“Why the hell should I let you question me when you’re in court telling a judge somebody else did the deed? You think I’m a patsy?”
“Mr. Harris was an eyewitness to the murder,” Melanie explained. “We charged him with obstruction of justice for refusing to cooperate with the FBI. We’re investigating him thoroughly, and we think there’s a chance he’s the killer. We’ve taken a DNA sample from him, and we’re waiting for results. But we’re still duty bound to check out other credible leads.”
“Clyde is not a credible lead,” Davis said. “You’re on some kind of fishing expedition here.”
“That’s not true,” Melanie replied, fixing Clyde with a steady gaze. “We’re being careful and deliberate. That’s why we’re asking a broad spectrum of people to provide alibis. We need to hear from you, Councilman, in order to stop the hysteria in the press that says we’re giving you a free ride.”
Clyde folded his arms across his chest. “That’s your problem, now, isn’t it? Don’t expect any help from me. See, I don’t forget who appointed your boss.”
“You mean, the U.S. attorney?”
“That’s your boss, isn’t it?”
“Not my direct boss. There’s a bunch of layers of hierarchy between me and him.”
“But he’s your ultimate boss?”
“Yes.”
“And this president appointed him, am I correct?”
“Yes,” Melanie said.
“A president who would do anything to stop me from becoming mayor?”
“That may be, but it has nothing to do with why I’m here. I never even speak to the U.S. attorney, and I sincerely doubt that he talks to the president. The president has bigger concerns than one little murder in New York.”
“Yeah, like who’s gonna be the next mayor of this city!” Davis exclaimed.
Melanie was speechless.
“You bust into my office asking me intrusive questions when you already have another man in custody,” Clyde said, shaking his head in disgust. “What else am I supposed to think? This is harassment. It’s a conspiracy. It’s politically motivated, and it’s a blatant attempt to smear me.”
“Why would I smear you, Clyde? I support you!”
“If you support me, then you know I had nothing to do with this murder. So take my word for that and leave.”
“You of all people should understand the position I’m in,” Melanie exclaimed, frustrated. “Your son is a prosecutor in our office. We can’t do you special favors or treat you differently than we would anybody else who might’ve had a motive to go after Suzanne Shepard, or it’ll look bad. If you won’t answer questions voluntarily, then…” She trailed off, thinking about how ugly this could get.
“Then what? You subpoena me? Force me to take the Fifth?”
“I’d have no choice. And taking the Fifth would look pretty bad for a guy running for mayor, wouldn’t it?” she asked.
Clyde folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. “Not if he’s the victim of ugly smear tactics. You want to get into a pissing match with me in the media, I promise you, I’ll win.”
“I don’t want that. The only thing I want is to catch this killer.”
“I need you to leave now. Rocky, show them out.”
They stepped from the brownstone into bright sunshine. The scent of warm soil and lilac wafted toward them from a community garden down the block, and children’s laughter rang out from a nearby playground. Dan’s car was parked down the street, and as they headed for it, their moods could not have been more at odds with the glory of the day.
“What a fiasco,” Dan said. “Could you believe that horseshit about how we’re persecuting him because the U.S. attorney works for the president and the president hates Clyde?”
“Everybody’s got a conspiracy theory these days,” Melanie said.
“He’s guilty as sin,” Janice, who’d been silent during the interview, said with surprising vitriol.
“You think so?” Melanie asked. Yesterday, Janice had been convinced David Harris was the killer. Melanie was beginning to question the girl’s judgment.
“He told us he’s planning to take the Fifth! Why would he do that if he wasn’t involved with the murder?” Janice asked.
“For political reasons,” Melanie said. “Maybe we stumbled into some game Clyde is playing with the press. I’m more concerned about Rockwell Davis. I got the distinct feeling he was turning Clyde against us.”
“He’s a troublemaker, big-time,” Dan agreed.
“What do we know about him?” Melanie asked.
