But acting completely alone, she recognized, was not an ideal strategy. Ferreting out wrongdoing or negligence in her own office or in the FBI was bound to kick up resistance. She needed backing from someone with juice. Her boss was the obvious choice.
With that thought in mind, she buzzed herself through the bulletproof door and hurried straight to Bernadette’s office, not even stopping to put away her briefcase. Shekeya was sitting at her desk, eating a Big Mac and fries, reading a dog-eared copy of People.
“She back yet?” Melanie demanded, out of breath, “I need to see her right away.”
Shekeya dipped a french fry carefully into some ketchup and chewed it slowly.
“Nope. Went to Washington. She got a meeting at Main Justice.”
“I know, but wasn’t she supposed to be in by now?”
“She don’t inform me of her every move.”
“Well, you booked her flight, didn’t you? Can you check it for me, please?”
“Your panties in a twist, girl. Can’t you see I’m eating?”
“Shekeya, it’s important.”
“So’s my lunch.”
Melanie folded her arms in exasperation, glaring at Shekeya.
“Don’t give me that look. The boss ain’t gonna come back any faster because you standing there with your face all ugly. When I’m done with my burger, I’ll check it for you. Now, get your hiney back to your office.” Shekeya shooed Melanie with a ketchup-besmirched hand.
Melanie sighed dramatically, but she had no choice. She turned and walked out into the hall. She knew Shekeya well enough to be confident she’d get the correct information in Shekeya’s own good time.
AN HOUR LATER SHE WAS SITTING AT HER desk scanning Jed Benson’s telephone records and thinking about how to get her hands on the sign-in sheet from the security desk downstairs when Bernadette rapped loudly on her open office door.
“Shekeya said you were looking for me, hon,” Bernadette said.
“Oh, Bern, I’m so glad you’re back,” Melanie said, hopes brightening. She really needed Bernadette’s help; it was a relief that her boss sounded so nice for a change.
Bernadette walked in and sat down across from Melanie in the guest chair. She leaned forward, her features arranged in a look of motherly concern. “I heard your witness was killed. Are you holding up okay?”
“No, I’m not. I really need to talk to you.”
“Oh, hon, I’m sorry I wasn’t around earlier. I’m sure you could have used a shoulder to cry on.”
“It’s not that, Bern. I’m worried about the case. We had two major security breaches in the past twenty-four hours, and I’m beginning to think we have a leak somewhere. I really need some advice on how to handle it.”
“A leak? What are you talking about? I’m sure your witness blew it herself by telling some idiot neighbor where she was or something.”
“No, Bern, Rosario was completely terrified. She wouldn’t have given up her location to her own mother.”
“People are stupider than you’d think. Do me a favor, check the phone records from her hotel room—then come back and tell me I’m wrong. I’ll bet you ten bucks there’s some call on there to some cousin in Queens who blabbed to the whole planet.”
“I really doubt it. Besides, Rosario’s murder wasn’t the only security breach. Somebody chased me in the basement last night, stole evidence from my purse—”
Bernadette laughed. “Yeah, I heard about that one. The security company complained, you know. I commend your nerve in going down to Dead Files so late at night. But next time be a little more careful with the emergency door, or we’re gonna have to start paying them overtime for investigating false alarms.”
“I didn’t just hear a noise and freak out, Bern. Somebody was down there. Valuable evidence is missing.”
“Melanie,” Bernadette said sharply, “the perpetrator removed cash from your wallet, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“So don’t give me partial information, miss, it’s misleading. The cash is key. Some janitor obviously stole your money, and in the process he took your evidence by mistake. He probably dropped it in a Dumpster last night on his way to score a few dime bags with your cash.”
“That’s it? You’re just explaining everything away without even investigating?”
Bernadette sighed. “Look, I understand you’re upset. It’s very traumatic when a witness gets killed. There’s a natural tendency to see it as bigger than it is, as the result of some wild conspiracy. But that’s just nerves talking. You want my advice? Calm down, do your work, and stop running off at the mouth with crazy theories.”
Melanie stared at Bernadette in dismay. She couldn’t believe that her boss wasn’t all over these security breaches, that she wasn’t helping her. Then it dawned on her that Bernadette had a huge conflict of interest here. Rommie Ramirez’s squad had taken responsibility for protecting Rosario last night. The crew-cut cop had left his post to respond to a drug call. Did Bernadette already know that? Did she fear that an inquiry might negatively affect her boyfriend, further damage his already troubled career? Would Bernadette allow personal feelings to influence her professional judgment like that? She was obviously head over heels for Rommie. But covering up something so significant would put her whole career at risk. Melanie respected Bernadette too much to believe that such a thing was possible. Yet she couldn’t deny that Bernadette was acting bizarrely nonchalant.
“Rest assured,” Bernadette continued, “nobody blames you for what happened to your witness. When you’re faced with a killer as smart and ruthless as this one, you’re gonna experience setbacks.”
“Rosario wasn’t a setback, she was a person!” Melanie said. “There’s a leak somewhere, and for all I know, her door was purposely left unattended. I think we need an inquiry.”
