Notorious (11 page)

S
aturday dawned with an
iron-gray sky threatening snow and little Maya snuggled up, warm and cozy, next to Melanie. Maya was an early riser, and once she'd graduated from a crib to a toddler bed, she'd developed the habit of tiptoeing into Melanie's room and falling back to sleep beside her mommy. Melanie hadn't done a thing to stop her. It was extra time together, and cuddly, precious time at that.

But even the sight of her daughter's sleeping face couldn't quell the anxiety Melanie felt upon waking up this morning. After reading about Brenda Gould's suicide, she'd lain awake for hours, turning the meeting with Brenda over in her mind, searching for any clue that the woman had been planning to take her own life—and finding none. Admittedly, Melanie was no psychologist, and she had no experience determining whether a person was suicidal or not, especially a person she'd only just met. Still, if Brenda Gould had been planning to kill herself, she'd put on a pretty good front. She'd appeared sad rather than desperate, reflective rather than grief-stricken—in short, relatively calm for a woman who'd just lost her husband. Did that mean
anything, or was it simply a mask Brenda had donned for the benefit of a stranger? Melanie reminded herself repeatedly that Brenda had a history of drug use, and that if the overdose death wasn't a suicide, it might be an accident. Yet Brenda had claimed to be clean, and she'd said it in a way that Melanie had completely believed.

It was this last factor that kept Melanie tossing and turning, remembering Brenda's warning that Evan Diamond was dangerous, playing with the Saint Jude's medal that Brenda had given her as a talisman against him. She spent hours kicking herself for not getting the details on Evan out of Brenda when she'd had the chance. But what could she do about that now? Was she supposed to start investigating Brenda Gould's death? She wasn't even allowed to investigate the car bombing because she'd been ordered to focus on the Briggs trial. She could only imagine what Mark Sonschein would say if she told him she wanted to spend her time figuring out whether Brenda Gould had committed suicide or not.

When she thought about explaining herself to Mark, she realized how far-fetched the whole idea sounded, and forced herself to get out of bed and get dressed for the office. It was Saturday, but it was also her ex-husband's weekend with Maya, which turned out to be a good thing for Melanie's schedule. The trial was bearing down on her so fast that she'd planned witness prep sessions for today. She had plenty of work to fill up Sunday, too, so if she'd had Maya all weekend, she would've been in trouble. As much as Melanie missed her daughter when she was with her daddy, she had to admit that the joint custody arrangement was a lifesaver sometimes.

Melanie woke Maya up, got her dressed, and made scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. The buzzer rang just as she was cleaning up the dishes.

“Daddy,” Maya said, lifting up her arms so Melanie could take her out of the booster seat.

“Yep. Hold on, sweetie.”

Once free, Maya ran to the foyer and stopped short at the front door. For security reasons, Melanie had her well trained never to open it on her own. That was a grown-up's job. With Maya jumping up and down beside her, Melanie peered through the peephole and saw her ex, gorgeous as ever with his rugged blond looks and his casually expensive clothes. The second she opened it, Maya raced past her and leaped into her daddy's arms.

“Hey, precious.”

“Daddy!” Maya looked into the hallway. “Where's Kate?”

Kate McCall was Steve's new girlfriend. The fact that her ex had started dating somebody seriously at the same time that Melanie had ended her relationship with Dan O'Reilly was one of the things that had made this winter seem so grim. When Melanie first met Kate, she'd envisioned all sorts of nightmare scenarios. Kate the Stepmonster convincing Steve to stop paying child support, talking him into moving far away so Maya would grow up not knowing her daddy, or worse yet, scheming to steal Maya's heart and replace Melanie in her daughter's affections. Not that she thought Steve would ever behave that way, but the presence of another woman in his life, and in Maya's, at just the wrong time made her panic.

Not only had none of those horrors come to pass, but things on the home front were actually better with Kate around. She was a responsible, intelligent, kind woman, a colleague of Steve's with an important job, who was excellent with Maya. Maybe Steve had grown up in the year and a half since Melanie had caught him cheating and thrown him out, or maybe Kate just tolerated less garbage than Melanie had. But having Kate in his life had settled Steve down. He was now handling joint custody in a mature, civilized way that made Maya's life better and Melanie's less complicated. Of course, Steve's new relationship meant that Melanie hadn't had her ex-husband to go crying to when she broke up with her boyfriend. But that was a good thing, right?

