Cover-up (7 page)

“What is that
thing
doing in her mouth?”

“Well, hello to you, too,” Steve said, looking her up and down, a sexy twinkle in his green eyes. “How was your hot date last night? Did Musclehead get lucky?”

“Steve, do you
read
any of the materials I give you? Why do I even bother?” And she grabbed Maya out of his arms with an indignant sigh.

Melanie always sent Maya to her daddy with not only a carefully packed suitcase but also a full set of typed instructions covering such matters as meals, bath-, nap-, and bedtimes, medicines, favorite stuffed animals and clothing items, et cetera. Permitted pacifier use was the critical topic of the moment, and the instruction sheet had specified
BEDTIME ONLY
in bold faced capital letters.

“If I take it away, she cries,” Steve said.

“Yes, I know that. Now she’ll cry more, and I’ll be the bad guy. We have to keep up a united front. You need to support me on this.”

Melanie closed her fingers around the pacifier’s translucent rim. Beneath it, a fine layer of spit formed a virtual occlusive seal. Melanie started to tug, and Maya’s brown eyes widened with terror as she bit down on the thing with all her might. They struggled over it furiously, and if Melanie came up the winner, it was only because she had over a hundred pounds on the girl, not because her will was stronger. Melanie put Maya down, and the child immediately flung herself to the floor kicking and yowling in a full-blown tantrum.

“See what I mean?” Melanie said, her blood pressure skyrocketing.

“She was smiling when I brought her here, baby. You’re the one who made her cry.”

“Give me her bag and get going before you cause more trouble,” Melanie snapped, and Steve wheeled Maya’s Dora the Explorer suitcase into the foyer.

“Oh, listen, Mel. I wanted to give you a heads-up. I might have a problem taking her this weekend,” he said over Maya’s shrieks.

“You remember I’m going to Bernadette’s wedding, right?”

“I know, and I feel terrible. But I’m headed to LAX right now on a major deal. The car’s waiting downstairs. I’ll do everything in my power to be back in time, but I can’t promise.”

“I told you about this wedding two months ago.”

“What can I do? I have to work.”

“I have to work, too. This is work for me. It’s my boss who’s getting married, and she’s not gonna be happy if I no-show after I RSVP’d yes.”

“So call your mom.”

“Call
your
mom. This is your weekend. In fact, it’s your first weekend in three weeks because you keep asking me to switch.”

“You always say you don’t mind.”

“I’m usually happy to have extra time with her. But this weekend, I have something important to do.”

“Okay, I’ll try to reach my mom on my way to the airport. If she can’t do it, I’ll let you know.”

Before Melanie could protest further, Steve pecked her swiftly on the cheek, blew a kiss to the hysterical Maya, and backed out the door at full speed. Melanie sank to the floor beside her howling daughter. She felt like screaming, too.
Ay de Dios,
she hated being divorced. But staying married to the guy would have been worse. He got less responsible with each passing day.

Melanie reached out and drew Maya onto her lap, careful to avoid getting socked by the small flailing fists.
“Tranquila,”
she murmured.
“Cálmate, cálmate. Nena preciosa, cálmate. No llore, m’ija.”

They’d had a rough winter full of ear infections and colds, and Melanie had learned through trial and error that Spanish soothed her little girl best. Now that Maya had tubes in her ears and, Melanie prayed, the ear infections were a thing of the past, the Spanish still came in handy. Maya’s sobs gradually quieted to hiccups. As Melanie hugged her daughter passionately against her chest, she felt her own emptiness ebb away.

T
he weather was so perfect as Melanie exited the lobby of her building that she thought she’d died and gone to Northern California. Seventy-six degrees with no humidity and lavish sunshine. As she turned the corner onto Park Avenue, dusty pink flowers swayed in a gentle breeze. The gorgeous day and her Maya fix conspired to lift Melanie’s spirits to a punchy, sleep-deprived state of near euphoria. She even felt equal to tackling that awful Clyde Williams situation.

