Cover-up (32 page)

The Escalade pulled away, revealing Kim in the process of crossing the street toward Miles. She saw him and stopped dead in the middle of Madison Avenue. Even from this distance, Melanie could tell that Miles looked stricken. A bus was bearing down on Kim. She sprinted out of the way, heading toward the café, her yellow hair streaming behind her.

“Hurry, before Kim gets to the table,” Melanie snapped.

Julian picked up a transmitter attached by a spiral cord to the radio and thrust it into Melanie’s hand.

“Push this and talk,” Julian said.

“Miles, it’s Melanie. Do you read me?”

“Yeah.” Miles spoke without moving his lips. If you didn’t know he was talking into a tiny transmitter hidden in his shirt, you never would have guessed.

“You see Kim coming, right? Act like nothing is wrong. If you confront her, she’ll know you’ve been arrested, and it could blow the whole buy. Do you understand?”

“The fucking bitch. I’m gonna fucking crush her.”

“Miles, this is important. You’re looking at ten to life. You need this deal to go through or you’ll end up rotting in jail. Do what I say,” Melanie insisted.

The radio crackled. “Detective Jarmin, over. I got the eyeball.
We got Benedict Welch on set. He’s crossing Seventy-fourth, heading south on the west side of Madison. Subject is on foot, pulling a large black roller suitcase.”

Julian motioned for Melanie to hand him the mike. “Roger that,” he said. “Subject is approaching. Maintain radio silence until you hear the arrest signal.”

Across the street, Kim was leaning down and kissing Miles on the mouth. His hand rested nonchalantly on her ass, like nothing bad had happened between them.

“Atta boy, Miles,” Melanie whispered.

“What up, baby?” Miles said to Kim.

“You’re not mad, are you?” Kim asked. She sat down across from him.

“Mad about what?”

“Uh…just that I haven’t called you.”

“You said you wasn’t gonna call, remember? Did you come here to see me? I’m supposed to be meetin’ Dr. Ben. We got business.”

“Ben told me to meet him here. He never said you were coming, though. I’m surprised to see you.”

“I bet you are,” Miles said, a note of bitterness creeping into his tone.

Kim looked at him appraisingly. “I wonder what Ben was thinking, not mentioning it,” she said.

“Ask him. Here he comes now.”

As Welch approached, Julian’s camera clicked repeatedly. Kim signaled a waiter and demanded a bottle of Pellegrino and some menus immediately. Welch sauntered into the sidewalk café pulling the roller bag after him. He did some fancy footwork to maneuver the bulky suitcase between the tables and up to the one where Miles and Kim sat. The waiter glanced at the suitcase with an annoyed look. Welch rapped Miles on the back hard enough to send a loud whooshing sound over the air, which hurt Melanie’s ears.

“Hello, Miles. And beautiful Kim. Don’t get up.” Welch sat down between the two of them, his bleached yellow hair competing with Kim’s in dazzling display. After hearing Pauline Estrada’s report from Tulsa, Melanie had decided that Welch must have dyed his hair blond and started wearing those weird violet-blue contact lenses in order to better match the physical characteristics of the real Benedict Welch. Now that she knew he was the Butcher, it made sense that he needed a false identity, a place to hide out between crimes.

“So Miles and I were sitting here wondering why you invited us to lunch without telling the other,” Kim said.

“What’s the problem? You like each other, don’t you? You certainly give that impression,” Welch said.

“I don’t want to discuss business in front of a lady,” Miles said.

“We don’t keep secrets from Kim,” Welch said, unfazed. “We’re among friends. Now, why don’t we order some lunch?”

Back in the car, Julian turned to Melanie. “I know why Welch brought Kim,” he said.

“Why?”

“She’s his insurance policy. Welch is hinked up. He’s suspicious of Miles for some reason, and he thinks he’ll be safer with Kim around.”

“I’ll bet you’re right. He’s in for a shock. I’m sure Miles would love nothing better at this moment than to bring the cops down on Kim’s head,” Melanie said.

“And the press,” Julian said.

They went back to watching. Welch was reading the menu. Miles was glowering at Welch. Kim was looking back and forth between the two of them, frowning. Julian took a few pictures of the assembled group. Just when things were starting to drag, and Melanie was seeing why agents always complained that surveillances were boring, Miles got to his feet in a pretty good imitation of fury. Welch looked up from his menu, alarmed.

