Cover-up

by Michele Martinez

  27

  The facade of the Metropolitan Museum of Art had recently undergone a cleaning that had left it draped in a material resembling cheesecloth for nearly two years, but the end result was breathtaking. Melanie paused at the bottom of the sweeping limestone steps that led to the main entrance of the museum, her eyes drawn upward to take in the magnificent sight. On this sultry Friday night, with spotlights trained on it, the Met glittered like a white diamond set against a purple velvet sky. Three enormous banners in jewel tones of red, blue, and green graced the facade, trumpeting the latest blockbuster exhibits. The gigantic structure stood sentry at the eastern edge of Central Park, and the scent of flowers and green leaves floated out to Melanie on the warm summer breeze. It would be easy enough to forget to look over her shoulder tonight, or to lose sight of the fact that she was here on serious business.

  Clyde Williams’s fund-raiser was going on inside. When Susan Charlton had instructed Melanie to intercept Clyde and find out what he intended to say at his press conference, they had both been relatively confident of Clyde’s innocence. But Melanie had since learned that the killer had gagged Suzanne Shepard with the same packing tape used to seal the box of dog excrement. This established an undeniable nexus between the box and the murder. The box had contained a photograph of Suzanne taken an hour after the segment about Clyde had aired, and it had been mailed the following day. Circumstantial, Melanie told herself. Perhaps only coincidence. Yet the inference was there to be drawn. There was at least some chance that Clyde Williams, the father of one of her best friends and many voters’ hope for the future of this city, had if not actually committed murder at least arranged for it to happen. Or that somebody close to him had. And not just any murder, but a horrific, ugly, brutal murder, the gruesome results of which Melanie herself had witnessed two nights ago, less than a ten-minute walk from where she now stood.

  Immediately inside the main entrance, velvet ropes channeled Melanie toward a long table used for searching bags. Several guards in blue blazers were stationed there. One of them, a tall Indian man, gestured at her warningly, saying something, but his words floated up and dissipated into the vast empty space between the terrazzo floor and the three formidable marble domes that topped the Great Hall.

  “I’m sorry?” Melanie said.

  “The museum is closed, ma’am.”

  “I’m here for the Clyde Williams fund-raiser at the Temple of Dendur.”

  “In that case, I need to see your invitation and picture ID,” the guard said, holding out his hand.

  “I forgot my invitation, but here’s a photo ID.” Melanie handed him her creds, crossing her fingers that they would impress sufficiently to do the trick.

  “If you don’t have an invitation, you’ll have to wait while I check the guest list,” he said, and walked away with her credentials.

  Damn, they were sticklers here. Sure, they were guarding world treasures, but did she look like an art thief?

  Melanie pulled out her cell phone, toying with the idea of calling Joe Williams, whose cell number she had in her directory. Surely Joe was inside and could come out and vouch for her. But she hesitated, thinking how awkward that would be in light of her mission. Yes, there was the part about asking Clyde what he planned to tell the media. But first, Melanie intended to inform Clyde about the packing tape, on the off chance that the news might shock him into confessing. If there was anything to confess.

  Before she could make up her mind, Melanie spotted the guard walking back toward her, frowning. Almost simultaneously she saw a familiar, slight figure crossing the cavernous hall. Chance had decided for her.

  “Joe!” she called, waving. He saw her and hurried over.

  “Melanie. I had no idea you were planning on coming tonight. Everything all right?”

  Joe searched Melanie’s face, and a great deal of information passed between them silently. He understood she was there for reasons that would upset him if he were fully informed about them. She wished she could tell him what they were, but she couldn’t. He realized that she was only doing her job, and he wouldn’t stand in her way.

  “This young lady is a friend of our family,” Joe said to the guard.

  “She’s a crasher,” the guard retorted.

  “If her name’s not on the list, then there’s been an oversight. She can come in. I’ll escort her back to the Temple,” Joe replied.