Melanie refused to believe the city councilman had anything to do with Suzanne Shepard’s murder. Clyde’s morals she couldn’t speak for, but the guy was too smart and too smooth to do something as
crude as killing a reporter over an unflattering story. The information from Suzanne’s mother about the robbery at their apartment seemed much more promising. Yet Melanie had an obligation to investigate every lead. If she ignored this one, she’d look like she was playing favorites because Clyde Williams’s son was her good friend. The press, in the form of Target News, would be scrutinizing her every move. So really, she had no choice. Melanie had to at least go through the motions on this one.

In the Eighty-sixth Street subway station, as Melanie swiped her MetroCard, a tall, broad-shouldered man at the next turnstile caught her eye. He looked away just as she focused on him, and suddenly she felt like he’d been behind her for blocks. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up, and she couldn’t see his face or the color of his hair. The hood struck her as odd on such a warm morning.
Take notice of people in bulky or inappropriate clothing,
the anti-terrorism posters in all the subway cars warned; it was right up there with reporting suspicious packages. But Melanie shrugged off the troubling thought as she headed for the platform for the downtown 4 train. Even if the guy had been behind her for a while, so what? Her route down Lexington was the most obvious path to the subway. Coincidence. Nothing to worry about.

It was rush hour, and the subway car was jammed. Melanie held on to a pole, her eyes fixed on an overhead advertisement for computer classes, working through the Clyde Williams problem. If she actually planned to investigate the city councilman, things were bound to get complicated. Her friend Joe would have to be walled off from the investigation, which was standard procedure but awkward nonetheless. And though she knew little about public corruption investigations, Melanie recalled hearing that some sort of special permission was required to investigate elected officials. She’d have to remember to ask Bernadette about that. The darn subway car was so crowded and swaying so badly that she couldn’t open her bag to make a note.

Melanie’s eyes wandered restlessly around the car as she continued to turn the problem over in her mind. Absorbed in her thoughts, she passed right over the man in the hooded sweatshirt. A fraction of a second later, his presence registered, and Melanie looked back with a start. He stood against the closed doors half a car length down from her, his head turned away, the side of his face obscured by the hood. But there was nothing to be concerned about. He wasn’t watching her, definitely not.

Nevertheless, when the train pulled into Forty-second Street, Melanie decided to perform a test. She got out and fought her way down the platform to the next car, leaping inside just as the doors closed. He didn’t follow. Even better, there were empty seats in here.

A minute later, as the train lurched through a dark tunnel, the door at the end of the car slid open. Melanie had taken a seat and was jotting reminders of items she needed to discuss with Bernadette. She glanced up to see Hooded Sweatshirt bracing himself against the conductor’s booth, his back turned toward her. Had he come in looking for a seat? But there were empty seats, and he was standing. Since she had her notebook out anyway, Melanie decided to write down his description. He was big, around six feet with a muscular build. Caucasian, judging by his hands, but she still hadn’t gotten a clear look at his face.

The train approached her stop. Melanie closed her notebook and put it away. She would have to leave the relative safety of the crowded subway car, but she wasn’t nervous. This was nothing. One thing she was firm with herself about was not letting the job make her paranoid.

Melanie exited the door closest to the stairs. In her peripheral vision, without looking directly at him, she saw that Hooded Sweatshirt had stepped out of the next one. Her high heels rang out against the tile floor as she walked toward the staircase. He must’ve been wearing sneakers because even though she knew he was behind her, she couldn’t hear him at all, which was somehow creepier than if she could. Telling
herself she was being foolish, Melanie nevertheless picked up her pace and almost jogged through the tunnel. Before she knew it she was outside, sprinting across the plaza toward her building. She reached the glass doors and saw the guard at his desk in the lobby, reading the newspaper. A number of people stood at the elevator bank, clutching briefcases and coffee cups.

Melanie did a quick about-face, thinking she’d summon the guard if Hooded Sweatshirt had actually pursued her. But behind her, the plaza where the subway let out was deserted, save for an elderly woman feeding a horde of pigeons in the dappled sunlight.

10

T
here was so much to do
that Melanie hardly knew where to begin, so she started with the thing that troubled her most. Before she did anything else—before she checked her e-mail or voice mail or typed a single subpoena—she marched straight to her boss’s office to get some guidance on this tricky situation with Clyde Williams.

