Notorious (2 page)

T
he world erupted in
fire and blood. Melanie's head hit the rough cement of the sidewalk, and she cried out in pain. All around her, pieces of flaming metal rained down. She was choking on thick smoke. She rolled over and threw her arms over her head, feeling the wetness there. She was bleeding, but the blood she saw all around wasn't her own. Lester! Lester was dead. She closed her eyes for what felt like a long time, not believing this was really happening, thinking she could wish it away if she tried hard. Sirens blared from every direction. Fire? Police?

The man with the dog! She needed to tell them about him.

Melanie struggled to her knees, dizzy and nauseous. She didn't know how much time had passed. Strong hands grabbed her under the arms and pulled her up.

“You need a doctor, miss?” the cop shouted over the din of sirens. Two enormous fire trucks had screeched to a stop mere feet from her. Men were jumping off, running and shouting, throwing things down off the truck.

Melanie fought to stay upright. Her legs were shaking so badly that her knees nearly buckled.

“It was a bomb!” she shouted, her voice shaking, too. “I saw the guy detonate it.”

The cop was very young. His eyes widened at her words. “You're sure?”

“Absolutely. He detonated it with a cell phone.”

“You see this man now? Look around. Look everywhere!”

Black smoke poured off the flaming wreck of the Maserati. Melanie's eyes were stinging and tearing from it. The fire extinguishers made a terrible hissing sound as they spurted out their foam.

She squinted, peering through the dense blanket of smoke. “I can't see!”

“Try!”

Melanie staggered down the block toward where the man had been. She turned first one way, then the other, ignoring the throbbing pain in her head. He wasn't there. She couldn't see him. He was gone, gone, gone.

“He's gone!” she cried, her voice a forlorn wail.

The cop whipped out a notepad. “Physical description?”

“Male,” she said, trying to get her breathing under control. “Thirties. Medium-dark complexion. Middle Eastern or Hispanic. Dark hair, black jacket, slender build, maybe five eight, five nine. He had a dog on a leash. The dog was brown, medium sized. A mutt, it looked like. It was a prop. The dog was just a prop to make the guy blend in. I realize that now. I bet it didn't even belong to him.”

Melanie put her hand to the back of her head. It came away red. She wanted to cry. Not for herself, she wanted to cry for Lester.

“Did you see the victims?” the cop asked, scribbling notes furiously. “Any idea how many people were near that car when it blew up?”

“One victim. Lester Poe, the lawyer. Do you know who he is?”

“No. Should I?”

This cop looked like a teenager, with big ears and baby fat. He was doing a fine job, but he seemed nervous. Her opposing counsel had just been assassinated in an important federal case. She needed to put her personal feelings aside and give some guidance to this rookie beat cop. She needed to take charge.

“Officer Ruiz,” she said, reading his name tag. “I should have told you up front. I'm a federal prosecutor. What you see here is a federal crime. Mr. Poe was murdered because of a case he's working on. Take the description I gave you and put it out over the radio. Do it now. If you can grab this guy, you'll be a big hero with the FBI.”

He looked at her for long enough to realize that she was telling the truth. “Will do. Yes, ma'am,” he said, and ran back to his car.

 

T
he Atari Briggs case was big and splashy enough to warrant assigning the two top prosecutors in the Major Crimes Unit—Melanie, who was the deputy chief, and her boss, Susan Charlton, the chief. Susan was the first person Melanie called.

“Where are you?” Susan demanded, her voice riddled with anxiety. “We're all locked down in here. There was a bombing outside the courthouse.”

“I know, I'm right there. I was in it! They blew up Lester's car. He's dead. Oh my God, he's dead!”

“Lester Poe?”

“He was hit! Assassinated. Call the FBI!”

“I just turned on the TV. I think I see you. Yes, it's definitely you. You're on New York One. It looks like—is that…Mel, is that blood on your clothes? Are you okay?”

There were a bunch of television news vans on the block already.
A camera pointed directly at her. She'd felt the bright light on her face but assumed it belonged to a fire truck.

Melanie turned her back on the camera and walked fast in the opposite direction. “I'm fine. Susan, did you hear what I said?”

“Somebody killed Lester.”

“Yes. With a car bomb. I saw it happen. Lester and I were standing in front of the courthouse talking. He'd just told me that Atari Briggs wants to cooperate, that he has national security information, stuff I can't discuss over the phone. Then this man with a dog detonated the bomb. Right in front of my eyes. I tried to warn Lester, but it was too late!”

There was silence on the line.

“Susan, are you there?”

“Yeah, I just—I can't believe it. What does this mean for our trial?”

“Who cares about the trial? Lester Poe is dead, and I think they killed him to stop the cooperation!”

Thank God Melanie had pushed Lester for details. She already knew a lot. She prayed that it would be enough to work with, enough to pressure Atari Briggs to flip anyway. Lester Poe had died trying to bring that information to light.

“You said you saw the bomber?” Susan asked.