“Yeah,” Melanie said. “Where's Kate?”

“I was out late last night. Client dinner. So I never ended up going over to her place. But we're meeting her later at Serendipity.”

“Dipity!” Maya exclaimed. It was her favorite ice cream shop.

“Have a great time,” Melanie said.

She found herself hoping for his girlfriend's sake that Steve wasn't backsliding to his old ways. But he wasn't her problem anymore, and that was a relief. Steve was a good father, and he was even a good ex. But he hadn't been terrific in the husband department.

Melanie saw Maya out the door with lots of hugs and kisses, feeling a pang at letting the little one go. But she looked on the bright side. She had the weekend free to work, which she really needed to do.

M
elanie wasn't the only
government employee who worked weekends for free out of dedication to the job. Across her desk—which was littered with graphic photos of a young black man lying on an autopsy slab—sat Deputy ME Gary Nussbaum. Gary had performed the autopsy on Damond Purcell ten years earlier. Damond, also known as Little D, was the gangsta that Vashon Clark had gunned down on the orders of Atari Briggs. Melanie counted herself one lucky prosecutor that the ME who'd autopsied her victim was still on the job a decade later and available to testify. But then, this case was blessed that way. The star witness, the wiretap tape, the cop who'd responded to the crime scene, the ME who'd done the autopsy—everybody and everything had fallen into place so beautifully that she kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Melanie had been working with the ME for hours already, and they'd made good progress. Even better, he was going to make an excellent witness, lending some gravitas to her lineup. Straightforward, smart, bespectacled, and unassuming, he came across as a man of science with no ax to grind. Melanie planned to keep Nussbaum's
testimony streamlined and to the point. He'd taken fingerprints from Little D's corpse that had been used to make a positive identification. He'd photographed the body at various stages in the autopsy, and she wanted to introduce some of the photos. Getting the jury to understand the ugliness of death helped get them past the natural human reluctance to sit in judgment on another human being. She'd also ask Gary to testify about cause of death—gunshot wound to the head—and introduce into evidence the nine-millimeter bullet he'd removed from the decedent's brain. Another amazing stroke of luck, finding that bullet lodged inside Little D's head. A nine-millimeter was powerful enough that in many cases, all the ME had to work with to determine the caliber of the bullet was a gaping exit wound and rampant speculation. Here, they could prove the caliber and link the bullet back to that phone call where Atari had promised Vashon Clark a “clean nine.” A nice, neat case. So why did she have such a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach?

She was in midquestion with the deputy ME when her phone rang.

“This should be our lunch,” she said. They'd ordered sandwiches from the deli across the street half an hour ago.

“Great. I'm starving.” Gary looked at his watch. “It's two o'clock already. I have to leave soon.”

“We'll hurry,” she said, and picked up the phone. “Melanie Vargas.”

“You have a collect call from a correctional facility,” the automated voice said. “Caller, state your name.”

“Vashon Clark.”

Melanie accepted the charges. “Vashon, what's up?”

“Yo, I'm glad you in the office. I got a real problem in here.”

Melanie sat up straighter. “Somebody bothering you?”

“I heard some shit that don't sound good,” he said, lowering his voice. “Somebody asking questions about why I'm going to court so much.”

Just what she'd been afraid of. They'd handed Evan Diamond a witness list with Vashon Clark's name on it, and now Vashon was in danger.

“Who's asking questions?”

“Some asshole. I don't know his name, but I'm nervous.”

“Have you been threatened?”

“Ms. Vargas, when you inside, and somebody suggests you a rat, that is a threat. Lotta guys in here would kill me for the rumor alone, even if they don't know me, even if I'm not telling on
them
. And they'd be heroes for doing it. It's open season on rats in here, you feel me?”

“Okay, well…let me think a minute. I can have you moved to a secure floor.”

“Yeah, I know all about that. The rat floor. Once they take me out of general population, that's a confirmation for everybody to see. I might as well hang a sign around my neck.”

