“Yes.”
“They get the full benefit of his skills. How old did they look?”
Pauline nodded. “Old.”
“Welch may be a plastic surgeon, but he’s not Dorian Gray. He can’t reverse the effects of nature. I think the age you have for him is wrong.”
“It can’t be. I got it from a bunch of different sources. Medical school and licensing records, driver’s license, his Web site. Everything matches up.”
“Welch has his own Web site?”
“Yeah, for making appointments, but mostly for flaunting himself. He’s got mad pictures posted on it of himself with all the beautiful people. In one of ’em, he’s standing on a beach wearing white pants and a blazer, barefoot, holding a martini. I almost barfed. But the point is, every single item of paperwork puts the guy as sixty-four.”
“Paper doesn’t always tell the whole story,” Melanie said. “Something’s not right. Did you tell me yesterday Welch was from Oklahoma?”
“Yeah, Tulsa.”
“That’s where he went to medical school and was licensed to practice medicine?” Melanie asked.
“Yes.”
“Ever been there?”
Pauline made a face. “With the wind rushing down the plains? No thanks, not my style, chica.”
“You’re very skilled at digging up information, Pauline, but this task may require the personal touch. If you’re game, I can find money in the budget for a plane ticket.”
“You know me, I’m game for anything. What the hell, I’ll check my closet. I got an old pair of red cowboy boots hiding in there somewhere that might look good when I’m riding a horse,” Pauline said with a twinkle in her eye.
22
Back at her desk, Melanie was feeling the pressure. It was close of business on Friday afternoon, and she had too many leads. In a case like this, where the victim had a lot of enemies, a shotgun approach was often necessary at the beginning. You followed up every last tip just far enough to rule it out. The problem was, this wasn’t the beginning anymore. The weekend was about to hit, meaning offices and labs would close and the PD would cut staffing to save on overtime. Melanie’s job was about to get harder at a moment when she’d made little discernible progress in narrowing her focus. She was checking her voice mail and e-mail simultaneously to save time when the caption of an e-mail gave her a nasty shock. Her pen pal partysover2007 had written to her again.
The e-mail read, I’m still out here. The phone fell from its place at Melanie’s shoulder into her lap as her eyes moved over his words.
Hey, Melanie Vargas [the creep had written], you forget about me? I didn’t forget you. If you keep ignoring my messages, I’m gonna be really ticked off when we meet in person and it won’t be fun and games for you. I saw you again today and you didn’t even know it. I saw your legs behind David Harris coming out of court in that picture in the Daily News. Your legs look just right. Firm, not too skinny. I’m gonna like them under me.
“Jesus,” she said under her breath. She looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see a guy in a leather face mask standing behind her with a bloody knife. It was late on a Friday, but thankfully there were other prosecutors in the hallway. She heard somebody laughing. Everything was okay. Nobody could get to her here. But still, she’d better stop shrugging this off and do something, before the creep decided to make himself known. Whether he was actually the Butcher or just some average Joe with a penchant for weird pranks, Melanie had no desire to meet him in person.
She plucked the receiver from where it had fallen in her lap. Her voice mails had been playing on while she read the latest installment from her Web stalker, and she heard the reassuring sound of Dan’s recorded voice in midmessage. He’d called while she was out interviewing Welch to tell her that Suzanne Shepard’s telephone records had come in.
“…looking for a call around six o’clock Wednesday that could’ve lured Suzanne out for a meet in Central Park,” Dan’s recorded voice was saying. “I think I found it. Five forty-eight P.M., originating from a pay phone in Flushing. If that sounds right, throw me a beep, and I’ll send somebody to do lifts off the pay phone. Unlikely we’ll get anything, but you never know.”
Wait a second. Flushing. What else had Melanie heard about Flushing today? Wasn’t that where the threatening package had been mailed from? She flipped through her notebook hastily looking for the notes from her interview with Tony Mancuso, glad for the distraction from that disgusting e-mail. Yes, there it was in black-and-white. The package had been sent from a post office on Roosevelt Avenue in Flushing. Melanie dialed Dan’s cell to tell him that, but all she got was his voice mail.