“I saw everything.” Melanie's voice caught in her throat. “Susan, I saw Lester blown apart. I mean, chunks of him landed near me. I couldn't even tell what it was! Susan, I cared about him. He was—he was my friend.” She started breathing hard again, hyperventilating almost.

“Okay, okay. Come back to the office, babe. Sam Estes keeps a bottle of bourbon in his desk. I'll have a shot waiting for you. It'll calm you down. And I'm calling the FBI right now. We can't leave this to the beat cops. I'll get a good crime scene team out there right away.”

“Yes, good, do that. I'll stay here and wait for them to show.”

“No! You come back here.”

“Susan, no. I'm an eyewitness. I can do more here. The crime scene guys might need to interview me.”

“I want you protected. You're not safe on the street.”

The cops had cordoned off a large area around the blackened hulk of the Maserati. All the big firemen were blocking Melanie's view, but she could see that the smoke had stopped, and they were spreading sheets over the remains piled up in various places along the street.

“It's fine. The fire's out,” Melanie said, choking back a gag.

“Mel, where's your head? You saw the bomber's face. If this was really an assassination, and you're an eyewitness, you're in danger.”

E
verybody needed to interview
Melanie—the FBI, the NYPD, the DEA agents running the Atari Briggs drug murder case. Susan Charlton's corner office was crowded with cops and agents, all buzzing around talking on their Nextels, trying to catch leads. A car bombing in broad daylight in a key Manhattan location, possibly terrorism related—this was the biggest thing to come down the pike in years. Susan's phone was ringing off the hook with calls from the press, but the Front Office had ordered a total information blackout. Decisions about what explanation to put out to the public would be made at the highest levels, in consultation with the FBI, Homeland Security, and intelligence operatives. If it got out there that Gamal Abdullah was involved and that law enforcement knew it, he and his associates would be somewhere on the Afghan-Pakistan border by tomorrow. If they weren't already.

Melanie was doing her best to focus on her little piece of the puzzle and give detailed answers about what she'd witnessed, but her mind was still reeling in the aftermath. She couldn't believe that the glamorous, vital man she'd been talking to an hour ago
was now in pieces in a body bag. Part of her wanted to be out there bearing witness and tracking the killer. She'd followed Susan's orders, however, and left before the crime scene team arrived. In the ladies' room, she applied pressure to the cut on the back of her head until the bleeding stopped. The cut was superficial. She'd already washed away the blood and downed some Advil, followed by the shot of bourbon that Susan pressed on her, but Melanie knew that an ugly black cloud of loss was waiting to pounce the second she was alone.

Melanie now sat in front of Susan's desk talking to a whippet-thin FBI guy with short gray hair—Group Supervisor Rick Lynch, head of the Joint Terrorism Task Force and condescending as hell. The Bureau was taking this very seriously. Lynch was a heavy hitter, not somebody who normally deigned to conduct witness interviews himself, but the name Gamal Abdullah had brought him running. Unfortunately, his interview skills were rusty enough that he was doing a good job of turning an ace federal prosecutor into a recalcitrant witness.

“I'm gonna ask you again,” Lynch said, rubbing his eyes like Melanie was giving him a headache instead of the other way around. “What did the man in the dark jacket do after you and the victim moved away down the block?”

“I told you. I wasn't watching him then.”

“Did he have the cell phone out at that point?”

“I don't know. Like I said before, the first time I noticed the cell phone was when he held it up and pointed it at the car. You keep asking me the same questions.”

“You have an appointment or something?” Lynch snapped. “We're mobilizing a lot of men to work this investigation, moving them all over the world as you and I sit here, all on your say-so. I've got thirty men in New York alone looking for a man in a dark jacket with a
brown dog. If what you saw was just some citizen holding up his phone to get better reception—”

“I know what I saw! That man was there for us. He waited until Lester got right up next to the car. Then he pushed a button, and boom, the car blew up. It wasn't a coincidence. It wasn't my imagination.”

“You're saying this man was standing there waiting for you and neither of you noticed?”

“I know!” she wailed, on the verge of tears. “Incredibly, incredibly stupid. And Lester's dead because of it.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Susan piped in. “This is not your fault, Melanie. It's the fault of the asshole with the bomb. We're gonna get him, and we're gonna make him pay. Rick, stop giving her a hard time, you hear me? This isn't some dope dealer you're interrogating. Mel is my deputy chief. If she says something, you take it as gospel or you get the fuck out of my office.”

Susan Charlton was an Olympic silver medalist in backstroke. She was also one of the fiercest prosecutors in the U.S. Attorney's Office. A lot of the cops and agents called her “Miss Alternative Lifestyle” behind her back because she lived with a woman, but they respected her.

“I apologize,” Lynch said meekly. “I get a little overenthusiastic sometimes.”

