Cover-up

by Michele Martinez

  “Rough night?” he asked, smiling as he took in her bed head and swollen eyes.

  “I was nervous. I didn’t sleep well. I don’t know whether you were briefed, but the man who threatened me is extremely dangerous.”

  “Sure, but you were in good hands. The agent who just left struck me as extremely competent.”

  “You met Tim Crockett outside?”

  “Crockett? No. He said his name was Dan O’Reilly.”

  Melanie stared at him in stunned silence.

  “May I come in?” Terrozzi asked finally.

  “Oh. Sure.”

  Melanie held the door open. She told Terrozzi where to find the coffee, and turned away to go shower and dress.

  “Uh, Miss Vargas?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “What’s that in your pocket?”

  She looked down. A blush started on her cheeks because she thought he was asking about the panties, but his gaze was fixed on the handle of the Beretta protruding from her bathrobe pocket.

  “That’s my gun,” she said.

  “Uh-uh.” He held out his hand. “Hand it over.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you qualified with that thing?”

  “I go to the range,” Melanie said indignantly.

  “What, like once a month?”

  She shrugged. It was less than that, actually. A lot less.

  “I can’t protect you if I’m worried about you whipping out a pistol and plugging me one by mistake,” Terrozzi said.

  Melanie hesitated. She believed this guy was indeed her protection detail; she just didn’t trust him to protect her. She toyed with the idea of keeping the gun and getting rid of Terrozzi instead.

  “That’s not me talking,” he said, seeing her hesitation. “It’s U.S. Marshal’s Service protocol. ‘The protectee should remain unarmed unless the protectee is duly qualified and authorized to carry a firearm.’ From what my supervisor told me, which was based on what your supervisor, Mr. Sonschein, told him, you’re not authorized to carry a firearm as part of your duties. Am I right?”

  The weight of all those supervisors was too much for Melanie to fight. Reluctantly, she handed Terrozzi the gun.

  “But I want it back whenever you’re not with me,” she insisted.

  “I’ll always be with you. From what I understand, I’m stuck to you like glue till the Butcher’s caught. We’re gonna become very good friends.”

  Time to solve the damn case, Melanie thought.

  42

  Melanie and Mark Sonschein sat in his office, strategizing their next move.

  “We have PC to search Welch’s office, because that’s where the Butcher sent the e-mail from,” Melanie said. “But we don’t have an eyewitness who can finger Welch and say he sent the e-mail himself. Without that, Welch can argue somebody else got access to his office computer and did the deed. Bottom line, we don’t have enough to arrest him for murder.”

  “One fallback position would be to get the search warrant for now, and hope that a search of his office turns up proof of the murder,” Mark said.

  “And if it doesn’t? Welch is still on the street. You’ve seen the crime-scene photos from the Shepard murder.”

  “Yes, and I’ve read those sickening e-mails he sent you. I want the Butcher locked up as badly as you do. Isn’t there something else we can arrest him for?”

  “Conspiring to burglarize Suzanne Shepard’s apartment,” Melanie said. “But my proof is weak. I have the testimony of one cooperator with no corroboration. Miles Ortiz. He’s got a sheet as long as your arm, and he looks the part, too. I don’t see putting him up against a supposedly reputable doctor. Not with Boutros on duty.”

  “She’s still on?” Mark asked, frowning.

  “Until tomorrow morning. We could wait.” Judge-shopping was an honored tradition in their office.

  “Who’s on duty if we wait?”

  Melanie flipped through the court calendar she had Scotch-taped to the inside of her official U.S. Government Planner. “Warner. Even worse.”

  “Hmm.” Mark steepled his fingers and thought. “Reputable doctor. But he’s not, right? Didn’t you say Welch is a fraud?”

  “Yes, but practicing medicine without a license? We can’t get him remanded on that,” Melanie asked.

  “I’m not suggesting we arrest him for practicing medicine without a license. I’m saying maybe the atmospherics make it easier to convince a judge…” He trailed off.

  “What, to issue a warrant for murder when we don’t have the proof to back it up? I don’t think so. Not Boutros. And the detective who was researching Welch’s background is on a plane on her way back from Tulsa. I won’t even have proof of the false name in my hands until late tonight or tomorrow morning.”

