Notorious (4 page)

M
elanie Vargas had been
born and raised in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn, a largely Puerto Rican neighborhood that—at least when she was growing up there—had its share of problems with crime. When she was thirteen, her father had been shot before her eyes during a robbery in his furniture store. He'd survived, but he'd been a changed man, and he'd left them shortly thereafter to start fresh in Puerto Rico, with a different wife and new children. That was one way to get over a trauma—cut and run and never look back. His absence from Melanie's life in the years since had marked her indelibly, and so, in that sense, had the long-ago crime. It was a big reason she did what she did for a living. But on nights like this, she wondered about her career choice. She'd made it out of Bushwick, which hadn't been easy. Why the hell was she risking everything she'd worked so hard for by putting herself smack in the line of fire?

To avenge the death of a man she'd cared about, that's why.

Agent Papo West had given Melanie a lift home, but she'd declined his offer to come inside and do a security sweep. She lived on the eighth floor of a doorman building and felt confident that
nobody could get in without being noticed. Thankfully so, since her daughter was at home with the babysitter.

On the surface, all was serene in Melanie's apartment. But as she got out of her work clothes, she switched on the news, and every channel featured Lester's murder. The local network affiliates all had the surveillance tape from the alley by now. They were flashing the picture of the man in the dark jacket and asking the public for help in identifying him. Melanie felt her chest tighten and sank down on the edge of her bed. Would they find this guy? Was he out there gunning for her, or was he half a world away by now, on the lam? Wherever the bomber was, the bombing was here with her, and not only on the TV. She couldn't get the stench of blood and smoke out of her nose. That smell. She'd always remember the smell of Lester's death. Lester, her friend, her dear friend.

The babysitter called from the foyer, ready to leave, so Melanie hauled herself up to say good-bye. She emerged to the sound of her two-year-old, Maya, giggling as the nanny, Yolanda Fernandez, lifted her up for a hug and kiss.

Yolie was in her late forties, a mature woman, not a kid, and somebody who'd had a long career in child development. She had a graduate degree, and had worked as the director of a private nursery school in her native Venezuela. She'd come to the United States for the sake of her journalist husband, who'd fallen from favor with the government, but found that she couldn't get teaching work without going back to school, which she couldn't afford. So she was babysitting instead, pouring her substantial wisdom, expertise, and kindheartedness into taking care of Maya. Not only did Yolie—who had no kids of her own—adore Maya, but Maya loved Yolie back more than she'd ever loved any other babysitter.

It hadn't been easy to find a nanny as qualified as Yolie. When the last babysitter had had a child of her own and stopped working, Melanie was on the verge of a mini-breakdown, so convinced was
she that she'd never get a trustworthy replacement. She'd even considered quitting her job, but two things stopped her. The first was doing the math. Steve, her ex, was responsible with the child support; still, Melanie couldn't afford her mortgage if she quit her job. Second—and this had been harder to face—she didn't want to quit. Maybe if she'd still been married, but as a divorced woman, Melanie found the thought of giving up her career too scary. Besides, she loved the work. So she'd sat Steve down and had a serious talk with him, and together they'd found more money in the budget for child care. Melanie ended up forking over a hefty fee to the best employment agency in town. She'd run through seven other candidates before Yolie walked in the door. With her calm, intelligent demeanor, her kind eyes, her grown-up, motherly looks, Yolie was the one. Melanie knew instantly. And if she didn't do housework, well, Melanie could live with dust bunnies so long as her daughter was in good hands.

“Bye-bye time!” Maya was squealing.

Yolie had established a hello and good-bye ritual that Maya loved, which made transition times a lot easier.

“Bye, Maya!” Yolanda cried, a big grin on her face.

“Bye, Yolie!”

“Bye, Mommy!” Yolie said.

“Bye, Yolie,” Melanie replied.

But Melanie's heart wasn't in it, and Yolie was too observant not to notice.

“Are you okay?” she asked Melanie.

“Tough day at work. I'll be fine now that I'm with her.”

