Cover-up (8 page)

Melanie took a seat in one of the beige guest chairs. Bernadette’s office might be spacious and boast a corner view, but it was still no-frills government issue, with a linoleum floor and a gray metal desk. Bernadette herself was looking rather no-frills this morning. Her face was lined and tired and bare of makeup beneath the exuberant red hair of a much younger woman.

“I’m getting barraged with calls from the media on the Central Park Butcher case,” Bernadette said, settling into her swivel chair and picking up her coffee mug. “Fill me in. What’ve you got so far?”

“Unfortunately, the victim had a lot of enemies, so I have a lot of leads to sort through. One in particular is tricky, and I need some advice,” Melanie said.

“Give me the big picture first, then we’ll talk details.”

“Okay, let’s see. The victim received a telephone call at work at approximately six o’clock yesterday from an unknown source, and presumably went to meet that person last night in Central Park. That’s the most significant thing I’ve learned so far. I’ll subpoena all the relevant phone records to see if we can identify the originating number for that call. There was a burglary at the victim’s apartment approximately ten days ago. The intruder took files on two stories, one about a personal trainer at Flex Gym selling drugs to wealthy clients. The other had something to do with a prominent plastic surgeon. I’ll contact the assigned detective and see what I can find out, but that one looks quite promising. Target News is going to send over files on all the stories the victim covered recently. That’ll be a lot of boxes, so I’ll try to find somebody with a brain to wade through them and see if anything else leaps out.”

Bernadette reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a key with a tag attached to it. “Here, I’m assigning you a war room. You can have the files sent there. What’s your staffing like?”

“Better than any case I’ve ever worked. Because the homicide happened in the park, and because the victim was a celebrity, the FBI and
the PD are doing a full-court press. I’ve got Dan O’Reilly and a detective from Manhattan North Homicide as co–case agents, and they have lots of backup. Upward of twenty guys full-time, at least until the weekend. The only caveat is, most of the grunts are tied up canvassing for eyewitnesses, so they’re not exactly at my beck and call.”

“Who’s the detective?”

“Julian Hay. He’s a—”

“Suave Pierre? Shit. He’s worse than useless.”

“What? I thought he was a famous undercover.”

Bernadette raised an eyebrow. “You planning to do drug buys on this murder investigation?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“If you do, great, he’ll come through with flying colors. But he doesn’t function well outside his area of expertise. Not only won’t Pierre do any legwork, he’ll distract the other agents with his endless war stories. This kingpin drew down on him, that cartel leader tried to have him whacked. On and on. He’s like a celebrity. Your agents will be bringing him lattes when they should be analyzing phone records.”

“Thanks for the word of warning. I’ll keep an eye on the situation.” One thing about Bernadette, she didn’t pull her punches. She gave you the straight story, even when it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.

“I just spoke to the D.A.’s office,” Bernadette said. “They’re cross-designating Janice Marsh and detailing her to us for the pendency of the case. She’ll report to your office shortly. Give her those files to sort through, or anything else the cops aren’t smart or patient enough to do.”

Melanie was scribbling away on her notepad, trying to keep up with Bernadette’s words. She looked up to find her boss watching her with a pensive expression.

“You’ve got a big team assembled, girlfriend. That’s a luxury, but
it’s also a responsibility. You’ll need to keep them under careful control. You’re up for that, right?”

Last night, Melanie would have said no. But since then, she’d viewed Suzanne Shepard’s mutilated body, met her grieving son, and started puzzling through the complicated threads of this investigation. Add to that the thrill of the press coverage and the new challenge of supervising a big team, and Melanie wanted this case—badly.

“You bet,” she said.

“Good. Any resources you need—experts or travel authorizations or such—just ask and we’ll find money in budget. Now, what was it you wanted my advice about?”

“Did you know that Suzanne Shepard just broke a story about a sex scandal involving Clyde Williams and an intern?” Melanie asked.

Bernadette looked startled. “Actually, yes, I did know. Joe’s been out for the past few days strategizing with Clyde’s brain trust, trying to contain the damage. I have to admit, I didn’t make the connection. You don’t think—you can’t mean—is there any indication Clyde Williams is involved?”