“Not enough. Nothing, really,” Dan said.
“You should’ve asked them both for DNA samples,” Janice said.
“I wasn’t authorized to,” Melanie said. “Besides, they’d never agree. If we get to that point, we’ll need a court order. Hell, we’ll need straitjackets.”
“Here’s what I don’t get,” Dan said. “If Clyde gave us his alibi, we’d pack up and go home. Leave him alone. So why not give it to us? He’s hiding something about where he was that night.”
Melanie was getting tired of defending Clyde Williams. Besides, in her heart of hearts, she was beginning to wonder about him herself.
“To hell with the paperwork,” she told Dan. “Start looking at them. Find out whatever you can.”
21
Forty-two hours had passed since Suzanne Shepard’s murder. The Central Park Butcher was still at large, as the TV news kept reminding the public. And Melanie was languishing in yet another waiting room, feeling no closer to an answer.
Dr. Benedict Welch, the plastic surgeon whose file had been stolen from Suzanne Shepard’s apartment, maintained an office on Park Avenue in the Sixties, the toniest part, right where all the socialites lived. The reception area was decorated to resemble an English country manor. Melanie sat in a chintz wingback chair beside Detective Pauline Estrada waiting for an audience with the beauty guru. All around them, glamour girls of a certain age perused Town & Country and gossiped. They sported identical blond highlights and plastic faces with collagened fish lips, and were dressed to the nines in little suits or slacks and cashmere twinsets with high heels and sparkly jewelry. Not exactly how Melanie would have put herself together for a visit to the doctor. But in New York, she’d noticed, the women with the least to do were always the most dressed up.
“She’s on something, and I’m not talking multivitamins. The last time I saw her, she walked right by me as if we’d never even met,” one of them was saying to another within Melanie’s earshot.
“That’s just how she is.”
“She wasn’t snubbing me. I’m telling you, it’s drugs.”
“Well, everybody’s on something these days. Takes the edge off.”
At the window where Melanie had checked in earlier, the redheaded nurse, whose name was Gigi, was pointing at her. A tall man with a thick head of yellowy blond hair looked in Melanie’s direction and nodded. He wore a white lab coat. As he came toward her several women blushed and tittered like tweens who’d just spotted a member of their favorite boy band.
“She’s new,” one of them said loudly, eyeing Melanie with resentment.
Benedict Welch stopped before Melanie. “Miss Vargas?” he asked.
“Yes.”
She made as if to stand up, but he held her in place with a caressing hand on her shoulder.
“No, baby. Sit for a moment and let me look at you.”
And he perched on the arm of her chair, staring down into her face, too close for Melanie’s comfort. He looked as artificial as any woman in the room, with skin deeply tanned yet smooth as a child’s, and eyes of such an intense violet blue that the color could not possibly be natural. His eyes had a strange, glassy quality, too, as if he’d been writing himself a few prescriptions.
“Doctor,” she said, “weren’t you told that we’re here—”
“Quiet. Let me appreciate you.” He brushed his fingers across Melanie’s lips, and she recoil
ed. His fingers were long and thin, and his touch oddly light, like an insect’s.
“Please don’t touch me like that,” Melanie said. Pauline was looking at Welch with intense interest. Here he was, lending credence to everything they’d read in those complaints to the medical board.
“I’m mesmerized by these Latin lips, but my interest is purely medical,” Welch said, in a soft, hypnotic voice. “Besides, a doctor always touches his patients. It’s normal, and necessary, and very much a part of the intimacy we’ll develop as we work together. You’ll get used to my touch. Your mouth is just luscious, and you haven’t had any collagen, have you? But I do see the start of worry lines. You came to the right place, sweetie. A little pinchie and they’ll go bye-bye. Shall we?” He stood up.
Either Gigi had misinformed him about the purpose of their visit, or he was putting on a show for his patients. Melanie nodded at Pauline.
“Detective Estrada is working on this case also,” she said, loudly enough for other patients to hear.
