Most Wanted Page 8

  “You don’t?” His dubious look answered the question. “You get a weird vibe from her, too, huh?”

  “I know stonewalling when I see it,” he said.

  “You think she could possibly be involved in her husband’s murder?”

  “Is it possible? Normally I’d say hell yeah. I been on the job a long time. Find a body shot dead in a ditch, the first thing I do is check the spouse’s gun. Nine times out of ten, it still reeks of powder. But here we got reliable third-party information that some serious players are involved. Even if the wife would normally be a suspect, I don’t see Nell Benson associating with gangsta types, do you?”

  “Not hardly,” Melanie agreed.

  “Then again, she hinks me up big-time.”

  “Yeah, me, too, but could that be because she comes off as a rich, snotty bitch? I don’t want to be influenced by personal animosity.”

  Randall raised a skeptical eyebrow. He was one to trust his own gut.

  “Okay, then,” Melanie continued, “maybe Nell’s genuinely trying to protect her daughter. I mean, come on. The girl just got her fingers cut off by a psycho killer and watched her father get tortured to death. Put yourself in the place of a parent seeing a child suffer like that.”

  “Hadn’t thought of it that way,” Randall said, a catch in his voice. “Maybe you’re right.”

  The elevator reached the lobby. As the doors opened, she read in Randall’s face a lot of years of watching a child suffer.

  “How old are you, Randall?” she asked as they stepped off the elevator and headed for the exit.

  “Me? Forty-seven. But that’s cop years. Twice as long as regular-people years, so really I’m ninety-four.” He chuckled at himself, then turned serious. “But why do you ask, dear?”

  “I don’t know. Something in your face just now. You look like you’ve seen a lot.”

  He smiled wearily. “That I have. Including plenty of things I’d rather forget.”

  She wouldn’t ask him directly about his son’s overdose death. She didn’t feel right about that. He might be upset that Dan had told her.

  “The job must take its toll,” she said instead, as they emerged onto the street. “How long until you retire?”

  “Soon, very soon. And then you won’t be seeing me around here no more. I’m gonna take my pension and my savings, buy a little shack somewhere with a stream out back. Somewhere warm, good for my wife’s health. I’ll catch a fish for dinner every night, and she’ll cook it up just right.”

  “Sounds nice. Too quiet for me, but nice.”

  “Aw, you should give quiet a try. Good for the soul. Anybody looking in your eyes can see you need it as much as me.”

  She didn’t respond. She couldn’t, so taken aback was she that he saw through her like that.

  “Need a lift?” she asked after a silence. “I have an appointment at Benson’s law firm in twenty minutes, but I could drop you somewhere on the way.”

  “No thanks. I’m parked around the corner.”

  “Okay. Catch up with you later, then.”

  “Yup. You take care, child.”

  Melanie got into her car, turned on the engine, and pulled out into the stream of traffic. Because their conversation had taken a personal turn, Randall hadn’t questioned her further about her decision to back off on interviewing Amanda Benson. But, thinking about how little information she’d gotten from this visit, she questioned herself.

  10

  PRESTIGIOUS NEW YORK CITY LAW FIRMS, RATHER than bustling with commerce, tend to be hushed and reverent places. The attorneys who work in them neither remove their suit jackets nor raise their voices. And they prefer to think of their profession as sublime and intellectual, rather than the hard-nosed business it really is.

  Melanie recalled this attitude the moment she stepped off the elevator into the tasteful thirty-second-floor reception area of Reed, Reed and Watson. She’d spent two years after her judicial clerkship toiling in the silent law library of just such a firm, researching the fine points of reinsurance law and the Uniform Commercial Code. Occasionally the partners she worked for took her to lunch at some elegant old establishment. They all shared an uncanny ability to make restrained, polite conversation while revealing nothing whatsoever about themselves or their opinions. She never knew whether they liked her or merely tolerated her, or whether she had the slightest chance of making partner if she stayed for the requisite eight or ten years. The arctic chill of the place sent her fleeing the second she landed a prosecutor job.