  The guard thrust Melanie’s credentials at her, obviously annoyed that his authority had been trumped. Melanie and Joe took off for the Egyptian wing, their shoes ringing out on the hard marble floors.

  “Once we’re out of range of that guard, you can go in on your own. I’ve got to find Rocky Davis so he can set up for the press conference. You know how to get to the Temple, right?” Joe asked.

  “Sure.”

  They paused in front of a set of ruined walls built from colossal marble blocks many thousands of years old, and Joe turned to Melanie.

  “I’ll let you go on from here, but there’s something I need to say first,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “Melanie, I haven’t interfered in your investigation. I’ve been silent because it’s technically the right thing to do, but what’s technically right can be wrong in your heart. I get the feeling that you’re here because you’ve got new information, information that reflects badly on my father.”

  As Melanie opened her mouth to reply, Joe held up his hand.

  “I’m not asking you to disclose any evidence. And when I’m done, you can report me if you feel you must. But hear me out.”

  “Go ahead, Joe. I’m listening.”

  “My father admittedly has some bad qualities. He’s arrogant and full of himself. He’s manipulative, as many successful politicians are. I’m even willing to buy that he’s a bit of a womanizer and hasn’t always been faithful to my mother. But what he’s not is a rapist and a killer.”

  Melanie nodded solemnly.

  “He’s just not,” Joe repeated. “I swear to you. So please, examine your evidence carefully before you accuse him of any crime. Examine your conscience. Otherwise you’ll risk damaging the reputation of an innocent man, possibly with very serious consequences for his career.”

  Joe’s eyes were haunted as he turned and walked away. Speaking out had clearly cost him a great deal.

  Watching her friend disappear into the next gallery, Melanie was at a loss. Joe had as good as invited her to rat him out for trying to influence her investigation, but she wouldn’t. He was one of the most ethical people she knew, and his words rang true: the technical rules didn’t always jibe with what was morally right. She’d have done as much herself for somebody she loved and believed in. The problem wasn’t that Joe had tried to sway her, but that he’d succeeded, at least partly. His plea had taken the wind out of her rush to judgment, and now the doubts were pouring in. What evidence did she have against Clyde Williams, really, beyond the mere coincidence of timing? A politician of Clyde’s skill and finesse wouldn’t resort to brutish murder to silence an enemy, even an enemy with a bully pulpit as powerful as Suzanne’s. Clyde’s reputation mattered to his career, and his career mattered to the future of the city. Melanie might be under pressure to get a killer off the streets, but that didn’t justify anything less than the greatest caution in investigating this important man.

  But wait a minute. Had Clyde put Joe up to making his emotional appeal? Was she allowing herself to be manipulated? It was like she’d told Dan the other night when she’d hesitated about going to the crime scene—big cases, big problems. And big confusion. As she stood at the entrance to the Temple of Dendur, surveying the lavish scene, Melanie felt less certain than ever that she could solve this case.

  28

  Even under normal conditions the Temple of Dendur was a sight to behold, its ancient stones bathed in sparkly light and set against a vast, slanting wall of crystalline glass. But decked out for a party, it was drop-dead gorgeous. A reflecting pool shimmered before t
he indoor plaza where the millennia-old structure had been reassembled, meant to evoke the Temple’s original location beside the Nile. Tonight, the pool was decorated with potted reeds and grasses that swayed in the breeze from the air-conditioning. The spaces between the Temple columns were filled with enormous arrangements of palm fronds and lilies. Altogether, the scene bore an uncanny resemblance to the Nile on a dazzling Egyptian afternoon. The crowd sipping cocktails on the marble plaza was just as glamorous as the location. Melanie recognized many famous faces—media people, politicians, even the stray movie star or two—interspersed with those who were lesser known but, to a person, beautiful and richly attired.

  Unsure of her purpose and feeling intimidated, Melanie hesitated on the outskirts of the party. The buzz of laughter and conversation washed over her, and a waiter walked up carrying a silver tray.

  “Champagne, miss?” he asked.

