Authors: Michele Martinez
“No,” she admitted.
“Did they catch him?”
“The man who shot my father? No, but don’t let that worry you. The city was different then. Rougher. There was more crime, fewer cops. And besides, my family was poor. We had no connections. Your mother’s murder is getting the best attention. That may not be
right,
but it’s true. We’ll find the man who did this. I promise.”
“Good. Because it’s the only thing I care about. That’s what I’m holding on to. The thought of seeing him locked up like some animal in a cage keeps me going. Do you think I’m bad for wanting that?”
Melanie put her hand on the boy’s head, as if to protect him. The roughness of his hair made her want a son.
“No. I think you’re human.”
S
eeing Charlie Shepard’s grief spurred Melanie on. She expressed her condolences to Lorraine, who seemed more interested in the celebrity chef on line behind Melanie than in hearing about the investigation, anyway. Then she hurried to the doorway, where she’d caught a glimpse of Kim Savitt’s dramatic hat making its exit. Manners be damned; Melanie couldn’t stand on ceremony if she wanted to get justice for that motherless boy.
By the time Melanie got out to the hallway, the elevator doors were closing. She raced down the stairs, reaching the ground floor in
time to see Kim stepping out into the blazing sunlight. Melanie tailed her south for half a block. Kim was heading for an enormous white Escalade idling on a side street. A handsome, dark-skinned driver wearing a business suit and mirrored aviators stepped smartly around the massive vehicle and pulled the rear passenger door open as Kim approached.
Melanie broke into a run. “Mrs. Savitt, wait!”
Kim turned.
“Melanie Vargas. I’m a federal prosecutor investigating the murder of Suzanne Shepard.” She flipped open her credentials.
“What’s that got to do with me?” Kim snapped.
“You’re involved in a relationship with Miles Ortiz. I need to ask you some questions about him. He’s a suspect in Suzanne Shepard’s murder,” Melanie said.
“Jesus.” Kim glanced at her driver, then over to the spot where a bunch of photographers congregated in front of the funeral home.
“From what I know of your personal situation, you can’t afford bad press,” Melanie said.
“Get in.” Kim walked up to the driver, placed her hand in his, and used it to hoist herself smoothly into the Escalade, quite a feat in heels and a tight dress. Melanie clambered in after her. Inside, the second row of seats had been replaced with two luxurious leather swivel armchairs that boasted acres of space between them and control panels in each arm that presumably operated the flat screen TV. The air conditioning combined with the tinted windows made the hot city feel suddenly a hundred miles away.
“Hamad, take me to Michael Kors,” Kim commanded as the driver took his seat.
Kim removed her big hat and smoothed her lemony-blond hair. Without the hat, she looked less extraordinary, more like a woman with a good body and an average face who’d made herself over at great expense rather than a true beauty. She seemed to be shrewd
without being intelligent, and the faintest trace of Jersey lingered in her voice.
The driver stared straight ahead as if he were deaf and blind, but that didn’t make it so. The last thing Melanie needed was a leak.
“Ask him to turn on some music,” she said quietly. “What I’m about to say, you’d prefer to keep private.”
“Hamad, put on your headphones,” Kim ordered.
The driver whipped out an iPod. Tinny music emerged from the headphones as he inserted them into his ears.
“Listen, I know you eavesdropped on my conversation in the elevator before,” Kim said. “No wonder you think I’m involved with Miles. But that was a different guy. I was talking to Miles
Drentell,
not Miles Ortiz. Miles Ortiz is just my trainer. I barely know him.”
“Mrs. Savitt, lying to a federal official in the course of a murder investigation is a crime. You could go to jail for what you just said.”
“How dare you accuse me of lying!” Despite her huffy tone, Kim looked frightened.
“I’m not an idiot. Miles Drentell was a character on
thirtysomething
. Besides, in order to prove you’re lying, all I have to do is subpoena your cell-phone records. They’ll tell me who you were talking to.”
“What if I
was
talking to my trainer on the phone? Big deal. You can’t do anything to me over that,” Kim insisted.