“Hey, it’s me,” she said. “I got your message about that call in Suzanne’s phone records. It sounds right. You should definitely take lifts off the pay phone, because something else important happened in Flushing.” She gave him the details on the threatening package. “I need your advice on a couple of weird e-mails I’ve gotten. I was hoping you could take a look at them and tell me if they’re worth investigating. So call me, or just come over. Bye.”
Melanie hung up and stared at the wall for a long moment to avoid looking at her computer screen. But then she got impatient with herself. There was too much going on to let this jerk slow her down. She minimized the e-mail into a tiny blip.
Melanie resumed listening to her voice mails. A call had come in not ten minutes earlier from Susan Charlton, Bernadette’s deputy chief and one of Melanie’s favorite colleagues, and it was troubling enough in its own right to take her mind off the cyberstalker.
“Mel, it’s Susan. Witchie-poo left for the day and she won’t be back in the office until after her honeymoon. A problem came up on your murder investigation. I’m acting chief, so that puts me in charge of discussing it with you. Stop by as soon as you get this message.”
Susan Charlton was on the telephone. As Melanie dropped heavily into a guest chair, fatigue overwhelming her, Susan met her eyes and held up an index finger.
Baseball caps from every agency in law enforcement bristled from all four walls of Susan’s office. The entire alphabet soup of the federal justice system—FBI, DEA, ATF, ICE, IRS, NYPD, hanging from nails in neat rows. There must’ve been a hundred hats. Agents who didn’t know Susan called her “Miss Alternative Lifestyle” behind her back, but any guy who’d ever worked a case with her eventually brought his offering and vied to have it placed in a spot of honor on her wall.
Susan’s freckled face was so vivid pink with exertion that it clashed with her flaming carrot hair, which clashed with the red Stanford Law baseball cap she wore. Susan was captain of the U.S. Attorney’s Office coed softball team. The fact that she was in shorts and her uniform T-shirt reminded Melanie that today had been the grudge rematch against their big rivals, the U.S. Marshals Service.
Melanie wondered why her own life didn’t leave room for something as sane as playing on the office softball team. Susan had no children. She and her partner, Lisa Friedman, an antipoverty lawyer, had been talking about adopting for ages but hadn’t done anything concrete about it. Yet Melanie suspected that even if Susan were a mom, she’d find time to win her trials, play sports, volunteer at her church, and hit the pub after work to gather intelligence from the cops. Susan was simultaneously well adjusted and crazy, cutthroat competitive and widely liked. If Melanie had to name one quality that equipped Susan for all her success, she would’ve chosen this: Susan had no angst. She didn’t worry. And she never, ever second-guessed herself once she’d made a decision. Unfortunately, these were the ways in which she differed most from Melanie.
Susan hung up and looked at her.
“D’you win?” Melanie asked.
“Whupped their bee-hinds, girl,” Susan exulted, taking a swig from a bottle of Poland Spring water on her desk and smiling broadly. “It was a beautiful thing. They’re so friggin’ full of themselves.”
“Score?”
“Six–three. A clear victory. Watch, none
of my prisoners’ll get transported to court next week, but I don’t care. We’re celebrating at Grady’s tonight if…oh, but what am I saying? You’re too busy.”
“I listened to your message. What’s up?” Melanie asked.
“I got a call from the front office,” Susan said, referring to the big walnut-paneled suite that housed the U.S. attorney and his first assistant.
“That can’t be good,” Melanie said.
“They’re concerned about the press activity in your case. Are you aware that Target News is doing twenty-four/seven live coverage on the Butcher?”
“I heard they were making a stink. That’s their style,” Melanie said.
“With all that dead air to fill, they’re spouting a lot of dreck, as you can imagine, and some of it upset the higher-ups. Take a look.”