  As she approached the prim receptionist seated behind an imposing cherrywood desk, she understood that Reed, Reed and Watson was exactly like her old law firm. Which meant that it was better defended against outsiders than an underground bunker. She could be certain of getting the runaround. Politely, of course.

  “Yes? Have you an appointment, miss?” the receptionist asked in a plummy English accent. She was of indeterminate age, wearing a high-necked silk blouse fastened with a cameo and half-rim glasses she peered over disdainfully. Once upon a time, Melanie might have felt intimidated. But now she had the power of the federal government behind her.

  She flashed her credentials. “Melanie Vargas, U.S. Attorney’s Office. I have an appointment with Dolan Reed regarding the murder of Jed Benson.”

  The receptionist sniffed pointedly, apparently finding the use of the word “murder” to be distasteful.

  “Very well, then, I’ll announce you. Please have a seat.”

  She gestured toward a nearby grouping of sofas and armchairs, impeccably upholstered in quiet shades of beige. A large oil portrait of a man dressed in the style of a century earlier dominated the sitting area. Melanie walked over and studied it. According to the tiny brass plate affixed to the gilded frame, it depicted one George Dolan Reed, founder of the firm. Presumably an ancestor of the man she’d come to see, with the steely eyes and Roman nose of a robber baron. Melanie stood gazing at the painting with her back to the receptionist, trying to overhear what the woman was saying into her wireless headset. The plush carpeting absorbed most of the sound. Melanie made out her own name and Jed Benson’s, but little else. A young woman in a pink suit strolling through the reception area stared at Melanie searchingly, then moved on.

  “Ms. Vargas?” asked someone close behind her.

  Melanie whirled around. The woman who’d spoken was perhaps in her fifties, with a handsome face and matronly figure, wearing a tweed suit and low-heeled pumps.

  “Yes?”

  “Mary Hale,” the woman said in a composed voice, extending her hand. Melanie shook it and winced. The woman’s hands were meaty and callused, with one helluva firm grip.

  “I’m a bit confused, Ms. Hale. My appointment is with Dolan Reed.”

  “Mr. Reed is our managing partner. As you can imagine, he’s extremely busy. He asked me to handle this matter, since I’m on the assignment committee. I assure you, I’m quite familiar with Jed Benson’s cases.”

  She started off down the adjoining hallway, leaving Melanie no choice but to follow. Just as Melanie had anticipated, the runaround. Naturally Dolan Reed would decline to meet with her. Hierarchy was everything in these places. The most senior partners were worshipped like oracles and guarded like the crown jewels. If she wanted results here, she’d need to play hardball and start issuing subpoenas.

  Mary Hale opened the door to a windowless conference room furnished with a long, gleaming table surrounded by red leather armchairs. At the near end of the table, precisely aligned with the edge, lay a thin manila folder. Mary nodded toward it.

  “Please have a seat, Ms. Vargas. I ordered a computer run of Jed Benson’s current matters for your review. The results are in that folder.”

  Melanie raised her eyebrows skeptically as she pulled out the heavy armchair and sat down. Judging from the thickness of the folder, what it contained wasn’t worth the trip to midtown. She opened it and saw she was right. A single sheet of paper bore the titles of three cases. A
ccording to the headings at the top of the page, the computer had spit out client-identification numbers and the hours billed for each case as well, but those columns were blacked out with thick marker. The page was virtually useless.

  Melanie looked up at Mary Hale, who regarded her with cold gray eyes.

  “Ms. Hale, there’s been some misunderstanding. I told Mr. Reed’s assistant when I made the appointment that we need to conduct a thorough search of all Mr. Benson’s files.”

  “There has been a misunderstanding, then. If I’d known that, I would have told you not to waste your time. There’s nothing here, Ms. Vargas. Mr. Benson’s work for the Reed firm had nothing to do with his death.”

  “That’s a judgment my office has to make after a full investigation. This printout is not sufficient. I need to know the substance of the matters Jed Benson was working on.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s out of the question.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Privilege.”