From Welch’s strained smile, Melanie saw that he’d known all along.
“Of course,” he said coldly. “This way.”
He led them through a door and down a hallway lined with treatment rooms, into an office decorated with leather club chairs and a big mahogany desk. Welch sat behind the desk and gestured for them to take seats.
“Just to be sure we’re on the same page regarding the purpose of this visit,” Melanie began, “I’m with the U.S. Attorney’s Office and Detective Estrada is NYPD. We’re investigating the murder of Suzanne Shepard. We’re also interested in a burglary that took place at her apartment shortly before her murder, and we need to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course. I want to help. Whatever I can tell you without breaching doctor-patient confidentiality rules,” Welch said.
“We’re not interested in Suzanne’s beauty treatments. We’re here to talk about you, and your relationship with her,” Melanie said.
“Anything I can do. I adored Suzanne, and from what I’ve read in the papers, this was a terrible crime.”
“Yes, it was. We’re following up with anybody who might have had a motive to harm her. Were you aware that Suzanne Shepard was researching a story on you, Dr. Welch?” Melanie asked.
“No, but I can’t say I’m surprised. As the person who took care of her looks, I was very important in her life. Favorable publicity is something I’m fond of, and Suzanne knew that. She was probably planning a story as a way to thank me. Patients give me gifts all the time.”
“And you accept them?”
“If the gift is valuable, I declare it on my tax return. All the formalities are observed, so no room to play gotcha there.” His smile was about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.
“In this case, the gift would not have been valuable. The story was negative. Scandalous, in fact.”
Melanie watched his face closely for a reaction. Lorraine Shepard hadn’t a clue what was in the stolen file folder, or what the terrible secret was that Suzanne had discovered about Benedict Welch. Melanie was fishing, hoping for a little information here, but unfortunately Welch wasn’t biting.
“If you’re looking for people who wanted to hurt Suzanne, you’ve come to the wrong place,” he said. “Suzanne was one of my favorite patients, and the affection was mutual. She would never say anything negative about me.”
“Suzanne’s apartment was broken into two weeks ago, Doctor, and a file containing information about you was stolen. Why would somebody take a file that only said nice things?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea. I never knew such a file existed, and I didn’t know anybody took it. Maybe it was a mistake. I’m sure the taxpayers can count on you to find out.”
He met Melanie’s gaze evenly, as if he didn’t have a thing to hide.
“You know a Miles Ortiz?” Pauline Estrada asked suddenly.
Welch’s head snapped around. “No.”
“No?” Pauline asked, surprised.
“I gave the answer. The answer is no. I don’t know anybody by that name.”
Pauline drew from her bag the file on the Shepard burglary that Melanie had looked through yesterday at the precinct. She pulled some papers out and handed them across the desk to him. Melanie could see the cover page of a telephone bill.
“This is your office telephone number, correct?” Pauline asked.
“Yes.”
“A cell phone subscribed to by Mr. Ortiz called that number seventeen separate times in the past month,” Pauline said.
“People call. That doesn’t mean I speak to them. For all I know, he’s Gigi’s latest boyfriend. She goes through several a week, it seems.”
Pauline took the telephone bill back.
“Do you live alone?” she asked.
“No. I’m married. I live with my wife, Gloria. She’s a former patient of mine. See?” He turned a gilded frame that sat on his desk around to face them. The woman in the photograph could have been any one of the Botoxed socialites from the waiting room. She looked rich and skeletally thin, and a lot older than Welch himself did—which set Melanie to thinking.
“This is your home telephone number?” Pauline asked, showing him another phone bill.
“Yes, it is.”
“Mr. Ortiz called your home number eleven times in the past month. Is he your wife’s boyfriend, too?”
“You know, I’ve been very patient with you people. But the tone of these questions is beginning to get objectionable, and I’d really like you to leave now.”