“What is it?”

“You’re stalling!” Miles said.

“No, I’m not. I’m hungry.”

“I didn’t come here to socialize. I got my people waiting for this delivery. You got the pills. I got the money. So let’s do the deal.”

“Will you be quiet? Someone will overhear.” Welch scanned the restaurant nervously.

“Why you set the hand-to-hand up here, then? I could’ve just as easy come to your office.”

“What is going on?” Kim demanded. “If you guys are doing what I think you’re doing, I’m leaving.”

“Kim, if you walk out, you will draw even more attention to yourself,” Welch said.

“I don’t appreciate being put in the middle like this. If Drew finds out I was in on some drug deal, he’ll crucify me in court.”

“Oh, I forgot. You’re all about keeping
your
money. God forbid somebody else should make some,” Welch said.

“I don’t care what you do, but don’t mix
me
up in your shit,” she said, standing up.

“Sit down.” Welch grabbed her arm and jerked her back to her seat.

“Hey, watch it!” Kim exclaimed, rubbing her arm.

“Shut up, both a’ you,” Miles interjected in a calming tone. “Let’s make the trade and get this over with, so Kim can rest easy.” He leaned over, sinking temporarily from view, and came back up with the silver metal briefcase that held the money. As Miles placed the briefcase on the table in plain sight, Julian furiously snapped photographs.

“Count it,” Miles commanded. “It’s all there. Now I need to see the product.”

“I can’t count the money here,” Welch said, glancing over his shoulder. “Too risky. And I’m not letting you count the pills. You couldn’t possibly, anyway. There are thousands of them.”

“This is so fucked up,” Kim said, dropping her head into her hands. “I can’t believe you clowns are putting me in this position.”

“Shut up,” Welch commanded. “Miles, what happened to the trust? We’ve never counted money or product in public before. I’m telling you, this is not smart.” He was talking in a low voice, but urgently enough that the wire picked him up loud and clear.

“I was told to check the merchandise. There was a problem last time,” Miles said.

“What problem? You never mentioned any problem before.”

“I don’t know. But if my shorties from the Houses say to check, I’m gonna check. Or else I walk away with the money right now and this shit is off.
Permanently
.”

Welch stared at Miles with a slackened jaw, then blinked. “The suitcase is beside you,” he said, sighing. “Tip it over, and you’ll be able to open it without having everything spill out. Just please, try not to let people see.”

Miles did as Welch directed. Julian snapped photos of him bending over, opening the suitcase, and examining the contents. Kim stood up abruptly and backed away like she’d never met either of them in her life. She turned and broke into a trot. Miles raised his hand high in the air and gave the previously agreed-upon signal. Melanie nodded at Julian.

“We got a positive visual on the drugs. Move in for the arrest,” Julian barked into the mike.

He jumped from the Navigator and hit the ground running. Suddenly the block was swarming with well-built guys wearing jackets that screamed “NYPD” and “FBI” in big white capital letters.

“Police! Don’t move!” somebody shouted.

“You’re under arrest! You’re under arrest!” somebody else yelled.

Welch was facedown on the sidewalk being handcuffed. Miles Ortiz had been hustled away and was no longer in sight. Kim Savitt raced down Madison Avenue faster than Melanie had ever seen anybody run in high heels. A tall agent sprinted after her, his legs
pumping, and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her into the air kicking and flailing. After a brief struggle, the agent handcuffed Kim, his walkie-talkie picking up her curses and screams and carrying them over the airwaves to Melanie, who could hear them anyway from a block away, they were so loud.

“Let me go! You fucking asshole! You’re hurting me! Do you know who I am? My lawyer’s gonna squash you like a cockroach.”

Melanie would make sure that Kim Savitt was released.
Eventually
. Kim had had no prior knowledge of the drug deal and had beat feet after she learned about it, so there was no probable cause to charge her with a crime. Nevertheless, getting hauled down to Central Booking and cut loose at the last minute before she was processed might be good for Kim. Might give her some time to think, to reevaluate her lifestyle and make better choices about how, and with whom, she spent her time. She ought to. She had a little girl to raise.

