Cover-up (15 page)

“The box was hand-addressed in permanent marker to the location given on the Internet for people who want to contact Suzanne,” Tony said. “No return address, as you would expect. It was postmarked from a facility on Roosevelt Avenue in Flushing, Queens, at three seventeen
P.M.
last Thursday, which was June first. It arrived here the next afternoon and was clocked into our mailroom at approximately four nineteen. We have a whole protocol for X-raying packages, but the X-ray machine was down, so the package wasn’t screened until Monday morning.”

“You mean, just this past Monday?” Melanie asked.

“Yes.”

“And Suzanne was murdered Wednesday night.”

“Right. Again, close timing. Monday morning, the screener detected suspicious contents. He called me. I took custody of the package, brought it here to my office, and performed a secure opening. One of my security officers witnessed the procedure and took these pictures.”

“Was Suzanne present when you opened the package?”

“No,” Tony replied. “We perform the secure opening wearing hazard suits, just in case the contents are dangerous. Then we inform the addressee and ask if they want to inspect it. She didn’t want to. I can’t blame her.”

“But she knew about it?”

“Oh yes. In fact, Suzanne and I had a long talk about whether she should get protection, because I was so convinced the threat was real. I kick myself for not insisting. See, Suzanne had always attracted a large amount of hate mail. People get numb to it after a while. I couldn’t make her take this seriously.”

“You actually suggested she hire protection? Like a bodyguard?” Melanie asked.

“Yeah. But I didn’t push, you know. I wish I had. Maybe this Butcher prick could’ve been stopped.”

“If she got so much hate mail, what made this threat different? I understand the dog excrement is disgusting, but—”

“It wasn’t the excrement that worried me, it was the picture,” Tony said.

Melanie picked up one of the photographs showing the torn-up pieces of paper and examined it. “What about the picture? I can’t tell from this photo. Did it have a message written on it or something?”

“No. The scary thing was that the guy actually took it.”

“Took what?”

“The person who mailed the box took this photograph.” He plucked up another photo and handed it to Melanie. “Here’s a picture of the ripped-up pieces taped back together. You can see, it’s a photograph of Suzanne having dinner at an outdoor café near her house. It was taken the night before the box was mailed, literally an hour after the Clyde Williams segment aired.”

“An hour?”

“Yes.”

“Seth Parker never told me about this,” Melanie said. “I assumed the ripped-up picture had been taken from a magazine or something.”

“If it had, I wouldn’t’ve been so nervous, and I wouldn’t be so convinced now that this threat is connected to her murder. But, you see, we know that whoever sent the box was actually
following
Suzanne.”

The hair stood up on the back of Melanie’s neck as she remembered the guy on the subway and the strange e-mail she’d gotten.
I’m watching you,
it had said. Melanie was so busy doing her job and so jaded after four years in law enforcement that she hadn’t taken those small events very seriously. Wasn’t that the mistake Tony Mancuso was describing, the mistake Suzanne Shepard had made that resulted in her death? Melanie decided she would mention the e-mail and the guy in the hooded sweatshirt to Dan and see what he thought.

Her eye fell on one of the photographs lying before her on the desk. “This is a picture of the box before it was opened?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Melanie scrutinized it closely. “It’s sealed with clear plastic packing tape,” she said.

“Does that mean something to you?” Tony asked.

“Suzanne was gagged with very similar tape.”

“There you go. Another fact to support my theory.”

“I need to have this tape analyzed to see if it matches,” Melanie said.

“Everything is off getting fingerprinted by a private lab we use. I can ask them to do a report on the tape also, unless you’d rather—”

“I want the FBI lab to do it.”

“Sure, no problem. Frankly, our lab is very professional, but they take a year and a day to do anything. I’ll get it back from them and deliver it to the FBI lab for you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So you’ve seen the evidence. What do you think? Do you agree with me now?” Tony asked.

“I’m still not convinced that Clyde Williams sent this box,” Melanie replied, “although I agree the timing is troubling and bears investigating.”

“What about the idea that the Butcher sent it?”