  They were both silent for a minute.

  “Did you find out anything more about that old murder case in California, the one your cooperator said was discussed in the file he stole?” Mark asked.

  “We came up with twenty-seven known murders of strippers in the relevant time period,” Melanie said. “We’ll have Ortiz look through them and see if he can pick out the right one, but it’s a long shot. Besides, somebody else was convicted for the murder that Ortiz saw in the file, so we’re not even sure what the connection is.”

  “What a mess,” Mark said.

  They were silent again.

  “You know what I think we should do?” Melanie asked.

  “What?”

  “Set up a drug buy. Ortiz puts Welch in a major methamphetamine conspiracy. If Welch were to deliver drugs, not only could we get him remanded, but I bet we could get warrants for his apartment as well as his office.”

  Mark nodded. “That’s by far the best idea I’ve heard. Do it.”

  You gonna lock Welch up, no problem,” Miles Ortiz said. “I know the man. Show him the green, and he come running.”

  Melanie had authorized Detective Julian Hay to requisition twenty thousand dollars in marked buy money. It sat in an open metal briefcase on Melanie’s desk, bundled with rubber bands and arranged in neat stacks. Miles lifted up his Flex Gym T-shirt, exposing coffee-colored skin and rippling abs. Julian’s face was set in deep concentration as he taped a recording device securely to Miles’s lower back. Julian knew about the e-mail, and knew that Benedict Welch was suspected of being the killer they were calling the Central Park Butcher. But there was no need to tell Miles that.

  “He’s really gonna do this out in the open in a restaurant?” Julian asked dubiously, tearing another piece of black electrical tape from the roll.

  “He ain’t got no fear,” Miles said. “Never been caught before, never tasted the inside. He get his kicks selling drugs in front of people’s eyes and they don’t know what’s happening.”

  “Brazen,” Melanie said. “The restaurant he picked is a real Upper East Side haunt. Ladies who lunch. Or brunch, I should say. It’s Sunday.”

  Miles fingered a cigarette and tucked it behind his ear like a pencil.

  “Good to go,” Julian said, straightening up. “Let’s move.”

  Melanie and Julian accompanied Miles uptown. They planned to sit in Julian’s undercover vehicle and listen to the buy unfold over the wire. Melanie would decide when they had enough evidence to make an arrest. The car was a late-model black Lincoln Navigator with custom rims and ultradark tints. It had been seized from a Brooklyn kingpin whose current address was twenty-three-hour lockdown at FCI-Florence. The Navigator was a perfect ride for a drug buy on Queens Boulevard, but it stuck out among the more discreet vehicles of the Upper East Side, so Julian dropped Miles down the block from the meet location and found an inconspicuous parking spot on a side street where they still had a decent view.

  The location Welch had chosen was a posh sidewalk café with marble-topped tables set up outside a Madison Avenue bistro. Miles sat down alone at a table to wait for Welch to arrive. Julian tuned his two-way radio to the right frequency and tested to make sure he was pi
cking up Miles as well as the other agents, who were stationed in the surrounding blocks awaiting the arrest signal. When he was done with that task, he took some test shots with the large digital camera that hung around his neck.

  Within minutes, a white Escalade pulled up beside the Navigator and parked them in, looking every bit as glitzy as they did.

  “Shit, they’re blocking my view,” Julian said, lowering his camera. “That’s Kim Savitt’s car,” Melanie said. She hunkered down in her seat, until she remembered they had dark tinted windows. Kim would never spot her.

  “Kim Savitt’s here?” Julian asked.

  “Yeah, but why, I haven’t a clue. Maybe she gave Welch a ride?”

  “I never met her. When she hooked me up with Miles, I spoke to her over the phone. I hear she’s something to see.”

  The driver came around and opened Kim’s door, holding out his hand. A slender, tanned arm reached out. Long, bare legs ending in strappy sandals stepped to the pavement, followed by a lithe torso and big chest, wrapped up in the most casually chic little cotton mini-dress. Acres of blond hair completed the effect.

  “Whoa,” Julian said. The exclamation sounded involuntary.