  Thinking she’d look less conspicuous with a glass in her hand, Melanie accepted. The champagne was pink. Holding it up to the light, she watched tiny bubbles race to the top of the fluted glass. The color suggested it would taste cloyingly sweet, but when she sipped, the champagne had a dry, delicate bouquet. Oh, to be rich. Maybe she should quit this crazy job and go to work for some sweatshop law firm that would pay her a ton of money. But then she thought of David Harris, how miserable he seemed, how shoved into an ill-fitting mold, and realized that wasn’t an option for her.

  The crowd parted, and—as if conjured by Melanie’s fleeting thought of David Harris—his lawyer, Bob Adelman, stood before her amid a group of powerful-looking people.

  “Bob!” Melanie said, startled.

  “Hi, Melanie. What are you doing here? Isn’t there a rule against you people contributing money to political campaigns?”

  “There is,” she said. “I’m here on business, not as a contributor.” Then, fearing he’d guess that she was here to investigate Clyde Williams, Melanie quickly changed the subject. “Didn’t you get my voice mail about your client’s DNA results?” she asked.

  “Yes, I did, and I was thrilled. Hey, Lester, don’t you love it when you stand up in court spouting off about how a guy’s innocent and it actually turns out to be true?”

  A man in a fancy suit turned around. He had a memorable face—strong nose, heavy black eyebrows, and shoulder-length, snow-white hair. Talk about famous. Bob Adelman might be revered within the New York legal community, but Lester Poe was as celebrated as lawyers got—nationally known, a cultural icon, a legend even. For decades, he’d defended the highest-profile and hottest-button criminal cases. He was a counselor to celebrities and royalty as well as to prisoners of conscience, and a fixture on all the talking-head TV news programs.

  “I only represent the guilty, Bob. Less stressful that way. Now, who is this lovely creature, and where have you been hiding her?” he asked, grasping Melanie’s hand in both of his.

  “Melanie Vargas from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Poe,” she said, amazed to be speaking to somebody of Poe’s renown.

  “Are they making prosecutors younger, Bob, or are we just getting older?”

  “Both!” Adelman said, laughing.

  “They’re certainly making them better-looking.”

  “Melanie’s trying to harass me about business while I’m drinking, Les.”

  “Hopefully that means she’s not here to fork over her hard-earned cash to Clyde’s campaign. The bastard has a big enough war chest already. Take my advice, dear. Keep the pittance they pay you and go buy yourself something pretty.”

  “I could do that. Or I could buy food,” Melanie said, smiling.

  Poe raised his glass. “Here’s to the government underpaying its lawyers. May they all see the wisdom of joining the defense bar.”

  “Hear, hear,” Adelman said.

  “When you get tired of the noble-suffering routine, Melanie, give me a shout. I can always use a smart young lawyer. And easy on the eyes doesn’t hurt, either. Oh, I see Katie Couric. I owe her a phone call. Do you have a card?” Poe asked.

  Melanie took a business card from her wallet and handed it to him. He put it in silver card case and withdrew one of his own, pausing to write something on the back. “The number I’m giving you is my private line, so you don’t have to go through a secretary. Give me a call. We’ll talk about your future,” he said, and walked away.

  “Am I dreaming, or did Lester Poe just offer me a job?” Melanie asked.

  “Actually, I think he was hitting on you. But with Lester, it’s always a fine line.”

  Melanie laughed.

  “On a more serious note, I did indeed get your message about David.”

  “I’m so glad I found you. The surveillance team was pulled off hours ago. I don’t like leaving Harris out there uncovered. Say the word and I’ll get protection assigned to him right away.”

  “Thanks for your concern, but we’re not interested in your help under present circumstances.”

  “Why not? The killer is at large, and they don’t call him the Butcher for nothing. He knows your client is a witness. It was in all the papers.”

  “My client is not a witness. He has no intention of testifying for the government as long as the obstruction charges stand.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Why would I kid about that? Dave doesn’t want to cooperate with you while you’re intent on a course of action that will destroy his legal career. Makes sense to me. Drop the charges and I’m sure I can get him to reconsider.”