“Personally, I doubt it, but the producer of Suzanne Shepard’s show smells a story. Apparently, Suzanne received a threat in the mail right after she aired the segment on Clyde. A box of dog shit containing a picture of her that’d been cut into little pieces. There’s no proof that Clyde sent it, but I get the sense Target News is planning to find some.”

“Or invent some,” Bernadette said, rolling her eyes.

“Even assuming Clyde is innocent, this is still a tricky situation, politically speaking. We can’t appear to be going easy on him just because—”

“Just because his son works here! Jeez, you’re right.” Bernadette dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her eyes.

“It’s a conflict of interest, isn’t it?”

“It’s a pain in my
ass,
is what it is,” Bernadette said. She looked
up and sighed, her eyes bloodshot. “Not only is Joe one of ours, but Clyde is an elected official. That’s a major problem in itself. We can deal with the conflict by walling Joe off from the investigation. But to investigate an elected official, we have to jump through all sorts of hoops.”

“I thought I recalled something like that. What are the requirements?”

“Honestly, I haven’t done one of these cases in years. Let me make some calls to Main Justice and find out what paperwork they need. As a practical matter, that means you can’t start investigating Clyde until I give the green light, understand? Or else we risk running afoul of the protocol.”

“It’s not like I’m itching to go after him anyway. He’s Joe’s dad, and I love Joe to death.”

“Why do you think they call it a conflict, girlfriend?” Bernadette paused, sipping her coffee and studying Melanie. “Listen, you know I believe in eating what you kill. Melanie Vargas brings in the Central Park Butcher case, Melanie Vargas gets to keep that case until the bitter end. But I have to be able to trust in your impartiality or I can’t let you do this one. With all this media scrutiny, the Shepard case will blow up in our faces if it’s not handled properly.”

Conscious of her boss’s eyes on her, Melanie kept her face neutral, but behind it, her thoughts were roiling. The fact was, she hadn’t stopped to ask herself how she felt about investigating the father of one of her closest friends.

“Before you answer,” Bernadette said, “let me throw one more factor into the mix. You know that when I’m in Cancún, Susan will be acting chief?”

Susan Charlton was Bernadette’s deputy, an award-winning prosecutor, brilliant and ferocious.

“Of course,” Melanie said. “Everybody expected that.”

“Well, that leaves the deputy chief slot vacant for two weeks starting Monday. You know what that position entails?”

“Sure. Supervising junior prosecutors, authorizing new arrests, signing off on indictments and plea bargains. It’s a big job.”

“Yes, it is.” She paused, looking Melanie square in the eyes. “On the way to work today, thinking about the coup you pulled off in landing this case, I was considering naming you acting deputy.”

Melanie flushed with pleasure. A deputy chief spot was a cherished dream of hers, and taking a turn as acting deputy made it more likely she’d be considered when a permanent position opened up. Not only did deputy chief pay better—and she could sure use the extra money—but it was the first step on the path to the promised land. Deputy chiefs who were talented and hardworking eventually became unit chiefs like Bernadette. Unit chiefs became chiefs of the Criminal Division. Chiefs of the Criminal Division became magistrate judges, and magistrate judges became bona fide, honest-to-goodness Article Three federal judges with lifetime tenure, the holy grail of the legal profession, the next best thing to the Supreme Court of the United States. A vision of herself in black robes swam before Melanie’s eyes.

“Bernadette, I’m honored.”

“I didn’t say I was appointing you, I said I was considering it. I’m deciding between you and Brad Monahan. As of last night, he was my top choice. As of this morning, you were. The Butcher investigation is a critical factor in my decision. I’m leaving for Cancún Sunday morning. If you handle the case well between now and then, you get the job. If you don’t, it goes to Brad. Now, with that in mind, what is your answer to the question of whether you can be impartial in investigating Clyde Williams?”