“I apologize, Dr. Welch,” Melanie interjected. “You’ve been very accommodating. One more question, sir, and I promise, we’ll get out of your hair. Where were you on Wednesday night at around eight forty?”
Melanie was half expecting Welch to blow up and order them from the room, but instead he leaned back in his chair, fighting to suppress a smile that played around the corners of his lips.
“That’s easy enough,” he said. “I was at a dinner meeting with several fellow board members of All the Pretty Children. It’s a charitable organization that provides free plastic surgery to third-world kids with harelips and other congenital deformities. I do a lot of work for them. At eight forty, we were at Café Boulud talking about writing grants for next year’s budget. I’m happy to give you the names of my companions. They’re all most reputable people.”
Ooh, I wanted to punch him in the mouth so bad. Wipe that nasty smile right off his face,” Pauline Estrada said as they hit the pavement on Park Avenue.
Melanie glanced at Pauline, who laughed. “Just kidding. Figure of speech.”
“Right.” Melanie had heard enough cops say things like that to have some serious doubts about how they behaved when she wasn’t around. Even cops like Pauline, who wore lipstick and had kids at home.
Melanie was planning to grab a cab back to her office, but she started walking south toward the precinct, falling into step beside the detective. It was late afternoon and gorgeous out. Flowers in front of the fancy buildings danced in the sunlight, their scent obscuring the exhaust fumes from passing cars, and the warm air felt like velvet on her skin. A group of construction workers heading north as they headed south pulled one-eighties to stare at them.
“You ladies free?” one of them called.
“No, we’re very expensive,” Pauline retorted, eliciting a friendly series of whoops and hollers.
“C’mon. Welch was lying. He’s a total asshole,” Pauline said to Melanie as they continued walking.
“Of course he is. Believe me, he creeps me out big-time. Did you see how he touched me?”
“I did see, the perv.”
“Remember those complaints to the medical board?” Melanie said. “Now that I’ve met Welch, I’m positive he groped those patients. I’m just surprised he waited until they were unconscious. Think about the fact that Suzanne Shepard was raped, and then think about the man we just met. I know it sounds far-fetched to accuse a prominent doctor of mu
rdering one of his patients. But I get such a strong vibe from Welch that he’s capable of rape.”
“For me, it’s all about the phone records,” Pauline said. “When I got them this morning, and I saw we could connect Welch to Miles Ortiz, I said, that’s it, that’s the answer. The two of ’em had something going on together, something involving drugs. Suzanne found out. She was gonna blow it sky-high, so they whacked her. And Welch got his rocks off by raping her first.”
“Could be,” Melanie said, thinking out loud. “Welch certainly got agitated once you started asking about Miles.”
“Yeah, that’s when he asked us to leave,” Pauline said.
“And did you see his eyes? He’s on something, I just know it.”
“I thought so, too.”
“He’s hiding something important. The only thing that gives me pause is that he claims he has an alibi. Why would he tell us he went out to dinner if he knows it won’t check out?” Melanie asked.
“Maybe he got our boy Miles to do the dirty work,” Pauline said. “They were in it together, but Miles was the one who pulled off the murder. And the burglary, too, which is why we found Miles’s fingerprints in Suzanne’s apartment instead of Welch’s.”
“We need to learn more about Welch, Pauline. Let me ask you something. How old did he look to you?”
“Welch? I don’t know. Thirty-five. Forty, maybe.”
“How old did you tell me he was, based on that profile you worked up?”
“Oh.” Pauline’s brows drew together, and she stopped in mid-stride, pulling her folder from her bag and plopping it down on top of a metal box holding fliers for the Learning Annex. She rifled through frantically until she found what she was looking for, and looked up at Melanie in shock. “Oh my God! Sixty-four.”
“Where did you get that information?”
“From the Medical Licensing Board.”
“That man was not sixty-four,” Melanie insisted.
“He’s a plastic surgeon, though. Do you think—?”
“Did you see those women in the waiting room? His patients?”
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