Yolie scrutinized Melanie like she might decide not to leave Maya with her. “You sure? Because I can stay awhile. Andres is working on an article tonight anyway.”

“Positive. I'm going to give her a bath. You go home and have a nice night.”

A few minutes later, Maya was splashing in the water playing with
her plastic doll. She was a perfect little doll herself—big brown eyes shining, chubby cheeks glistening—and she was the most important thing in Melanie's life. They had a deal. Melanie worked long hours, but when she got home, she belonged to Maya. Somehow, she found energy and cheerfulness to show to Maya, no matter what had happened at work that day. Unfortunately, today's events were presenting a bit of a challenge. Melanie sat on the closed toilet seat, calling on every ounce of concentration just to stop herself from staring off into space.

“Mama, see the baby.”

“She's beautiful, just like you,” Melanie said, injecting extra perkiness into her voice. Kids sensed from your tone if you were upset about something.

“Mama look, baby's swimming!”

“What a good swimmer she is. Mommy's going to get you swim lessons this summer, too. I bet you'll love it.”

As Maya played in the water, Melanie's mind started wandering, and a sigh escaped before she could catch it.

“Mommy's sad?” Maya asked, looking up. She reached out with a wet hand, and Melanie leaned over so Maya could pat her cheek.

“Nope, I'm happy when I'm with you,” Melanie said.

Reassured, Maya went back to her doll. But Melanie was fibbing. Of course she was sad. A few hours ago on the sidewalk, Lester Poe had been blown apart and Melanie's life had changed. She couldn't say for sure what she'd expected from that relationship, but she'd expected something. She recalled the dinner Lester had taken her to last summer. The restaurant was a sleek box carved from lavish materials. Copper floor. Teak walls. Snowy linen tablecloths laid with precious china and silver. And from every window, the lights of the city at their feet. She'd been nervous at first. Lester was famous, and besides, she wasn't quite sure what he wanted with her. Supposedly this was a recruiting dinner, but when they'd met—at a cocktail party
for a political candidate who'd been under investigation—she'd felt the chemistry. She suspected that his interest in her was more than professional.

“So I read your résumé,” Lester said as he filled her wineglass. “You know we both went to Harvard?”

“I did know. I looked you up in Martindale-Hubbell.”

“I hated it there. I was such a nobody.”

“I can't believe you were ever a nobody.”

“Well, at first anyway. A poor Jewish kid from Brooklyn trying to keep up with the rich prep school boys. It toughened me up. Sink or swim, and I swam.”

“It was still like that when I was there. Everybody else was so connected, and if you didn't fit in, too bad. People were
rich
. Me, I couldn't afford a sandwich in Harvard Square. I did dorm crew to pay my tuition.”

“You cleaned toilets?”

“Yeah, didn't you? I thought all the scholarship kids did.”

“Didn't need to. An uncle of mine was a bookie in Dorchester. I worked as a runner for him. It was very lucrative. Not to mention educational.”

Melanie laughed in astonishment. “You just confessed a federal crime to me.”

“Yes, but you can't touch me, darling. My uncle's dead and the statute ran a long time ago.”

“You had that all figured out, didn't you?”

“Of course. Otherwise, I'd never confess to a barracuda like you.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“I meant it as one.”

A silence fell. Melanie glanced down at her food, feeling suddenly shy. The waiter came to clear their plates away.

“So, I take it from how very articulate you are in English that it's your first language?” Lester said after a moment.

“I'm a New Yorker, born and bred. My father was originally from Puerto Rico. He came here as a child, but I've barely ever been there.”

“I'm disappointed,” he said in a joking tone. “I love Spanish. I'm taking a conversation course at the Spanish Institute.”

“Oh, I speak Spanish.”

“You do? Say something for me.”

“What?”

“In Spanish. Go ahead, let me hear you speak it. I can only imagine how much better it'll sound coming from your lips.”

“Tu me matas,”
Melanie said, laughing.

“Tu me matas
. You kill me, right?”