  “Privilege?”

  “Yes. Reed, Reed and Watson takes the position that our files are privileged in their entirety.”

  Melanie stood up. She was the same height as Mary Hale and looked her square in the eye.

  “Take any position you like, Ms. Hale, but the law is the law. We both know attorney-client privilege is only for direct communications with your clients, and work-product privilege doesn’t apply in a criminal investigation. That should leave boxes and boxes of documents available for my review. So where are they?”

  Two bright spots of color burned in Mary Hale’s cheeks. She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “Mr. Benson had not been…productive in recent times,” Mary said finally. “There’s not much in his files, I’m afraid.”

  “I find that difficult to believe. Reed is one of the top firms in the city. It’s known for being polite but ruthless in weeding out dead weight. If Jed Benson wasn’t producing, he never would have lasted here.”

  “Ms. Vargas, I’m telling you we have nothing responsive to your request. Are you questioning my word?”

  “Ms. Hale, this is a murder investigation. I can’t rely on your word. I’ll wait here while you get the boxes, or else you can bring them to the grand jury when I subpoena you. Whichever you prefer.”

  Mary Hale gave a shocked little grunt. Rather than backing off, Melanie took a small step toward her, increasing the pressure.

  “As I said, this is our firm’s policy,” Mary said huffily. “I can’t make an exception without consulting my partners. If you insist, I’d be prepared to take this matter up at the next partners’ meeting, a week from Thursday. If my partners agree, we’d produce the documents in a conference room here. You could make copies. No need for a subpoena.”

  “I expected that would happen today. Jed Benson’s killer is still at large. I can’t wait until next Thursday.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to. We couldn’t possibly convene a meeting before then, given everybody’s schedules.”

  Melanie realized Mary wasn’t giving an inch, at least not today. Why was she even bothering? She was wasting her time. She had subpoena power. She didn’t need voluntary compliance.

  “Tell Mr. Reed to expect my subpoena. Directed to him personally,” she said, taking a guilty pleasure in watching the woman’s face fall. “No need to show me out. I remember the way.”

  She picked up the manila folder, shoved it in her handbag, and headed for the door.

  MELANIE STEPPED ONTO THE ELEVATOR, THINKING that little had changed in the few years since she’d left her old law firm. Back then she’d been utterly unable to read these corporate-law types, and she still couldn’t. Mary Hale looked like somebody who was deliberately hiding something, but Melanie couldn’t be sure. These places bred closemouthed, uncooperative attorneys. Maybe Mary never produced documents until she was forced to, as a matter of principle. She probably prided herself on it. Whatever her motive, though, the result was the same. Melanie came away with nothing but a useless piece of paper.

  She looked at her watch and sighed, annoyed at the time she’d wasted. She’d predicted this outcome, so why hadn’t she dispensed with the courtesy visit and sent a subpoena in the first place? Just because Reed, Reed and Watson was such a big name? Next time she’d remember not to be impressed. To top it off, she was on the local. She tapped her foot impatiently as the elevator doors opened on thirty-one and a young woman got on. Melanie recognized the woman by her pink suit as the one who’d checked her out in the reception area earlier. She must be an associate here.

  In defiance of elevator etiquette, the young woman faced Melanie and made eye contact, looking her full in the face. She was in her twenties, quite attractive in a wholesome sort of way, with wide green eyes and long, light brown hair. She took a step closer, leaning toward Melanie purposefully.

  “You’re the prosecutor?” she asked, her voice low and conspiratorial.

  “Yes. Why?” Melanie’s heart began to pound. She knew this was important.

  The elevator stopped on thirty. As the doors glided open, the young woman snapped around to face the front, her face blank and composed, as if she’d never spoken to Melanie.

  A middle-aged man in a charcoal pin-striped suit got on.

  “Well, hello, Sarah,” he said pleasantly. “Still buried in that Securilex transaction?”