“The only other option is WitSec. Witness Protection. When they do it on the inside, it's totally secure. A whole separate facility. But even an emergency application takes weeks to process. We couldn't do it in time for the trial. And while the application's pending, they put you in twenty-four-hour lockdown. I can't prep you like that, and you don't see the light of day. Not even an hour for exercise.”

“Aw, man, that's fucked up. I can't handle lockdown.”

They were silent for a moment. Melanie thought about what it would do to her case to lose this witness.

“Vashon?”

“Yeah.”

“We have to go with option one. We can't leave you in general population with people starting to make noise about you snitching. We'll segregate you for now, put you on a floor with other cooperators. The only time you'll mix is when you're getting transported to court, but the transport vans are pretty secure. I'm less worried about
somebody reaching out for you then than in the shower or the cafeteria or something.”

“You're right. I'm vulnerable where I am now. I'm'a go with your recommendation.”

“Good. I'll put in the separation request right away, but it won't go into effect until Monday morning. Watch yourself in the meantime.”

Melanie hung up and turned to Gary Nussbaum. “Sorry, I had to take that. It was an incarcerated witness calling, and he's in danger.”

Gary looked at his watch. “Unfortunately, we're running out of time. I need to leave in half an hour to pick up my kids from my ex-wife. She lives in Great Neck. I was supposed to have them all day, so I'm on thin ice already. I can't be late.”

“Believe me, I know. My daughter's with my ex today so I can work.”

“You're divorced, too?” Gary asked, looking interested. “I noticed you weren't wearing a ring, but I figured there must be a boyfriend or something in the picture?”

His question was clearly meant to start a more personal discussion, but Melanie didn't take the bait. Fortunately, the phone rang. This time, it was the food. Melanie went out to the elevator to get it.

As they ate their sandwiches, Melanie started typing Vashon's separation request on her computer screen.

“I'll just do this separation request quickly,” she explained to Gary, “then we'll finish up and get you out of here. My witness is getting threats in the MCC, and I have to take them seriously. We had one murder on the case already.”

“Right, the lawyer, Lester Poe. I've been following that on the news. A colleague of mine did the autopsy. Just bits and pieces left of the poor guy. Apparently—”

Melanie held up her hand. “Lester was a friend of mine.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Terrible thing. And now his wife, too. I was supposed to be on duty today. I would have caught her autopsy, but I had to come here to meet with you.”

“Really? So who's doing it instead?” she asked, turning around in her seat to look at him.

“My friend Sandy Levine, who's subbing in for me.”

Melanie thought about Brenda Gould. How calm she'd seemed, how unlikely to kill herself. On top of that, Melanie was fairly certain Brenda intended to give the FBI the goods on Evan Diamond, which seemed inconsistent with being suicidal. The fact was, Melanie could mull this over all day and not get anywhere. There was no need for further speculation. A man sat before her who could answer her questions with one phone call. Guilty as she felt about using sex appeal to get information, Melanie knew that Gary Nussbaum would be happy to give her a peek at the autopsy report. All she had to do was ask.

I
t was Sunday, and
Melanie had witnesses lined up all day long like planes coming in to LaGuardia. But even though she was anxious to get to the office, and even though she wasn't interested in Gary Nussbaum—not like that, anyway—she couldn't bring herself to cut their breakfast short. That would be rude. The man was doing her a huge favor. Not only had he gotten a copy of the autopsy report on Brenda Gould, but he'd come out in the middle of what was turning into a major nor' easter to deliver them to her.

So she had a second cup of coffee, and a third. They chatted about their work, their backgrounds, and being single parents. In a moment when Gary was talking to the waitress, Melanie even studied his face and decided that he wasn't bad-looking if you put aside the mild eyes and soft hands and the fact that he cut up dead people for a living. Not her type, but not objectionable, either, or at least not hideous.

It occurred to her that this was what dating would be like. Right after her divorce, she'd fallen in a fast straight line into an incendiary love affair with Dan O'Reilly. She hadn't so much as stopped
for breath, and with Dan in the picture, there hadn't been room to think of anyone else. Then Dan was gone, and there was a stretch of time when she lay curled on her bed unable to move. The second she began to emerge from her cocoon of mourning, Lester had walked onto the stage, larger than life and ready to play a starring role. For so long, nothing had been ordinary. Melanie hadn't considered the possibility of being—well, underwhelmed.