  “Who invited her?” Melanie demanded.

  “I don’t know, but I’m not complaining. Damn, I love my job.” And he lifted his camera and snapped a picture.

  “Miss Hottie could queer our deal, Julian. Miles hasn’t seen her since he found out she set him up. He’ll go ballistic. Hand me that radio, quick.”

  The Escalade pulled away, revealing Kim in the process of crossing the street toward Miles. She saw him and stopped dead in the middle of Madison Avenue. Even from this distance, Melanie could tell that Miles looked stricken. A bus was bearing down on Kim. She sprinted out of the way, heading toward the café, her yellow hair streaming behind her.

  “Hurry, before Kim gets to the table,” Melanie snapped.

  Julian picked up a transmitter attached by a spiral cord to the radio and thrust it into Melanie’s hand.

  “Push this and talk,” Julian said.

  “Miles, it’s Melanie. Do you read me?”

  “Yeah.” Miles spoke without moving his lips. If you didn’t know he was talking into a tiny transmitter hidden in his shirt, you never would have guessed.

  “You see Kim coming, right? Act like nothing is wrong. If you confront her, she’ll know you’ve been arrested, and it could blow the whole buy. Do you understand?”

  “The fucking bitch. I’m gonna fucking crush her.”

  “Miles, this is important. You’re looking at ten to life. You need this deal to go through or you’ll end up rotting in jail. Do what I say,” Melanie insisted.

  The radio crackled. “Detective Jarmin, over. I got the eyeball. We got Benedict Welch on set. He’s crossing Seventy-fourth, heading south on the west side of Madison. Subject is on foot, pulling a large black roller suitcase.”

  Julian motioned for Melanie to hand him the mike. “Roger that,” he said. “Subject is approaching. Maintain radio silence until you hear the arrest signal.”

  Across the street, Kim was leaning down and kissing Miles on the mouth. His hand rested nonchalantly on her ass, like nothing bad had happened between them.

  “Atta boy, Miles,” Melanie whispered.

  “What up, baby?” Miles said to Kim.

  “You’re not mad, are you?” Kim asked. She sat down across from him.

  “Mad about what?”

  “Uh…just that I haven’t called you.”

  “You said you wasn’t gonna call, remember? Did you come here to see me? I’m supposed to be meetin’ Dr. Ben. We got business.”

  “Ben told me to meet him here. He never said you were coming, though. I’m surprised to see you.”

  “I bet you are,” Miles said, a note of bitterness creeping into his tone.

  Kim looked at him appraisingly. “I wonder what Ben was thinking, not mentioning it,” she said.

  “Ask him. Here he comes now.”

  As Welch approached, Julian’s camera clicked repeatedly. Kim signaled a waiter and demanded a bottle of Pellegrino and some menus immediately. Welch sauntered into the sidewalk café pulling the roller bag after him. He did some fancy footwork to maneuver the bulky suitcase between the tables and up to the one where Miles and Kim sat. The waiter glanced at the suitcase with an annoyed look. Welch rapped Miles on the back hard enough to send a loud whooshing sound over the air, which hurt Melanie’s ears.

  “Hello, Miles. And beautiful Kim. Don’t get up.” Welch sat down between the two of them, his bleached yellow hair competing with Kim’s in dazzling display. After hearing Pauline Estrada’s report from Tulsa, Melanie had decided that Welch must have dyed his hair blond and started wearing those weird violet-blue contact lenses in order to better match the physical characteristics of the real Benedict Welch. Now that she knew he was the Butcher, it made sense that he needed a false identity, a place to hide out between crimes.

  “So Miles and I were sitting here wondering why you invited us to lunch without telling the other,” Kim said.

  “What’s the problem? You like each other, don’t you? You certainly give that impression,” Welch said.

  “I don’t want to discuss business in front of a lady,” Miles said.

  “We don’t keep secrets from Kim,” Welch said, unfazed. “We’re among friends. Now, why don’t we order some lunch?”

