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
There 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.
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 fac
tor 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
Back 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.
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