arrested his whole life, never done a stretch longer than six months, and he’s left a trail of addresses. I’m gonna start beating the bushes for him, hit all the locations from that old drug wire, see what crawls out.”
    “Okay, order your files from the old drug wiretap,” she said, jotting on the legal pad with a felt-tip marker. “I’ll order the records from the original Delvis Diaz case, the one Jed Benson prosecuted years ago. Who knows, maybe those locations are still active. And what about the informant you mentioned? Would he have any leads on where we can find Bigga?”
    “If I can find my informant,