Bernadette’s eyes narrowed. “When you say something like that, I have a hard time deciding whether you’re stupid or just reckless. You want an inquiry, you say? Those things never go the way people expect, you know, Melanie. If I were you, I’d make damn sure my own house was in order before asking for one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You want to know how the killer tracked Rosario down and whether there was a leak? Have you examined your own conduct? Were you careless with information? Isn’t it possible it was really your fault somehow, and not anybody else’s?”
Melanie fell silent, thinking about the address she’d put on the G-car authorization and never found time to erase, about her call to the grand-jury clerk, about her other actions in the past twenty-four hours that might have divulged Rosario’s location. What if it had been her fault? God, how could she ever live with that guilt? Her stomach sank. It must’ve shown in her face.
“Uh-huh, I thought so,” Bernadette said with a knowing smirk. “Well, I guess that’s why I’m here. To teach you greenhorns to look before you leap.”
“I tried to be so careful—”
“Of course you did. And if you let something slip, I’m sure it was an accident, hon. That’s my point, you see? Don’t start pointing fingers, because nobody’s perfect.” Bernadette stood up and moved toward the door. “Speaking of not being perfect,” she said, with a nod toward Melanie’s desk, laden with piles of unopened subpoena responses, “this desk is a mess. Clean it up before something else falls through the cracks, would you?”
“Okay.”
“And another thing. Romulado tells me Amanda Benson still is not well. So just stay away from there, okay? Focus on something else for a while. After all, you have plenty of other work to do.”
After Bernadette left, Melanie went over her actions in her head. She was certain she’d never divulged Rosario’s whereabouts to anyone outside her office. If someone from the office cribbed the address and leaked it, that person was complicit in murder. But she couldn’t be expected to anticipate someone else’s treason, could she? No, she was entitled to trust her own people. Only once she got
comfortable with that did she begin to see that Bernadette had manipulated her. Bernadette had turned the tables, made her question her own conduct, distracted her. And left her empty-handed. No help on investigating the security breach, no additional staffing. She was determined to solve these murders, but she needed resources and proper support. She was starting to have a bad feeling about this.
MELANIE’S PHONE RANG SOME MINUTES LATER. “Hey, what’s up?” Dan said. “I thought it was about time to check in.” His voice cheered her up so much that it scared her.
“You always check in with the prosecutor every few hours?” she asked breathlessly.
“With you I do. You miss me?”
Playing this game with him was dangerous. She’d end up in way over her head with this guy if she wasn’t careful. She looked down at her bare ring finger, longing for the security of her wedding band. When she wore it, she knew where she stood in the world. She knew where the boundaries were.
“Any developments?” she asked Dan.
“Yeah, actually. I just got a lead on Jasmine Cruz from this scumbag informant of mine,” he said.
“Well, that’s good news, because I was just examining Jed Benson’s telephone records, and she’s all over them.”
“No kidding!”
“Yeah. I’m starting to think she’s it. You know, the missing link between Slice and Jed Benson.”
“What’s in the phone records?”
“Numerous calls in the last year from Jed Benson’s cell phone to two phones subscribed in the name Jasmine Cruz. One landline, one cell phone, so he was calling her at home and on her cell. I’m talking like several calls per week, usually late at night. Long ones, too.”
“Wow! All from his cell, you said, not from his home phone?”
“Yes, that’s right. He didn’t call her from his house.”
“You know what that means?”
“Unfortunately, I do. He was hiding it from his wife, the jerk.” She was thinking of her own innocent-looking home-telephone bills—they hadn’t breathed a hint of Steve’s cheating. “I have a feeling Benson got around. Sarah van der Vere practically admitted they had an affair. And these phone records suggest the same thing about Jasmine.”
“Good work, partner. You might have just solved the crime, although I think you trashed our jurisdiction.”
“How’s that?”
“What we got here is a good old-fashioned crime of passion, don’t you think? Benson barked up the wrong tree. He did Slice’s girl. Simple as that. None of this retaliation-for-prosecution shit.”
“Huh. Maybe.” Was Dan right? It was a simple and elegant solution, yet it didn’t feel like the whole answer. “But what about that phone call four years ago? The one from the Blades wiretap that got stolen last night, where Slice and Jasmine are talking about Mighty Whitey?”
“Maybe it wasn’t Benson they were talking about.”
“Then Jasmine Cruz just shows up on Benson’s cell- phone records four years later as a complete coincidence? I don’t buy that.”
“Hmm. Maybe you’re right.” They were both silent, thinking. “Hey, what about this? Maybe in the wiretap call, Slice was trying to blackmail Benson or something, you know? Maybe they had photos of him with Jasmine, and if he didn’t pay up, they’d tell his wife?”
“Could be. But still, that call was four years ago. How does that get us to killing Benson now?”
“Good question. I don’t know. But I bet I know who does.”
“Jasmine Cruz?”
“Yup.”
“Where is she?”
“Get this. Working as a spokesmodel at the Auto Show.”
Melanie laughed. “She’s come up in the world. Great, though, I love the Auto Show.”
“Yeah? I love the Auto Show, too.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“Only thing is, I’m in Brooklyn, and the bridges are shut now for some kind of enforcement activity.”
