Cover-up (16 page)

“Every minute. And we should get the DNA results back soon, so if he killed Suzanne Shepard, we’ll know.”

“Ms. Vargas, Councilman Williams will see your party in his office now,” the receptionist said, still eyeing Dan with hostility.

Clyde and an aide, a thin, bookish-looking guy with a pockmarked face and glasses, stood up as they entered the room. Clyde was a big man, tall and solidly built. Melanie couldn’t help noticing that he was the right size and body type to be the killer—if you believed David Harris’s description—albeit the wrong color.

Clyde came around the desk with both arms raised, and Melanie promptly stuck out her hand out to fend off an embrace. It was tough to put the screws to a suspect who greeted you with a big hug. Clyde, always an expert at taking the temperature of a room, shook her hand with distant politeness as if that’s what he’d intended all along.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. We’re in the middle of budget negotiations and as usual the mayor and the City Council are at odds.”

Introductions were made, and they all sat down at a conference table situated in a bay window overlooking the street. Melanie’s seat faced into the room. Every square inch of wall space was covered with memorabilia from Clyde’s political career—testimonials, handshake photos with presidents and civil rights figures and movie stars, plaques and certificates and awards. Even in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, where people framed every last atta-boy letter that came across their desks, she’d never seen a wall of glory so extensive. It was difficult not to feel intimidated. Melanie cleared her throat, placed her notepad squarely on the desk before her, and looked Clyde in the eye.

“Councilman, as you know, Suzanne Shepard was murdered on Wednesday night,” she began.

Clyde drew his brows together and steepled his fingers. “I do know that. What I don’t understand, Melanie, is what the
hell
it’s got to do with me.”

The anger in his tone took her by surprise. This was not going to be a collegial visit with the father of a good friend.

“We’re not here to accuse you of anything,” she replied. “We need to cover our bases, that’s all. We’re speaking to a lot of people who—well, frankly, who might’ve had reason to be angry with the victim. We’re talking to you because Suzanne Shepard had just run a very damaging story on you.”

“Some reporter smearing Clyde with a pack of lies makes him a murder suspect?” demanded the aide. His name was Rockwell Davis, and Clyde called him Rocky. Davis radiated cold hostility.

“He’s not a suspect. We’re here to cross his name off the list of people who might have been involved. In order for us to do that, he simply needs to tell us where he was at the time of the attack.”

“I’m supposed to start accounting for my movements?” Clyde said.

“Only at the time of the murder,” Melanie replied. “That’s all we’re interested in. We’re not trying to burden you. In fact, we have your best interests at heart. The press is making a big fuss about your connection to our office through Joe. If we could tell them you have an alibi—”

“You
are
burdening me. I find the question completely outrageous and insulting, and I have no intention of answering,” Clyde said.

Melanie looked at Clyde in amazement. For all the time she’d spent thinking about how to phrase the question, it had never occurred to her that he might refuse to answer. Her only hope of salvaging the situation was to keep her cool and try to ease his hostility.

“Clyde,” she said in a soothing tone, “I’m begging you not to take this personally. I’m only here because questions have been raised in
the press. I’ll tell you right now, I don’t believe you’re involved in any murder, but we have to follow procedure. You’re not the first person we’re asking to provide an alibi, and you won’t be the last.”

“What do you plan to do with the information if he tells you?” Davis asked.

“First, we’ll verify it, and if everything checks out—”

“You see where this is going?” Davis demanded, turning to Clyde with a sneer. “
Verify it
. We give an inch, and next thing we know, they’re all up in our business. They’ll want your phone records, a list of everybody you talk to, where you went. Domestic spying. Big Brother tactics. Plain and simple.”

“You’re making that up,” Melanie insisted. “I haven’t asked for any of that stuff.”

“You know what I don’t understand?” Clyde said to Melanie. “You already arrested another man for this crime. It’s all over the papers. Rocky, hand me today’s
Daily News
from over there.”

Davis grabbed a newspaper from the chair beside him. Clyde slapped it down in front of Melanie. The front-page headline, over a picture of David Harris and Bob Adelman leaving the courthouse, read,
LAWYER NABBED IN TV STAR SLAY
.