Moments of truth sneak up on you sometimes. As Bernadette watched her face, Melanie realized she was at an important juncture, one she hadn’t been anticipating, where she needed to choose between who she was and who she would become. The choice wasn’t just about selfish career advancement, either. This job was hard for a lot of reasons, a major one being the need to put the public welfare ahead
of personal concerns. A sadistic killer was on the loose, and Melanie was in the best position to stop him. As weighed against a matter of such magnitude, her burnout and even her close friendship with Joe all looked small. Melanie thought about Suzanne Shepard’s mutilated stomach. The fact was, if Clyde Williams was mixed up in that ugly crime, he deserved to go down, no matter whose father he was.

“Growing up ain’t never easy, girlfriend,” Bernadette said, reading her mind. “What’s your answer?”

“I can do it,” Melanie declared, nodding resolutely.

11

B
ack in her office,
Melanie began her workday as she always did, by checking her e-mail. The subject line read
I’m watching you.
In the quiet of the office, with the memory of the man in the hooded sweatshirt fresh in her mind, the caption got her attention. The message had been sent last night at 1:19
A.M.
from an address she didn’t recognize, [email protected]. She clicked on it. It read:

To Melanie Vargas—I saw you on TV and I could tell you have a sexy body under those boring clothes. You can’t hide it from me, I always know. I want to see you with the clothes off. How tall are you and how much do you weigh? I don’t like women too big. Write back soon. Your secret admirer. P.S. Don’t waste your time on that nosy bitch Suzanne Shepard. This Central Park Butcher guy did the world a favor.

Melanie’s first reaction was to feel repulsed, as any woman would upon receiving an obscene message. But then the prosecutor in her kicked in, and she started thinking about whether the e-mail could possibly be connected to the Shepard case.

“‘Nosy bitch,’” she whispered. “He calls her a bitch.”

They had carefully kept all information about the gruesome mes
sage carved into the victim’s stomach away from the press. As far as Melanie knew, only law enforcement personnel were aware of the mutilation. Holding back signature details of a crime allowed them to truth-test anybody who contacted them claiming to be the killer. She’d been taught that investigative principle, but she’d never seen it in action. Could she be seeing it now?

Melanie did her best to remain calm and think through the events of the past hour or so. This message read
I’m watching you,
and she’d had the distinct impression that the man in the hooded sweatshirt on the subway had been following her. The e-mailer had called Suzanne a bitch. Put those facts together, and suddenly she was leaping to the conclusion that the Central Park Butcher himself had followed her from her apartment onto the subway. But when she thought about it objectively, Melanie didn’t believe any of those things. Use of the word “bitch” didn’t make this creep the Butcher. The e-mail didn’t actually mention the mutilation, which the real killer surely would have. And the e-mailer couldn’t possibly have figured out where she lived. Melanie was scrupulously careful about keeping her home address and telephone number unlisted, as much to protect Maya as to protect herself. No stranger who’d seen her on TV should be able to track her down. Besides, the guy in the sweatshirt hadn’t even been following her. If he had, when she’d turned around before in the plaza, he would have been behind her. Instead, the place was deserted.

Just as she’d talked herself out of feeling nervous, a loud rap on her office door made Melanie jump. A young woman with a pleasant, doughy face stood in her doorway. She was short and wore a shapeless gray suit.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” the woman said. “I’m Janice Marsh from the D.A.’s office.”

“Oh, right. My boss told me you were coming.”

Janice walked in and plopped down in Melanie’s guest chair. “Are you okay? You look white as a ghost.”

“Were you at the crime scene last night?” Melanie asked.

Janice blushed. “I’m sorry I ran out. It was my first murder scene and it was worse than I expected. If you give me second chance, I’ll work like a dog on this case, promise.”

“No need to apologize. That’s not why I was asking. You know the killer carved the word ‘bitch’ on Suzanne Shepard’s stomach, right?”

“Are you kidding, I’ll remember that for the rest of my life. Why do you think I hurled?”

“Could you do me a favor and read this obscene e-mail I received?” Melanie asked.

“Sure.” Throwing her a curious glance, Janice stepped behind Melanie’s desk and leaned over to see the computer. She read the e-mail, then she read it a second time.

“What do you think?” Melanie asked.

Janice straightened up. “You’re wondering about the fact that this clown calls her a bitch? Does that mean he’s the Butcher?”