  When the doors opened on twenty-nine a moment later, they both got off. The woman was obviously not willing to be seen speaking to Melanie. Why not? Sarah. Melanie pulled out the manila folder and made a note of the name, nodding to herself. How many young female attorneys named Sarah worked at Reed, Reed and Watson? Shouldn’t be too difficult to track down. Maybe her trip hadn’t been a waste of time after all.

  11

  THE STREETS AROUND HER OFFICE WERE CLOGGED with cars and buses by the time Melanie got back downtown. It was rush hour, still threatening rain, and everybody in the world seemed to be heading home except her. She sat in traffic waiting to turn into the lot to return the borrowed G-car, stomach tight with anxiety. Where had the day gone? She’d never even called Elsie to ask her to stay late.

  Walking into her building, too frazzled to make conversation, she pretended not to see Shekeya Jenkins heading straight for her. But Shekeya spotted her and called out her name.

  “Yo, Melanie! Look, I got ’em done at lunchtime!”

  Melanie couldn’t help smiling. “Okay, lemme see.”

  She held out her hand, and Shekeya placed hers on it, fingers splayed. On each fingernail a white dove decal flew over a multicolored rainbow, set against a pearly blue sky decorated with gemstone stars.

  “Wow, Shekeya, they’re amazing!”

  “Girl, that woman is an artist. She take half my paycheck, but it’s worth every penny.” Shekeya laughed but then turned serious. “Listen, you a decent person, so I’ma do you a solid. Word of advice: Watch out for the boss today.”

  “More than usual?”

  “She got it in for you today, girl, most definitely.”

  “Why?”

  “Beats me, but she just headed to your office with a mad bug up her ass.”

  “Oh, great. Just what I need. Thanks, chica.” She squeezed Shekeya’s arm.

  Melanie worried the whole way up in the elevator, and rightly so. The security guard buzzed the bulletproof door to let her onto the floor. It opened directly across from her office, revealing Bernadette standing with her arms folded across her chest waiting for Melanie. Two of Melanie’s colleagues, Joe Williams and Susan Charlton, stood near the fax machine halfway down the hall. As Melanie entered, they glanced at her with a combination of sympathy and embarrassment. Everybody in the office seemed to know before she did that she was in for a tongue-lashing.

  “Bernadette, what’s up?” Melanie asked, a note of annoyance creeping into her voice. All her boss did was make things harder.

  Bernadette jerked her head toward Melanie’s door. Melanie walked in. Bernadette followed, closing th
e door with a slam. The histrionics were part of her standard repertoire, but they alarmed Melanie nonetheless. What could she possibly be in trouble for?

  “What the hell did you think you were doing with Amanda Benson?” Bernadette demanded as they turned to face each other on the small strip of floor between the filing cabinets and the desk. The exhausting day after the sleepless night had taken a toll on Melanie. She walked over to her desk and sat down heavily in her chair.

  “Well? Answer me,” Bernadette said, planting herself firmly in front of Melanie’s desk, glaring down at her.

  “Randall Walker and I went to interview her. What’s the problem?”

  “What’s the problem? Threatening a victim in her hospital bed is the problem! Please, tell me you didn’t really say you’d throw that girl in the grand jury.”

  “Her mother wouldn’t let us near her. You would’ve said the same thing.”

  “I would not! When the girl is suicidal and the mother as well connected as Nell Benson? Please! You think you’re a hero? All you’re doing is buying us an expensive lawsuit. Use your brain.”

  It had started already, exactly the type of pressure Melanie feared when she took on this assignment. She was accustomed to running her own cases without interference, and she liked it that way. Normally Bernadette wouldn’t question her interview tactics. She was much too busy to micromanage like that. Come to think of it, normally Bernadette wouldn’t even know who she was interviewing.

  “Did Nell Benson call you or something?” she asked, curious as to how Bernadette had found out. “I just left the hospital a little while ago, and I thought we’d worked out a deal.”

  “You thought wrong. She called Lieutenant Ramirez and raised hell.”

  “I thought Lieutenant Ramirez was off the case. What’s he doing butting in?” Just what she needed—Ramirez still trying to run the case, meddling through Bernadette.