“You have a sexual relationship with Miles Ortiz, and he gives you drugs,” Melanie said calmly. “Miles broke into Suzanne Shepard’s apartment a week before she was killed. Your husband owns the building. The building has tight security, and under normal circumstances, Miles wouldn’t have been able to get in. But because of his relationship with you—well, you begin to see how bad this looks? You could end up implicated not only in a burglary, but in the biggest murder of the year.”
Kim hadn’t denied a single word Melanie said, but her eyes had grown wider as Melanie spoke.
“I have a daughter,” Kim said. “Abigail Rose. She’s three. She’s my mini-me. I dress her up like a little doll. Drew is trying to take her away from me. Not because he wants her, but because he wants to hurt me. It would be a big problem if I got arrested for anything. Okay? Can you understand?”
“I understand completely. I’m divorced, and I have a little girl, too,” Melanie said. And she did understand, enough to feel grateful that her own divorce had been amicable and swift, and that Steve hadn’t resorted to any nasty tricks.
“So you won’t arrest me?”
“Whether you get arrested or not is up to you, Kim. If you’re truthful and cooperative, there won’t be any need.”
“What are you asking me to do? You’re not going to make me talk against Miles, are you?”
“Why? Are you afraid of him?”
“No, but he
is
my friend.”
“How would you feel if you knew he was involved in a murder? Would you think of him as a friend then?”
“What men get up to in the business world is none of my concern. My husband develops waterfront real estate in Jersey. You have to bust heads to do that. Nothing shocks me, and I don’t judge.”
“You may have an incentive to look the other way so you can enjoy your lifestyle without guilt,” Melanie said, “but don’t expect
me
to. You facilitated a burglary by letting Miles into your building. I’m betting you knew what he was up to. As soon as I can prove it, I’ll arrest you.”
“You’re wrong, I swear. I’ll tell you the truth, okay? Miles came over on Saturday when the nanny took Abigail to music class. We did some yoga, that’s all. I didn’t know anything about him robbing Suzanne’s apartment.”
Melanie took out her notebook. “You admit Miles came over to your apartment that Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Around two, which is when Abigail has her class at Diller Quaile.”
“Where?”
“Diller-Quaile. It’s a music school, an important place to be seen for the pre-K set. Abigail has a class there every Saturday, and I get some ‘me’ time.”
“Was Miles carrying anything when he arrived?”
“He usually carries a Louis Vuitton messenger bag that some client gave him last Christmas. I’m pretty sure he had it with him then. He can fit a lot of stuff inside that thing, so for all I know, he made a stop at Suzanne’s on the way to my place. Once he’s past the doormen downstairs, Miles can go anywhere he wants. It’s not like they patrol the hallways.”
“If Miles committed the robbery first, there would have been a long wait between when the doorman called to announce him and when he arrived at your apartment. Is that what you’re saying happened?”
Kim didn’t answer.
“Well?” Melanie demanded.
“Not that I recall,” she conceded.
“What time did he leave?”
“Around six,” Kim said, flushing. “I know, you’re probably going that’s a long yoga workout, right? But I have some back problems. Miles is certified in deep-tissue massage, and he does that for me sometimes. Therapeutically, I mean.”
“At any time during the four hours he was in your apartment, did Miles leave?”
“Like leave and come back?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe. I fell asleep, and at one point I was in the shower, so I can’t be sure.” Kim paused, studying Melanie’s reaction, then added,
"Sleeping and showering are normal for me after a workout. So you see, he could have snuck out and done any old thing, and I wouldn’t have known. If Miles robbed Suzanne’s apartment, I didn’t have a clue. You can’t hold me responsible.”
Kim was so clearly lying about the nature of her relationship with Miles that Melanie found it difficult to believe she was telling the truth about anything else. But she wrote down everything Kim said anyway. At least she’d have a record of what the woman’s story was, so she could check up on it.
“Where was Miles on Wednesday night when Suzanne was murdered?” Melanie asked.
Kim shrugged. “Not with me.”
“Did you speak to him or see him at all on Wednesday?”
“We might’ve talked on the phone at some point, although I can’t remember what about. Nothing important. I was at Bliss all morning getting a facial and waxing, then I picked up Abigail from school and took her to my hairstylist to get her ends trimmed. At night, I went out with some girlfriends.”
“What drugs is Miles selling?”