Melanie got out of the car and went over to where Julian had Benedict Welch spread-eagled against a wall. Julian patted Welch down while other detectives retrieved the cases full of pseudoephedrine and cash and filled out evidence tags.

“Let me see his identification,” Melanie said as Julian withdrew a Gucci wallet from the breast pocket of Welch’s tweed blazer.

Melanie systematically went through the wallet. Every piece of identification in it—driver’s license, credit cards, medical board identification card, memberships to a golf club and to various museums, a Blockbuster video card—was in the name Benedict Harold Welch.

Welch turned around. His eyes glinted savagely at Melanie through the unnatural violet lenses. She stared back at him with an expression of revulsion. In her mind’s eye, she was seeing Suzanne Shepard’s brutalized corpse, the left breast severed and hanging loose, the ugly word carved into her stomach. And she was reading those disgusting e-mails he’d written to her. He’d be locked away now, unable to harm her. She’d won.

“What’s your name?” she demanded.

“You know my name,” he replied, clearly taken aback.

“I know it’s not Benedict Welch. The press calls you the Butcher, but I’m going to find out what your real name is.”

He looked scared, which gratified her greatly. Hell, he was the one who’d taken this personal, so shoot her if she enjoyed seeing him squirm. Melanie nodded at Julian, who shoved Welch from behind toward the police cruiser that had pulled up beside them, its door yawning open to receive the prisoner.

43

T
he man who went by the
name Benedict Welch was now in the MCC facing serious narcotics charges. But methamphetamine distribution was nothing compared to the heinous crime Melanie was convinced he’d committed. She planned to nail him for real, to prove he was the Central Park Butcher, to lock him in a dark place until the end of his days. And she planned to do it by tomorrow morning. She
had
to: that’s when the Butcher’s bail hearing was set for. She refused to let this man hit the street.

The evidence was already strong enough that Melanie managed to get search warrants for Welch’s home and office out of Magistrate Judge Helen Boutros with little difficulty—and over the phone on a Sunday, no less. Trailed by Deputy U.S. Marshal Peter Terrozzi—who refused to leave her side no matter how much she begged him to or how loudly she reassured him that the Butcher was already in custody—Melanie went to Welch’s office. She’d left several messages for Dan O’Reilly asking him to meet her there to conduct the search.

But neither one of the agents who awaited her on the chintz chairs of the reception area was Dan. They stood up in unison, virtual car
bon copies of each other, young and brawny and squeaky-clean with short brown hair, part of the constant stream of new recruits flowing into the Bureau since 9/11.

The slightly taller, slightly older-looking one spoke first.

“Ma’am, Agent Ryan Waterman from the Bureau. My partner, Agent Brandon Mills. My supervisor informs me you need agents to execute a couple of search warrants.”

“Are you guys assigned to this case?” Meaning,
Who the hell are you?

“As of now we are.”

“Where’s Agent O’Reilly?”

“Ma’am, following up another lead and unavailable to work this search.”

Was Dan avoiding her? But he’d left her a couple of voice mails since last night asking her to call, so he obviously wanted to talk to her. She hadn’t returned either of them.

“What about Agent Crockett, or any of the agents who attended the meeting yesterday?”

“It’s Sunday, ma’am, and we’re new. Low men on the totem pole.”

“Do either of you know anything about the Butcher case?”

“No, ma’am, but we are warm bodies with two eyes and two hands. We can execute a search warrant.”

“Have you done searches before?”

“Numerous mock searches at Quantico,” Agent Waterman said.

“I assisted a real search two weeks ago,” Agent Mills added, his chest puffing out.

“Well, it seems I have no choice. I’ll take you, but you do everything I say, understood?”

The agents glanced at each other uneasily. They might be new-bies, but they’d already managed to pick up the agents’ code that made it a point of honor to give prosecutors, especially female ones, a hard time.

“Whatever. Just get in here,” she said.

They followed her back to Welch’s office with the leather club chairs and big mahogany desk. She reminded them to photograph and diagram the place before they searched it.

“Standard procedure, ma’am,” Agent Waterman said, though he’d been standing there the second before looking like he didn’t have a clue. The “ma’am” thing was starting to bug her, too. It made her feel old.

“Fine. Just checking,” she said.