Susan was on hold with the judge's chambers, the phone tucked against her shoulder. She was waiting to give a report. Her second line wouldn't shut up, and the constant shrill ringing set them all on edge. But updating the judge was more important than answering press calls. Judge Bernadette DeFelice, who was handling the Atari Briggs case, was a temperamental, controlling bitch who raised hell if she wasn't kept in the loop at all times. Melanie and Susan understood this well, because until a few months ago, Bernadette had been their boss.

“How long was the delay between when he held up the cell phone and when the car exploded?” Lynch asked.

“A few seconds at most.”

“What did he do after the explosion?”

“Ran away, I guess. I don't know. I was knocked off my feet, and by the time I got up, he was gone.”

“Based on his position the last time you saw him, which way do you think he went?”

“I'd be speculating.”

“Speculation can at times be a useful investigative tool, Ms. Vargas.”

“Okay, give me a street map of the area and I'll do my best to answer that.”

Lynch nodded at a lackey, who ran off to do his bidding.

“You think you'd be able to pick this guy out of a mug-shot book?” Lynch asked.

“If he's in there, sure. Provided he's clean-shaven like he was today.”

“What about describing him for a sketch artist?”

“Yes, certainly.”

Lynch rubbed his jaw. “I find it interesting that this mope made no effort to conceal his face.”

“That's not unusual in a terrorism case, is it? They were sending a message to Atari Briggs to keep his mouth shut. Why else would they blow up Lester in broad daylight right in front of a federal prosecutor? They don't care who sees them.”

“Maybe.”

Across the room at Susan's conference table, DEA Agent Papo West, the lead agent on the Briggs case, gave a startled grunt and held his phone away from his ear.

“They found the dog!”

“The dog I saw?” Melanie asked.

Papo looked upset. “A brown mutt, right? They found him in a Dumpster a block from the courthouse with his neck wrung.”

“Why would somebody do that?” she cried.

“So we didn't find the dog wandering around, I guess, and realize he was a cover,” Papo said. “At least now we know you were on the money, Melanie. The man you saw had to be the bomber.”

W
hen on the bench—which
was the only place Melanie had seen her for months—the Honorable Bernadette DeFelice wore the somber black robes that were standard issue for federal judges. Looking at her in that setting, you could be forgiven for thinking she'd calmed down and changed her ways to better fill the distinguished shoes left by the Honorable Leland Cordell when he'd retired at age eighty-five. But beneath the robes, Bernadette was still the same royal terror she'd been as chief of Major Crimes. Her hair was still that bright unnatural red, her dark eyes still merciless, and her language still foul. If anything, power had gone to her head and made her more reckless than before.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Ms. Charlton, refusing to answer a direct question from an Article Three judge?”

Melanie and Susan had been waiting in the courtroom for Atari Briggs to arrive with his replacement lawyer when Bernadette summoned them to this meeting in her chambers. The meeting was unorthodox—what was called an “ex parte communication,” because only one side was present. But that's what Bernadette had wanted, and she was the judge.

“You, Ms. Vargas,” Bernadette exclaimed, turning on Melanie. “I can't get a straight answer out of you, either, after everything I've done for you? Ungrateful little—”

Normally, Melanie would've felt like a bug wriggling on the tip of a pin. But she'd just watched a man she cared about die. In light of that, Bernadette didn't seem so scary.

“You're not a prosecutor anymore, Your Honor. You're the one who taught us about security clearances and confidentiality and limiting information to need-to-know personnel.”

“Oh, I'm not need-to-know?”

“How could you be? You don't work on the investigation.”

Bernadette's face turned as red as her hair. “This trial, if I allow it to go forward, happens in my courtroom. The safety of the parties is on my conscience. No goddamn way am I risking bloodshed. You're going to tell me who blew up Lester Poe and you're going to tell me now, or you will sorely regret it, and that's a promise.”

“Judge,” Melanie said, “we want to give you the information you need to keep everybody safe, but this is a sensitive investigation. What we can tell you is, Mr. Poe was murdered. The explosion was not an accident. Based on what we know, there's a possibility Mr. Briggs is also a target, so we advise extra courtroom security.”

“Do you live under a rock? Every newspaper and TV station in this town is reporting that Poe was killed by a car bomb. I know that already. I also know that an eyewitness saw the bomber, and that he was Middle Eastern.”

Shit, it was out there about the bomber.

“What I want to know is why Islamic terrorists killed Lester Poe,” Bernadette demanded.

“We don't know that that's what happened,” Melanie insisted. “We're at a very preliminary stage in the investigation.”

“Do I look like an idiot to you?” Bernadette said.

“No, ma'am.”

“Do I look like a sap?”

“No.”

“Then stop treating me like one. You tell me who killed Lester, or I am dismissing this indictment and sanctioning you ASAP.”

“Susan, feel free to jump in here,” Melanie said, but Susan gave an innocent look and a little shrug. She was a genius at keeping her mouth shut and her head down, which was why she never got in trouble with the judges. Somebody else took the drubbing. Melanie was designated whipping girl today, and she was in no mood for it.

Bernadette's eyes were boring in on Melanie. “Well?”

“I guess you'll just have to sanction me.”