The chief’s suite occupied prime corner real estate at the intersection of the two hallways that housed the Major Crimes Unit. Bernadette’s secretary, Shekeya Jenkins, sat at her desk in the small ante-room filling out a form on the computer as she chomped on a bagel. Shekeya was a big woman with braids dyed bright orange and an often poisonous tongue. She’d been Bernadette’s secretary for years, taken a heap of abuse, and given back plenty, too. Their dysfunctional relationship provided much entertainment for the junior prosecutors.

“What’s good, girl? You famous!” Shekeya greeted Melanie.

“You saw me on TV?”

“Yes, I did. Melanie Vargas taking on the Central Park Butcher. I was jumping up and down in my bedroom screaming at the screen.”

“I didn’t get to see it. How did I look?”

“Very photogenic.” Shekeya lowered her voice and leaned toward Melanie conspiratorially. “The boss is so jealous. She asked me if I thought you looked better than her on TV.”

“What did you say?”

“I lied, naturally. Mama didn’t raise no foolish children.”

Melanie laughed, turning toward Bernadette’s door.

“Wait a minute, girl. She’s on the phone anyway, and I got a favor to ask you,” Shekeya said.

“Anything for you, Shekeya.”

“You better find out what it is before you say yes. This one got some downsides.”

“Is something wrong?” Melanie asked, concerned.

“No, something’s finally right. I’m applying for the paralegal slot that come open in narcotics. They say you need references from three attorneys in the office who know your work, so I was hoping maybe I could count on you for one?”

Melanie’s eyes widened. “You mean, leave Bernadette?”

“What is she, my mother, that I can’t walk? You have any idea what it’s like putting up with that woman in my face all day, every day? I can’t wait to see the back of her.”

“But, Shekeya, you handle her better than anybody.”

“I
can
handle her, but that doesn’t mean I like to. It ain’t worth what it’s doing to my health. Besides, paralegal is a raise, and I got my kids to think about. The extra money could pay for Khadija’s braces.”

“I hear that.” Melanie paused. “Does she know?”

Shekeya glanced at the closed door to Bernadette’s inner sanctum and then down at her telephone, where a green light indicated Bernadette was still on the line. “Look, I’ma tell you a secret, so you understand where I’m coming from with this. But you can’t breathe a word.”

“Of course not.”

“The boss wants to be a judge.”

“That’s no secret, Shekeya. Everybody who’s ever met her knows that. But getting appointed to the bench is a one-in-a-million shot.”

“Not this time, it ain’t. The fix is in. Word is that Judge Cordell is announcing his retirement next week on his eightieth birthday.”

“That’s not a secret, either. Cordell’s slept through every afternoon appearance I’ve had before him for the past three years. People’ve been speculating about his retirement since the day I came on duty.”

“But it’s really happening this time. Seriously, I’m friends with his secretary. And the boss is applying for his seat,” Shekeya said.

“Shekeya, you don’t just apply to be an Article Three judge. It’s a whole big process. You need political connections. And you need, well, less baggage than Bernadette has.”

“I’m telling you, Vito got connections, and the boss is talking like this thing is a done deal. She’s practically over there measuring for drapes.”

The green light on the telephone went off. Melanie glanced at her watch. Time was slipping away, and she needed to end this discussion. “Okay, I believe you. But why leave? Why not go with her?”

“She asked me to go along, and I said yes, on one condition. I don’t want to be just a secretary no more. I got my degree in criminal justice administration. I want more action, more responsibility. I want to be her courtroom deputy. And she told me she don’t see me in that light, that I’d be rising above my skill level. Now, how’m I supposed to continue working for her after she say something like that?”

Just then, the door to Bernadette’s office swung open.

“Speak of the devil,” Shekeya said loudly.

“All right,” Melanie said under her breath, “I’ll do it.”

“Are you talking about me?” Bernadette demanded.

“Melanie needs to speak to you,” Shekeya said, turning toward Melanie so Bernadette couldn’t see, mouthing “thank you” and winking.

“Inside, girlfriend,” Bernadette said, jerking her head toward her office.