“That, I’m starting to believe. We have more work to do to establish the connection with certainty. But this box is going to turn out to be a critical piece of evidence.”

19

C
lyde Williams was on Melanie’s mind,
and not only because Tony Mancuso had convinced her that the threatening package was connected to Suzanne Shepard’s murder. At lunchtime, Melanie ordered in some pizzas and held a small team meeting in the war room. Lieutenant Jack Deaver, Dan O’Reilly, Detective Julian Hay, and Janice Marsh from the D.A.’s office were in attendance. Melanie tried to focus on details of surveillances and witness interviews, but the meeting was dominated by Lieutenant Deaver’s complaints about press coverage on the Clyde Williams issue.

“Am I the only one in the room who’s getting heat from the brass?” the bluff lieutenant asked. “I got a call from the deputy commissioner just half an hour ago giving me hell over the negative press on the Butcher case.”

“What negative press?’ Melanie asked.

“Where you been, Vargas?” Deaver said.

“Investigating the crime, not reading the papers,” she said.

“It ain’t the papers, it’s the TV. Listening to Target News, you’d think Clyde Williams was caught with the bloody knife in his hand,
and the only reason he ain’t locked up is because you’re in bed with his kid. Figuratively speaking, I mean. They haven’t actually suggested you’re bangin’ the Williams kid.” Deaver paused. “
Yet.
”

“There’s nothing I can do,” Melanie protested. “A full-scale investigation of an elected official requires clearance from Main Justice. My boss is dealing with Washington, and they’re slow as molasses. Once we get the green light, we’ll move full speed ahead.”

“How much longer are you planning to wait?” Deaver demanded. “The press is making a huge stink. It’s getting to the point that I got guys in my own chain of command asking if there’s special treatment here.”

“That’s no good,” Melanie said.

“
No
. It’s not.”

“Look, I’ll speak to Bernadette as soon as we’re done here. I’ll try to get authorization to ask Clyde if he has an alibi, at least. If he does, and we make it public, that should shut up the tabloids.”

The minute the meeting ended, Melanie kept her word and headed for Bernadette’s office. But when the elevator door opened on the Major Crimes floor, she barreled out so fast that she nearly knocked over her good friend Joe Williams.

Joe looked very much like his famous, handsome father, except smaller in every way. He was short and slight where Clyde was tall and robust. The charismatic, outgoing Clyde dominated any room he was in, while Joe came across as timid, an unsuitable trait in a prosecutor and one that had hindered his career. Joe’s best-known courtroom escapade was fainting dead away while getting screamed at by the nasty Judge Warner during his first month on the job. He’d never lived down that moment, nor the widely held—though incorrect—belief that he’d gotten his job through his father’s political influence. Joe had been overshadowed by his father his entire life, yet his response had been to become a better person for it—a more dedicated prosecutor, a more committed intellectual, a more loyal friend. Melanie couldn’t
stand the thought that her efforts might lead to his father’s arrest and therefore cause her friend pain.

Startled, Melanie said the first thing that popped into her head. “Joe, I thought you were on trial this week.”

“The jury’s deliberating already, so I’m on beeper. It was in front of Stanchi, a reverse heroin buy. The evidence is pretty weak, but at least she’s pleasant to appear before.”

“Definitely,” Melanie agreed, catching the elevator door as it began to slide shut. She opened her mouth then closed it again, wanting to say something about the Shepard case but knowing she shouldn’t.

Joe’s eyes seemed to understand and forgive all. He patted her on the arm as he stepped onto the elevator. “Hey, I know how much pressure you must be under on this Central Park Butcher thing. Don’t worry about me. Just do what you have to do.”

Which of course only made her feel worse.

20

B
ernadette authorized Melanie
to approach Clyde Williams with the limited mission of asking him whether he had an alibi. Because of the sensitive nature of the assignment, Melanie was instructed to bring witnesses.