“Why the hell should I let you question me when you’re in court telling a judge somebody else did the deed? You think I’m a patsy?”

“Mr. Harris was an eyewitness to the murder,” Melanie explained. “We charged him with obstruction of justice for refusing to cooperate with the FBI. We’re investigating him thoroughly, and we think there’s a chance he’s the killer. We’ve taken a DNA sample from him, and we’re waiting for results. But we’re still duty bound to check out other credible leads.”

“Clyde is not a credible lead,” Davis said. “You’re on some kind of fishing expedition here.”

“That’s not true,” Melanie replied, fixing Clyde with a steady gaze. “We’re being careful and deliberate. That’s why we’re asking a
broad spectrum of people to provide alibis. We need to hear from you, Councilman, in order to stop the hysteria in the press that says we’re giving you a free ride.”

Clyde folded his arms across his chest. “That’s your problem, now, isn’t it? Don’t expect any help from me. See, I don’t forget who appointed your boss.”

“You mean, the U.S. attorney?”

“That’s your boss, isn’t it?”

“Not my direct boss. There’s a bunch of layers of hierarchy between me and him.”

“But he’s your ultimate boss?”

“Yes.”

“And this president appointed him, am I correct?”

“Yes,” Melanie said.

“A president who would do anything to stop me from becoming mayor?”

“That may be, but it has nothing to do with why I’m here. I never even speak to the U.S. attorney, and I sincerely doubt that he talks to the president. The president has bigger concerns than one little murder in New York.”

“Yeah, like who’s gonna be the next mayor of this city!” Davis exclaimed.

Melanie was speechless.

“You bust into my office asking me intrusive questions when you already have another man in custody,” Clyde said, shaking his head in disgust. “What else am I supposed to think? This is harassment. It’s a conspiracy. It’s politically motivated, and it’s a blatant attempt to smear me.”

“Why would I smear you, Clyde? I support you!”

“If you support me, then you know I had nothing to do with this murder. So take my word for that and leave.”

“You of all people should understand the position I’m in,” Mela
nie exclaimed, frustrated. “Your son is a prosecutor in our office. We can’t do you special favors or treat you differently than we would anybody else who might’ve had a motive to go after Suzanne Shepard, or it’ll look bad. If you won’t answer questions voluntarily, then…” She trailed off, thinking about how ugly this could get.

“Then what? You subpoena me? Force me to take the Fifth?”

“I’d have no choice. And taking the Fifth would look pretty bad for a guy running for mayor, wouldn’t it?” she asked.

Clyde folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. “Not if he’s the victim of ugly smear tactics. You want to get into a pissing match with me in the media, I promise you, I’ll win.”

“I
don’t
want that. The only thing I want is to catch this killer.”

“I need you to leave now. Rocky, show them out.”

T
hey stepped from the brownstone into bright sunshine. The scent of warm soil and lilac wafted toward them from a community garden down the block, and children’s laughter rang out from a nearby playground. Dan’s car was parked down the street, and as they headed for it, their moods could not have been more at odds with the glory of the day.

“What a fiasco,” Dan said. “Could you believe that horseshit about how we’re persecuting him because the U.S. attorney works for the president and the president hates Clyde?”

“Everybody’s got a conspiracy theory these days,” Melanie said.

“He’s guilty as sin,” Janice, who’d been silent during the interview, said with surprising vitriol.

“You think so?” Melanie asked. Yesterday, Janice had been convinced David Harris was the killer. Melanie was beginning to question the girl’s judgment.

“He told us he’s planning to take the Fifth! Why would he do that if he wasn’t involved with the murder?” Janice asked.

“For political reasons,” Melanie said. “Maybe we stumbled into some
game Clyde is playing with the press. I’m more concerned about Rockwell Davis. I got the distinct feeling he was turning Clyde against us.”

“He’s a troublemaker, big-time,” Dan agreed.

“What do we know about him?” Melanie asked.

“Not enough. Nothing, really,” Dan said.

“You should’ve asked them both for DNA samples,” Janice said.

“I wasn’t authorized to,” Melanie said. “Besides, they’d never agree. If we get to that point, we’ll need a court order. Hell, we’ll need straitjackets.”