The idea was so depressing that it finally got her to consult her watch.

“Oh, my, look what time it is. I have a witness coming in. I'd better be on my way,” she said, and pulled her wallet from her handbag.

“Here, let me get that,” Gary said, pulling out his wallet as well.

“No, no. We'll go dutch. You're my witness. Neither of us should buy anything for the other.”

He chuckled. “You're afraid the defense lawyer will cross-examine me about having breakfast with you?”

“Knowing Evan Diamond, he definitely will, and I'm not kidding. If I pay for your food, it looks like I'm trying to buy your testimony. If you pay for mine, it looks like we're on a date and you get accused of a different form of bias.”

“I do suffer from that bias, Melanie. I was hoping we could see each other again.”

“Oh.”

“If that's okay.”

“I'm flattered, and I had a lovely time this morning, but…I—I'm just not ready.”

“I thought you'd been divorced for a while now.”

“Well, to be perfectly frank…” She faltered here, because what woman was ever perfectly frank in giving the brush-off to a man she didn't find attractive? Melanie wasn't ruthless like that. “I'm seeing somebody,” she said, and shut her mouth.

“If I were a lawyer, I'd say you just made inconsistent statements, but whatever. I hope you'll think about it and change your mind. I really enjoy your company.”

“Thank you. I've enjoyed working with you, too.”

He laid down his money and pulled a thick cardboard folder from beneath his coat.

“Can't forget this,” he said, handing it across the table. “There's a copy of the report in here, as well as the autopsy photographs.”

Melanie flipped open the front cover and gasped. The photos were on top. The first one was a close-up of Brenda lying naked on the autopsy slab. Her eyes were open, her skin inert and blue, and there was a huge syringe sticking out of her rigid, rail-thin left arm.

“Oh my God,” she said.

“I would normally never do this,” Gary said, looking concerned, “but seeing as you were friends with the family, and given that the husband was deliberately murdered, I wanted to put your mind to rest that there was no foul play.”

“There wasn't? But look at this needle, left there like that. Isn't that strange? Don't you think somebody else could've—”

“Oh, no, this is common in OD situations. We see it all the time. It simply means she lost consciousness when the drugs hit her bloodstream and didn't have time to remove the needle. Given the massive dosage, that's to be expected.”

“Massive dosage? But why would she intentionally—”

“Let me explain,” Gary interrupted. “The preliminary tox screens, which are generally quite accurate, showed cause of death as acute opiate poisoning combined with a blood alcohol level of point two-seven. In plain English, she OD'd on a cocktail of booze and heroin.”

“Heroin. I'm shocked.”

“You must've been unaware that the decedent had a long history of heroin abuse. Overdose becomes increasingly likely as people con
tinue to use into middle and old age. The body's tolerance changes. Users need more to get high, but at the same time they're less able to metabolize the drug. That's what happened here. In terms of the massive dosage, her blood alcohol level tells us she was drunk when she shot up. She made a mistake and her body couldn't handle it, simple as that. No evidence of foul play. No evidence of suicide.”

“It was an accident?”

“That's what we believe. Though admittedly, it can be tough to sort out accident from suicide in a heroin overdose. Think about it. Gunshot, hanging, slitting the wrists, those are your clear-cut suicide methods. Even overdosing with barbiturates or aspirin is obvious, because you need to swallow a whole bottle to die, and that's tough to do by accident. But with heroin, the only way we can distinguish accident from suicide is if they leave a note.”

“And she didn't?”

“No.”

“And there was nothing unusual in the surroundings that suggested either suicide or…anything else?”

“A couple of minor finger marks on her wrists. Not nearly enough to amount to defensive wounds, but more like somebody took her hands too hard and she didn't resist. Other than that, zilch.”

“It was an accident,” Melanie repeated, shaking her head. “Oh, well. I guess it's time to put Brenda Gould out of my mind and concentrate on the trial.”