  Back in the car, Julian turned to Melanie. “I know why Welch brought Kim,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “She’s his insurance policy. Welch is hinked up. He’s suspicious of Miles for some reason, and he thinks he’ll be safer with Kim around.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right. He’s in for a shock. I’m sure Miles would love nothing better at this moment than to bring the cops down on Kim’s head,” Melanie said.

  “And the press,” Julian said.

  They went back to watching. Welch was reading the menu. Miles was glowering at Welch. Kim was looking back and forth between the two of them, frowning. Julian took a few pictures of the assembled group. Just when things were starting to drag, and Melanie was seeing why agents always complained that surveillances were boring, Miles got to his feet in a pretty good imitation of fury. Welch looked up from his menu, alarmed.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re stalling!” Miles said.

  “No, I’m not. I’m hungry.”

  “I didn’t come here to socialize. I got my people waiting for this delivery. You got the pills. I got the money. So let’s do the deal.”

  “Will you be quiet? Someone will overhear.” Welch scanned the restaurant nervously.

  “Why you set the hand-to-hand up here, then? I could’ve just as easy come to your office.”

  “What is going on?” Kim demanded. “If you guys are doing what I think you’re doing, I’m leaving.”

  “Kim, if you walk out, you will draw even more attention to yourself,” Welch said.

  “I don’t appreciate being put in the middle like this. If Drew finds out I was in on some drug deal, he’ll crucify me in court.”

  “Oh, I forgot. You’re all about keeping your money. God forbid somebody else should make some,” Welch said.

  “I don’t care what you do, but don’t mix me up in your shit,” she said, standing up.

  “Sit down.” Welch grabbed her arm and jerked her back to her seat.

  “Hey, watch it!” Kim exclaimed, rubbing her arm.

  “Shut up, both a’ you,” Miles interjected in a calming tone. “Let’s make the trade and get this over with, so Kim can rest easy.” He leaned over, sinking temporarily from view, and came back up with the silver metal briefcase that held the money. As Miles placed the briefcase on the table in plain sight, Julian furiously snapped photographs.

  “Count it,” Miles commanded. “It’s all there. Now I need to see the product.”

  “I can’t count the money here,” Welch said, glancing over his shoulder. �
��Too risky. And I’m not letting you count the pills. You couldn’t possibly, anyway. There are thousands of them.”

  “This is so fucked up,” Kim said, dropping her head into her hands. “I can’t believe you clowns are putting me in this position.”

  “Shut up,” Welch commanded. “Miles, what happened to the trust? We’ve never counted money or product in public before. I’m telling you, this is not smart.” He was talking in a low voice, but urgently enough that the wire picked him up loud and clear.

  “I was told to check the merchandise. There was a problem last time,” Miles said.

  “What problem? You never mentioned any problem before.”

  “I don’t know. But if my shorties from the Houses say to check, I’m gonna check. Or else I walk away with the money right now and this shit is off. Permanently.”

  Welch stared at Miles with a slackened jaw, then blinked. “The suitcase is beside you,” he said, sighing. “Tip it over, and you’ll be able to open it without having everything spill out. Just please, try not to let people see.”

  Miles did as Welch directed. Julian snapped photos of him bending over, opening the suitcase, and examining the contents. Kim stood up abruptly and backed away like she’d never met either of them in her life. She turned and broke into a trot. Miles raised his hand high in the air and gave the previously agreed-upon signal. Melanie nodded at Julian.

  “We got a positive visual on the drugs. Move in for the arrest,” Julian barked into the mike.

  He jumped from the Navigator and hit the ground running. Suddenly the block was swarming with well-built guys wearing jackets that screamed “NYPD” and “FBI” in big white capital letters.

  “Police! Don’t move!” somebody shouted.

  “You’re under arrest! You’re under arrest!” somebody else yelled.

  Welch was facedown on the sidewalk being handcuffed. Miles Ortiz had been hustled away and was no longer in sight. Kim Savitt raced down Madison Avenue faster than Melanie had ever seen anybody run in high heels. A tall agent sprinted after her, his legs pumping, and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her into the air kicking and flailing. After a brief struggle, the agent handcuffed Kim, his walkie-talkie picking up her curses and screams and carrying them over the airwaves to Melanie, who could hear them anyway from a block away, they were so loud.