“Yes, very good.”

“Tu me matas,”
he repeated. “I like that.”

The waiter arrived with their next course: oyster tapioca in paperthin china bowls topped with tiny grains of caviar that glistened like onyx. Melanie stole a glance at Lester as he listened to the waiter's description. He had an amazing face—strong, intelligent, noble even. She was surprising herself by feeling drawn to this man, by flirting with him. She was divorced, but she wasn't single. Should she tell Lester that she was involved with someone? But how presumptuous; this was supposed to be a business dinner. It just didn't feel like one.

“So, enlighten me. What's this dinner about, anyway?” she asked, after the waiter left.

“It's about your future. About whether you'll come to work for me.”

“I already told you, I can't do that.”

“I thought I could change your mind.”

“Because you're so persuasive.”

“I've been known to be. The fact is, it would be a great opportunity for you. The cases are fascinating, and the money's—” He waved his hand at the room. “Look around. I don't know about you, but
growing up poor like I did, I care about coming to places like this. About nice vacations. The Caribbean in winter, the Hamptons in summer. Even if you're not a materialist, even if those things really don't matter to you, I think you'll find that freedom from worrying about money is a luxury in itself. You can't know how good it feels until you experience it.”

“I'm not rich, but I'm not starving, either. Changing jobs, well—I wouldn't do it for money alone. I go to work every morning and I'm where I belong. Everywhere else, I'm an outsider. That feeling of belonging—I couldn't give it up.”

“You'd belong working the defense side, too. It's the same work from a different angle. Representing the individual against the power of the state. David against Goliath. There's beauty in that.”

“Beauty maybe, but no truth. All the clients are guilty.”

“Most are. But some are guilty of less than what they're charged with. And a precious few are innocent.”

“So that's what motivates you?” she asked. “The innocent few?”

Lester grinned. “Me? No. I just like to win.”

She laughed. Their eyes held. She studied the lines around his, the snow white of his hair. They didn't make him any less attractive.

“Why me?” Melanie asked after a moment. “Why the full-court press to recruit me? I'm sure you have plenty of bright young lawyers beating down your door begging for work.”

“I do, but—” He hesitated. “It's the chemistry. We met and we clicked. Honestly, I thought you were extraordinary. That's the only explanation I can offer.”

“Thank you. I'm flattered, truly. But why didn't you just…” She hesitated.

“Ask you out?”

“Yes.”

“I considered it.”

“And?”

“I thought you'd turn me down. I didn't feel like hearing that I was too old.” He looked her in the eye. “But now I think I'm ready to go there. If that's a problem for you, I'll understand. You can be honest.”

There was a pause.

“I'm confused,” Melanie said. “Are you asking me—”

Lester's words tumbled out in a rush, as if he'd been holding them back. “If you don't want to work for me, fine. I'd rather date you anyway. Would you go out with me, or am I too old for you? And if I am, please, tell me the truth.”

He looked nervous as he waited for her reply.

“No, it's not that. I'm seeing somebody.”

“Ah, the FBI agent,” he said.

“You know about him?”

“Uh-huh. I have to confess, I asked around about you.”

“You snooped on me?”

“‘Snooped' is so pejorative. I investigated. Wouldn't you? We're neither of us careless people.”

Melanie sat with that one for a moment.

“Are you angry?” Lester asked.

“No, actually, I'm sort of flattered. What did your investigation reveal?”

“That your life is complicated. Recently divorced, young child at home. And the FBI agent is seen as a rising star but also…difficult.”

“Huh.”

“Is it serious between you and him?”

“It was. We'd been talking about getting married, but we've hit a rocky patch. At the moment we're taking things one day at a time.”

Lester went silent for a moment and seemed to contemplate the view. Then he smiled and gave Melanie's fingers a little squeeze. From that small gesture of resignation, she saw how much he liked her.

“I'll hope for your happiness, but if things don't work out, I want to be the first person you call. Now, tell me about the interesting cases you're working on.”