Susan picked up a remote and clicked, and a television sitting on a wheeled cart beside her desk sprang to life. She rewound to an image of Lorraine Shepard clad in the exquisite black Chanel jacket and pearls she’d been wearing this morning, standing outside the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home.
“I loved her with all my heart,” Lorraine said as tears welled picturesquely in her big blue eyes. “My only daughter. And to think that cronyism is standing in the way of arresting her killer. The people of this city should demand answers. It was my daughter this time, but that animal is out there. Next time it could be yours.”
“Lorraine Shepard gets her fifteen minutes of fame,” Melanie said with disgust. “This woman has a habit of second-guessing investigations.”
“Good to know. But keep watching,” Susan said.
The camera cut to file footage of Clyde Williams walking down the steps of City Hall, flashing his toothsome smile as he waved to a crowd of well-wishers.
“Allegations of cronyism and special treatment swirl around this man,” the correspondent’s resonant, Australian-accented voice said, “City Councilman Clyde Williams, the subject of a scathing exposé aired on High Crimes just last week by the brave and relentless and now very dead Ms. Shepard. Williams is currently the front-runner for the Democratic mayoral nomination, but his prospects have been seriously undermined by allegations first reported by Target News that he had an affair with this woman”—the image changed to a high-school-yearbook photo of a pretty blond girl—“gorgeous, young Emily King, intern in Williams’s office, a mere twenty years old, sophomore at Princeton University and daughter of a wealthy Connecticut footwear magnate.”
“Footwear magnate. I love that,” Susan said, chuckling. She’d been leaning back with her feet up on her desk, but now she sat forward and paused the video. “Okay, it’s this next part that has the front office, well, concerned. Listen and tell me what you think,” she said, pushing play again.
“Despite questions about the obvious motive Williams or his supporters might have had to harm Suzanne Shepard,” the voice-over continued, “no action has been taken against him in the days since the brutal crime was committed. Target News has uncovered an alarming explanation for this otherwise unthinkable oversight in the person of Williams’s son”—here the screen flashed to footage of Clyde and Joe shaking hands side by side on a receiving line, both in tuxedos, looking a lot alike—“Joseph Franklin Williams, a prosecutor in the very same office as Melanie Vargas”—and here, footage from Melanie’s press conference—“the young, inexperienced prosecutor handling the Shepard murder investigation.”
“Inexperienced!” Melanie exclaimed.
“Shh,” Susan said, holding up one hand and pointing at the screen with the other.
“Target News has learned that Vargas is not only acquainted with but in fact good mates with the younger Williams, and on close personal terms with both Clyde Williams and his wife, Cherise, because of that relationship,” the voice-over continued. The screen faded in to focus on a big blond man with a chiseled face standing outside the building in which Melanie and Susan now sat.
“With the Butcher of Central Park still at large, what do the parties involved have to say about this disturbing conflict of interest? Can it be possible that one of our brightest politicians has knowledge of, or even involvement in, one of our most horrific crimes? Councilman Williams plans to address the allegations at a press conference later tonight, which we will bring to you live. The U.S. Attorney’s Office, for the moment, remains suspiciously silent. Duncan Gilmartin, Target News, outside the U.S. Attorney’s Office, waiting for some answers. Cassandra, back to you in the studio.”
Susan clicked and the screen went blank.
“I can tell you exactly why they’re doing this,” Melanie insisted. “Seth Parker, the producer at Target News, wanted me to embed this guy Gilmartin with the investigative team, and I refused.”
“Embed, like in Iraq?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a new one. We don’t do that.”
“That’s what I told him. Now he’s punishing me for turning them down. And obviously, they’re looking for a ratings bounce.”
“I believe you, but that doesn’t change the fact that the front office is upset. Nobody told them this Williams thing was out there, and they don’t like surprises.”