Clyde Williams’s office was located on the first floor of a renovated brownstone off St. Nicholas Avenue in the Hamilton Heights section of Harlem. Melanie, Dan, and Janice cooled their heels in the reception area waiting for Clyde to finish a conference call. The room had hardwood floors and freshly painted white walls hung with public service posters and artwork from the local elementary school. It was dominated by an enormous campaign poster of Clyde from the last election, smiling his toothpaste-commercial smile. A receptionist and a press aide sat at nearby desks fielding telephone calls.

Melanie leafed through a day-old copy of the
Times
she’d picked up from the coffee table. They’d run a story on the Shepard slaying above the fold on the front page of the Metro section. On the morning after the murder, the
Post
and the
News
had gone with huge
front-page headlines, but when it came to the
Times,
front page of the Metro section was considered big coverage for a local crime story.

Janice was busy reviewing old segments of
High Crimes
on an iVideo player. She claimed to have fast-forwarded through sixty episodes in the past twenty-four hours, enough to script the show herself.

Dan looked at his watch. “Guy’s a city councilman,” he said, catching Melanie’s eyes. “You’d think he was the fricking president of the United States the way he’s treating us. What’s it been, half an hour now?”

The receptionist heard him, and she sent a huffy look sailing in his direction. She probably assumed Dan was some racist Irish cop who didn’t like being made to wait by a black man. Melanie, who’d carefully probed Dan’s views on such matters over time, knew this wasn’t true. Dan thought of himself as a working stiff. He didn’t take it well when anyone, of any race, pulled rank or treated him disrespectfully, and he really hated it when somebody slowed the pace of his investigation. The fact was, Melanie was getting pretty annoyed herself.

“How much longer?” Melanie asked the receptionist, an attractive woman in her fifties with a West Indian accent.

“I
really
can’t say. He’s
talking
to the mayor.”

“Ma’am, I understand that, but we’re investigating a brutal murder that took place in Central Park Wednesday night. The Central Park Butcher—perhaps you’ve heard of him? He’s at large on the streets of this city. If he strikes again while we’re being delayed here, you can imagine how bad that would look for the councilman.”

The receptionist appeared to weigh what Melanie said. “I can text him and remind him you’re out here.”

“I would appreciate that.”

As the receptionist turned to her computer, Dan winked at Melanie.

“Hey,” she said, “how’s your sick friend?”

He looked startled. “What?”

“I was calling around last night to check up on the Harris surveillance. Julian Hay told me you were visiting somebody in the hospital.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to get back to you.”

Their eyes held. He didn’t volunteer anything further, and since he didn’t, she felt she couldn’t ask. “That’s okay,” she said.

“Hey, I found something!” Janice exclaimed, ripping off her headphones. “Remember you asked me to look for links between David Harris and Suzanne Shepard, to figure out whether he had a reason to want her dead? Well, about two years ago, Suzanne did a segment on a couple of big-name New York City lawyers who were taking fat fees to advise clients on appearing before this business ethics review board that they actually served on. Clear conflict of interest, right?”

“Harris was one of the lawyers?” Melanie asked.

“No, but his boss, Stan Feinerman, was. The segment caused a minor scandal. Feinerman resigned from his position on the ethics board, and Suzanne made a fuss. Here, I’ll play it for you.”

Janice turned the video player so Dan and Melanie could see. On-screen, Suzanne Shepard was jogging backward in front of the imposing federal courthouse at Foley Square, trying to get a comment from a tall, bent man with a craggy face and silver hair.

“Mr. Feinerman, why did you resign?” Suzanne yelled, shoving a microphone at him.

“No comment,” Feinerman said, waving his hands as if to swat her away like a gnat.

“Leave him alone!” yelled the muscular man hurrying along behind Feinerman. The camera focused on his face for a brief moment. It was David Harris.

Janice paused the monitor at looked at them triumphantly.

“That’s
it
?” Melanie asked.

Janice shrugged. “It’s a connection. Why didn’t Harris tell us he’d met Suzanne? And under such adversarial circumstances?”

Dan nodded. “She’s got a point. Harris claimed he never met Suzanne, never even watched her show.”

“Maybe he forgot?” Melanie asked dubiously.

“Who’d forget something like that?” Dan asked.

“Then he lied. You’ve got him under surveillance, right?” she asked Dan.