  “But if he testifies, he’ll get credit at sentencing and do zero jail time.”

  “He won’t do time anyway, not in a million years. We both know that. The only thing he’s interested in from you is a complete dismissal. And fast, before it screws up his partnership chances.”

  “He did obstruct justice,” Melanie said.

  “So what? People do all sorts of things and never get charged. That’s why they call it prosecutorial discretion, kid.”

  “If the government makes the charges disappear, Harris loses credibility as a witness in the eyes of the jury. Sweetheart deals don’t sit well,” Melanie said.

  “That’s your problem, not his,” Adelman insisted. “I’m sure you’re a talented enough trial lawyer to make a jury comfortable with that situation.”

  “But what about the protection we can offer your client?”

  “Why does he need the government for that? Dave leads a very sheltered life. Doorman building, car service home, the whole nine yards. If he feels he needs something more, this town doesn’t lack for top-shelf protection services.”

  “I’m sorry Harris feels that way. But dismissal isn’t warranted here.”

  “We obviously don’t see eye to eye. When you’re ready to do business, give me a call. Until then, enjoy the party.”

  Adelman turned and strode away.

  29

  Melanie made a complete circuit of the Temple grounds, working up her nerve to approach Clyde Williams. Clyde stood in a prominent spot on the plaza surrounded by an ever-shifting horde of well-wishers and glad-handers. Melanie sampled the hors d’oeuvres along the way. She had to; they were too tempting. Tuna tartare with dilled crème fraîche, puff pastry filled with wild mushrooms, rare roast beef with wasabi cream on pumpernickel toast points. The food was delicious, but her excursion was nothing more than a stall for time, and she knew it.

  Melanie could no longer justify her presence at the party if she wasn’t going to do her job, so she climbed up onto the plaza and attached herself to the outer edge of the crowd that orbited Clyde. She began working her way inward until she could overhear the conversation—which was better described as a monologue, really, given that Clyde was the only person talking. Everybody else seemed to be there merely to laugh appreciatively at the proper intervals.

  “Back in ’79, President Carter had called up and asked me to lead a task force on urban renewal,” Clyde was saying. “We were looking for a public face, so
mebody glamorous for the press to latch on to. Even then, we understood PR. Well, one night I was out at CBGB for an aide’s birthday. The club of the moment, what Lotus is now. What Studio 54 used to be. But hardly my sort of crowd. There were, there were—”

  At that moment, Clyde’s restless eyes settled on Melanie, and he lost his place in his speech. Rockwell Davis was standing beside him. When Davis noticed his boss’s stumble, his glance sought out the point where Clyde’s eyes had fixed. As he caught sight of Melanie, Davis’s expression changed dramatically, and he slipped from his boss’s side, melting into the crowd.

  “It was a punk crowd,” Clyde said, recovering, “with a dangerous vibe, not my scene at all. But suddenly across the room I spot Debbie Harry. This was in Blondie’s heyday. She was a huge star and hot, mmmph, like you would not believe. About five minutes later, she sends somebody over with a note asking me to meet her in the bathroom. Being a single brother at the time, and club bathrooms being what they were in those days, naturally I had some exotic things on my mind. Here I am thinking me and Blondie—”

  Rockwell Davis suddenly materialized at Melanie’s elbow, giving her a start. He leaned down and whispered fiercely, “Who let you in?”

  “I need to speak to Clyde right away. Something big has come up. I’m sure he’d rather hear it from me than on the eleven o’clock news.”

  “He can’t talk to you now. Whatever you have to say, you can say to me. And outside.”

  Davis’s fingers closed around her arm with viselike strength. Melanie locked eyes with him.

  “Hustle me out of here against my will and not only will I make a huge scene, but you’ll face charges,” she said through gritted teeth.

  People were turning to look, and Davis saw that. Clyde was watching them out of the corner of his eye, and he raised his voice, racing to the punch line to distract his curious guests.