“Bernadette was in the loop. I went to her earlier today and asked her to speed up the paperwork at Main Justice so we could go after Clyde and address the allegations of favoritism. I specifically told her that the NYPD was upset with the press coverage. Shouldn’t she have been the one to say something to the front office? It’s hardly like I play racquetball with the U.S. attorney every morning.”
Susan looked thoughtful. “Hmm, there’s an angle. You know Witchie-poo’s on their shit list, right?”
“Seriously?”
“Why do you think she’s so keen to get out of here?”
“I thought she was itching to get on the bench,” Melanie said.
“She’s itching to jump before she gets pushed. Bernadette’s turf battles have come back to bite her. Turns out her enemies are better connected in the front office than she is. If we hand them Witchie-poo on a platter, we could save your butt on this one, Mel. Being Bernadette’s good German isn’t necessarily a smart strategy for you right now in any event.”
“I’m not her good German,” Melanie said, her cheeks burning. “I don’t follow her blindly. But she is my boss, and I respect chain of command.”
“I’m just saying it’s time for you to raise your profile with the higher-ups. You know, look independent, differentiate yourself from Bernadette. Letting them know she was the one who dropped the ball on this Williams thing would go a long way toward achieving that.”
“I’m not selling her out.”
“I admire your loyalty, but get real. If Bernadette lets you take the fall, isn’t she selling you out?”
“What kind of fall are we talking about here?” Melanie asked.
“For starters, after the higher-ups saw this”—Susan gestured at the TV—“they wanted to pull you off the Shepard case.”
Melanie was stricken, and it showed on her face.
“I talked them out of it,” Susan said. “I bought you some time to do damage control. At least a day.”
“A day?”
“Hey, it’s better than nothing. A lot can happen in a day on an investigation like this. Who knows, you could have the Butcher locked up by tomorrow.”
“Susan, this is really stupid. The Clyde Williams thing is a distraction manufactured by the media. He didn’t kill anybody.”
“People can surprise you,” Susan said with a shrug. “But Clyde’s guilt or innocence isn’t the point. The front office knows Target News is a bunch of tabloid crap. The content of the story didn’t upset them as much as the fact that they got blindsided. They need controversy fronted to them ahead of time, before they see it live at six.”
“I understand.”
“Good, then we’re on the same page. Here’s the plan. I go to them with the Bernadette explanation, then we—”
“No. I’m not down wit
h that.”
“I don’t know why you’re so devoted to her,” Susan said, exasperated. “She’d feed you to the lions in a heartbeat if it suited her purpose.”
“Maybe you’re right, but Bernadette’s done a lot for me. Besides, she’s getting married tomorrow.”
“Yeah, poor Vito.”
Melanie and Susan looked at each other, at an impasse.
“May I speak frankly?” Susan asked finally.
“Of course.”
“I have an ulterior motive here that you should know about. I plan to be chief of this unit once Bernadette’s gone, which may be sooner than anybody expects. And I want you as my deputy. That ain’t gonna happen if we don’t fix this little dustup.”
“I’m flattered. But why would you want me for deputy instead of Brad Monahan? You guys are such good friends.”
“I love the Bradalator, but I don’t trust him to watch my back. He’d be too busy scheming to get my job. You, on the other hand, would be an awesome deputy, and as you’ve just demonstrated, you’d be loyal to a fault. So what do you say?”
“I’m still not tattling on Bernadette.”
“I’ll try my best to find a way around it, scout’s honor, but you’ve got to give me some latitude to work here. There’s something else you need to focus on if you want to redeem yourself with the front office.”
“What’s that?”
“Like the man said, Clyde Williams is holding a news conference tonight after his big fund-raiser. On the steps of the Met, surrounded by his glitterati contributors no less. You need to find out what he’s going to say, so we’re not caught off guard again.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“You could try asking him.”
“He threw me out my ear just a few hours ago.”
“I trust you to overcome whatever hard feelings might exist and get Clyde to spill his guts.”
“What about the ethical implications? Clyde is a suspect. How can I beg him for a favor like that?”
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