“Okay, well…”
“I’ll meet you there, but get started without me.”
“I’ll have the case wrapped up in a nice, neat package by the time you show up.”
“It’s a deal.”
25
HIS CELLI RING, IT WAKE HIM UP.
“What?” he said.
“What are you, sleeping?”
Wake him up like that. No courtesy. Motherfucker don’t realize he living on the edge already with the way he fuck up the job the other night.
“You know I work last night. The fuck you calling me!”
“Yeah, I know you did. Quite something.”
“You next, fool. Waking me up.”
“Okay, okay.”
“And you calling me here.”
“Think I’d do that if I didn’t know for a fact it was safe? Besides, this is important. We gotta move on some of these others right away.”
“You better get out of my shit. I decide, understand? I’ma do the architect next, that Chinese bitch. That’s it.”
“Will you just forget her for now? She’s not important.”
“What you saying? Makes me wonder about you, son. She what the job about, far as I’m concerned. We don’t get that information, we don’t get paid.”
“We gotta think about basic survival. We got two problems. First off, Barbie Doll needs to go. Fast, before she talks.”
“That ain’t my problem. It’s yours. You kill her.”
“I’ll pretend you never said that. Second, Jasmine.”
“What about Jasmine?”
“She knows too much. And if they decide to squeeze her, she’ll give it up in about ten seconds. She’s a weak link.”
He paused. “You know Jasmine got my little daughter.”
“Well, what do you know? I never saw you shy away from taking care of business before. Very refreshing.” He chuckled.
“This a fucking joke to you?”
“Hey, whatever. I’m not telling you how to handle it. I’m just saying it needs to be handled. So forget about the architect and deal with these other two.”
“You seem to think you giving me an order.”
“Not an order. Just some sound advice.”
“You better hope I don’t find you, fool, the way you pissing me off!”
He shut the phone and smash it hard against the wall. Fucking worm, telling him how to do his thing, saying he ain’t take care of business. He take care of business, all right. But he decide who, when, and where. He decide, not nobody else. And one day real soon, he gonna decide that motherfucker gotta go. Real soon.
He get out the bed now, drink some Gatorade from the refrigerator. Shit never go bad—leave it in there for a year and it still taste the same. At least something you can trust. He got the humming in his blood again, from that fucking worm getting all up in his face, fucking up his concentration. His head pounding. He gotta try to calm down. Maybe he go down the basement and see No Joke in his special room. He gotta clean up whatever left from No Joke’s party anyway. He do the work last night, and the fucking dog get all the reward. That ain’t right. Things is fucked up. He need to get his shit straightened out.
26
HOT SUNLIGHT SHONE THROUGH THE SOARING glass ceiling of the Javits Center, illuminating the tumultuous scene many stories below. Melanie stepped off the enormous escalator, blinding light and bright colors hitting the retina of her eye, making her feel like laughing aloud. She waded through wave after wave of revelers—Japanese businessmen in monochromatic outfits, bridge-and-tunnel types, gangs of hip-hop kids with heavy gold-and-diamond pendants dangling down to their waists—all climbing in and out of gleaming cars that spun on carpeted platforms. Car commercials looped endlessly on colossal video screens attached to sky-high partitions. She looked up, taking in the scene. A space-age cobalt blue concept car circled the room on a steel track mounted thirty feet above her head.
In this chaos she’d never find Jasmine Cruz without asking directions. Spokesmodels were everywhere she looked. Of
every race and color, they were nonetheless completely interchangeable, with their gazellelike bodies, heavy eye makeup and identical powder blue leather pantsuits. Jasmine must be something to look at to get this job. Melanie walked up to the nearest one, a redhead, who stood holding brochures in front of an acid yellow race car, its doors opening upward like gull’s wings.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I’m looking for my cousin who’s working as a spokesmodel here. Her name’s Jasmine Cruz.”
“Jasmine? Hmm. If it’s the girl I’m thinking of, try the brochure bar right past Range Rover. Walk all the way to the back, make a left at the Hummer display, and keep going for a while. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.”
But following the directions proved difficult in the wildly disorienting space. Screens flashing logos and 3-D diagrams were purposely set at odd angles to create eddies in the traffic flow, making it impossible to walk a straight path. She couldn’t get a clear line of sight more than twenty feet ahead. Weaving her way through thick crowds, she made slow progress across the vast floor of the convention center, arriving at her destination drained and a bit dazed.
Two spokesmodels, a blonde and a brunette, stood looking bored behind a tall wood-and-marble bar that displayed an assortment of glossy car brochures. The brunette looked like a cartoon image of a Native American princess, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on, straight black hair, and coffee-colored skin. Her eyebrows arched dramatically over powder blue glitter eye shadow that matched her leather pantsuit.
Melanie walked up to the bar, deciding to take a chance. “Jasmine Cruz?” she asked the brunette.
The woman looked confused. “Uh-huh. Were you here yesterday?”
Melanie took her credentials from her bag and flipped them open in her hand.
“I need to speak with you. I think you know why, but if you want me to say it, I will. It’s just…it might be embarrassing.” She glanced meaningfully at the blonde.
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