“I don’t know anything about any drugs. The strongest thing Miles ever gave me was some echinacea when I had a cold.”
“You’re lying, Kim.”
“I’m in the middle of a custody fight. If I get high once in a while, you can’t expect me to admit it. I’d lose my daughter.” Kim looked at Melanie pleadingly. She seemed to be telling the truth, and for the first time, Melanie actually felt sorry for her.
“Michael Kors, ma’am,” the driver said.
They’d gone down Fifth Avenue, circled around, and ended up in front of a Madison Avenue boutique that was right near where they’d started. They could have walked there faster and saved the gas, but apparently walking in her Jimmy Choos wasn’t part of Kim’s lifestyle. Melanie’s momentary sympathy dried up and blew away.
“I can’t force you to talk,” Melanie said in a disapproving tone. “But don’t think you’re immune, Kim. I plan to look into these drug allegations, and if they’re substantiated, well, I would feel an obligation to let the family court know you’re using drugs.”
Kim blanched. “No, please.”
“It’s not a healthy environment for your daughter.”
“I never do anything in front of her! Please, let’s talk this over. I want to help. I want us to be on the same team. What can I do to show you that I’m acting in good faith?”
“You could start by telling the truth.”
“If I say I’m sleeping with Miles or getting stoned, I lose Abigail. Isn’t there something else?”
“Like what?”
“I know I said Miles was my friend, but you’re right, if he’s the Central Park Butcher, that’s not okay. I mean, I would be shocked, but people can fool you. Let me do something, anything, to help you out. Wear a wire. Whatever you want.”
Melanie thought for a moment. “There is something you can do. But it involves some risk to yourself.”
“What?”
“I need you to make an introduction. To introduce somebody to Miles, to vouch for this person.”
“Like a narc?” Kim asked.
“Honestly, Kim, it’s better for you if you don’t know the details.”
T
he director of security
for Target News was a big lug with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, a mustache, and a Vegas-style double-breasted suit. Tony Mancuso had an oversize personality that sucked the air out of his tiny office, but he seemed like a straight shooter, an old-time law enforcement guy with no ax to grind. That’s why Melanie was so surprised when he told her Clyde Williams, or someone close to him, had probably sent the threatening package to Suzanne Shepard.
“You don’t seem like the type to toe the corporate line,” Melanie said.
“Look, we both know Seth Parker is looking to take Williams down. I don’t give a rip about that. Parker’s a twit. His agenda has nothing to do with my findings. But facts are facts. The package was mailed right after Suzanne broke the Williams scandal.”
“Why would a successful politician do something so stupid?”
“Honestly, I don’t think it was Williams himself. I think it was somebody around him, somebody with a stake in him winning the election.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I reviewed the surveillance video from the post office where the package was mailed, and Williams isn’t on it.”
“You have the surveillance video? I need to see it right away.”
“No, I never had it. This U.S. postal inspector I contacted let me review the tape. I’ll give you her name if you want it, but it’s kind of a waste of time. The tape is inconclusive anyway, because the camera malfunctioned.”
“In what way?”
“The date and time stamp was turned off. I know what time the package was mailed, but it would take a video forensics expert to match that up with a specific point on the tape. The one thing I can say, though, is that Clyde Williams isn’t in any of the footage I reviewed, and I reviewed a mountain of it.”
“Walk me through the timing,” Melanie said. “When exactly was the package mailed?”
“The Williams story ran a week ago Wednesday, and the package was mailed Thursday,” Tony said. “I think that looks pretty bad. Bad enough to be worth investigating. Seth told me Williams’s son is a U.S. attorney. Not for nothing, but if you don’t look into this, Seth is gonna make a huge stink. I’m not saying that like a threat. I just thought you should know.”
“I
am
looking into it. That’s why I’m here. But I still find it hard to believe that Clyde Williams would be so reckless.”
“Let me brief you on the evidence. You’ll see, it’s more convincing than it sounds.”
Tony laid out a series of eight-by-ten glossies on the desk in front of Melanie. They showed a white box addressed in block capital letters to Suzanne Shepard, first in progressive stages of being opened, then with its contents laid out on a desktop. Several photographs featured pieces of excrement on a plastic backdrop, and others showed what looked to be torn scraps of colored paper.