“Here’s what I don’t get,” Dan said. “If Clyde gave us his alibi, we’d pack up and go home. Leave him alone. So why not give it to us? He’s hiding something about where he was that night.”

Melanie was getting tired of defending Clyde Williams. Besides, in her heart of hearts, she was beginning to wonder about him herself.

“To hell with the paperwork,” she told Dan. “Start looking at them. Find out whatever you can.”

21

F
orty-two hours had passed
since Suzanne Shepard’s murder. The Central Park Butcher was still at large, as the TV news kept reminding the public. And Melanie was languishing in yet another waiting room, feeling no closer to an answer.

Dr. Benedict Welch, the plastic surgeon whose file had been stolen from Suzanne Shepard’s apartment, maintained an office on Park Avenue in the Sixties, the toniest part, right where all the socialites lived. The reception area was decorated to resemble an English country manor. Melanie sat in a chintz wingback chair beside Detective Pauline Estrada waiting for an audience with the beauty guru. All around them, glamour girls of a certain age perused
Town & Country
and gossiped. They sported identical blond highlights and plastic faces with collagened fish lips, and were dressed to the nines in little suits or slacks and cashmere twinsets with high heels and sparkly jewelry. Not exactly how Melanie would have put herself together for a visit to the doctor. But in New York, she’d noticed, the women with the least to do were always the most dressed up.

“She’s on something, and I’m not talking multivitamins. The last
time I saw her, she walked right by me as if we’d never even met,” one of them was saying to another within Melanie’s earshot.

“That’s just how she is.”

“She wasn’t snubbing me. I’m telling you, it’s drugs.”

“Well, everybody’s on something these days. Takes the edge off.”

At the window where Melanie had checked in earlier, the redheaded nurse, whose name was Gigi, was pointing at her. A tall man with a thick head of yellowy blond hair looked in Melanie’s direction and nodded. He wore a white lab coat. As he came toward her several women blushed and tittered like tweens who’d just spotted a member of their favorite boy band.

“She’s new,” one of them said loudly, eyeing Melanie with resentment.

Benedict Welch stopped before Melanie. “Miss Vargas?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She made as if to stand up, but he held her in place with a caressing hand on her shoulder.

“No, baby. Sit for a moment and let me look at you.”

And he perched on the arm of her chair, staring down into her face, too close for Melanie’s comfort. He looked as artificial as any woman in the room, with skin deeply tanned yet smooth as a child’s, and eyes of such an intense violet blue that the color could not possibly be natural. His eyes had a strange, glassy quality, too, as if he’d been writing himself a few prescriptions.

“Doctor,” she said, “weren’t you told that we’re here—”

“Quiet. Let me appreciate you.” He brushed his fingers across Melanie’s lips, and she recoiled. His fingers were long and thin, and his touch oddly light, like an insect’s.

“Please don’t touch me like that,” Melanie said. Pauline was looking at Welch with intense interest. Here he was, lending credence to everything they’d read in those complaints to the medical board.

“I’m mesmerized by these Latin lips, but my interest is purely medical,” Welch said, in a soft, hypnotic voice. “Besides, a doctor always touches his patients. It’s normal, and necessary, and very much a part of the intimacy we’ll develop as we work together. You’ll get used to my touch. Your mouth is just luscious, and you haven’t had any collagen, have you? But I do see the start of worry lines. You came to the right place, sweetie. A little pinchie and they’ll go bye-bye. Shall we?” He stood up.

Either Gigi had misinformed him about the purpose of their visit, or he was putting on a show for his patients. Melanie nodded at Pauline.

“Detective Estrada is working on this case also,” she said, loudly enough for other patients to hear.

From Welch’s strained smile, Melanie saw that he’d known all along.

“Of course,” he said coldly. “This way.”

He led them through a door and down a hallway lined with treatment rooms, into an office decorated with leather club chairs and a big mahogany desk. Welch sat behind the desk and gestured for them to take seats.

“Just to be sure we’re on the same page regarding the purpose of this visit,” Melanie began, “I’m with the U.S. Attorney’s Office and Detective Estrada is NYPD. We’re investigating the murder of Suzanne Shepard. We’re also interested in a burglary that took place at her apartment shortly before her murder, and we need to ask you a few questions.”