Cover-up (11 page)

“Overruled. This is plain common sense,” Judge Boutros said. She was gazing steadily at David Harris’s face, and Melanie’s hopes surged. The clear, shiny ointment on Harris’s right cheek did nothing to conceal the two angry scratches.

“I would expect his face to be scratched up,” Dan replied.

“Directing your attention to earlier today, did you place an individual under arrest for the murder of Suzanne Shepard?”

“Yes.”

“Who was that?”

“One David M. Harris.”

“Is he present in the courtroom?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please identify him and describe him for the record.”

Dan pointed. “That’s him, seated to the left of Mr. Adelman at the defense table, wearing a gray suit, with light brown hair.”

“Please describe for the record the condition of Mr. Harris’s face.”

“He’s got two fresh scratches on his right cheek. Nasty-looking ones.”

“Can you describe the facts that led you to arrest Mr. Harris?”

“He had called 911 last night to report the murder, claiming to be an eyewitness. He fled the scene before the police arrived—”

“Wait a minute,” Judge Boutros interjected. “If he’s the killer, why would he call the police?”

“Mr. Harris called the police, then fled, ma’am,” Dan replied. “The killer left the body in a public place anyways, so we figured he wanted her discovered. Sometimes it’s about the publicity.”

The Judge nodded. “Proceed.”

“We then tracked Mr. Harris down through his cell-phone records,” Dan continued. “When we found him, he denied placing the call, which we knew wasn’t true because it’s his cell phone and his voice. We asked him where he got the scratches on his face and he lied about that, too.”

“What did he say?” Melanie asked.

“That he got ’em from his kid, but his wife said he never came home last night.”

“Did he later give a second explanation for the scratches?”

“Yes. When we said we didn’t buy the story about his kid, he stated that somebody tried to rob him in the Park and he sustained the scratches fighting this individual off.”

“Did you ask Mr. Harris to provide a DNA sample?”

“Yes, and he agreed. We should have the results in twenty-four to forty-eight hours. If they come back positive, obviously, we’ll charge him with the murder instead of just the obstruction of justice.”

“No further questions,” Melanie said.

She picked up her legal pad and headed back to the government’s table. The baby prosecutors were looking at her with admiration. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the courthouse grapevine had gone into overdrive, and the courtroom was packed. A possible arrest in the Central Park Butcher case was big news. Bernadette had shown up at some point, and beside her sat the deputy chief of the Criminal Division. In the rows behind them were several reporters whom Melanie recognized from the press conference this morning.

Bob Adelman rose. “Cross, Judge?”

Looking at the clock, Judge Boutros waved her hand irritably. “Sit down, Mr. Adelman. I’m prepared to rule.”

“Judge—”

“I’ve heard enough. The motion to dismiss the complaint on grounds of bad faith is denied. The government had a legitimate public safety concern here—”

“Judge, my client has a good explanation for the scratches—”

“Did you hear me, Mr. Adelman? No cross necessary. As much as I see where the government’s coming from, I can’t order remand on the facts before me. I’m ready to set bail.”

Melanie got to her feet. “Your Honor—”

“For forty-eight hours you can put a tail on him, Miss Vargas. I’m not locking him up on a measly obstruction charge.”

“What about electronic monitoring, Judge?” Melanie tried.

“That only makes sense if I order home confinement or severely restrict his movements. I’m not doing that on these facts. Live with it and sit down.”

The rest of the hearing passed in a flash, with David Harris agreeing to post the title to his apartment as security for his bail. Afterward, as Melanie headed up the aisle, Bob Adelman caught her by the arm.

“Nice job,” he said with a warm smile.

“Bob, you just accused me of bad faith.”

“Yeah, and you outmaneuvered me. No hard feelings, okay, kid?
You done good.” He squeezed her arm, heading off to shake hands with well-wishers in the courtroom.
Gracias por nada,
she thought. Thanks for nothing.

Bernadette and Mark Sonschein, the deputy chief of the Criminal Division, conferred with arms folded and heads together in the first row of spectator seats. Melanie approached them with her heart in her throat. In contrast to his happy name, Mark was grim-faced and sober, with a heavy five o’clock shadow. For some reason, Melanie had always believed he didn’t like her, and she felt nervous around him. But Mark and Bernadette both looked up with broad smiles on their faces.

“Nicely done,” Mark said.

“You think so?” Melanie asked, confused. “I lost the bail argument. If David Harris is the killer, he’s out on the street.”

“The
judge
granted bail,” Bernadette emphasized. “Whatever happens next, it’s not on us.”

14

M
elanie was concerned
with more than just avoiding blame if the Central Park Butcher struck again. She actually wanted to stop him. The FBI and NYPD were focused on surveilling David Harris. But if Harris wasn’t the killer, they were simply playing babysitter to her star witness. Melanie half believed Harris’s story about the male prostitute, and she thought there was a decent chance that the Butcher was still on the street. She planned to get her butt in gear and start identifying alternative targets.

The Nineteenth Precinct station house was on her way home. She’d called ahead, and the detective who’d been investigating the burglary at Suzanne Shepard’s apartment had agreed to stay late so Melanie could meet with her. Detective Pauline Estrada seemed like somebody Melanie might have known back in the day, in grammar school maybe, before she started getting into the advanced placement programs and magnet schools and leaving the block behind. Maybe they would have stayed in touch, or maybe their lives would have diverged, hard to say. Certainly they looked different on paper in the here and now. Pauline couldn’t have been much older than Melanie,
but based on the pictures on her desk, she had teenage kids. Her hair was bigger than Melanie’s, her clothes more revealing, and her accent still resonant of the Bronx. But Melanie recognized a kindred spirit in her, somebody who gave a damn about the job, who cared about making things right. Lorraine Shepard had suggested the cops weren’t moving fast enough on the burglary in her apartment, but looking at this woman, Melanie found that difficult to believe.

“I’m glad you reached out to me. I was meaning to call you since I saw the murder in the paper. You want some?” Pauline asked. She stood at a small counter opposite her desk in the open detective’s squad area of the Nineteenth Precinct, pouring steaming coffee into a Styrofoam cup.

“Thanks. I’m really fading. I could use it.”

It was after seven o’clock, and Melanie’s brain was fried after a sleepless night and endless day. She sipped the coffee, which was blessedly strong. The caffeine kicked in immediately, and she could feel her batteries recharging, her energy level ramping up.

“The victim’s mother gave me your card. I need to figure out if your burglary has any connection to my murder,” Melanie said.

“Yeah, I was wondering the same thing.” Pauline shook her head. “Lorraine Shepard. What a piece of work, huh? Watch out for her.”

“Why do you say that?” Melanie asked.

“She called my boss on me three times already in two weeks. Why didn’t I arrest nobody yet, when am I gonna make a move, yada, yada, yada. I’m lucky, though. My boss is from God. He won’t listen to a word against me.”

“People have unrealistic expectations. Do you even have a viable suspect?”

“Oh, I do. But that doesn’t mean I can prove it.”

“I know how that goes,” Melanie said.

Melanie sat in a chair beside Pauline’s desk. Pauline leafed through a file. When she found what she was looking for, she yanked out the
mug shot and slapped it down in front of Melanie. The man in the picture had a striking face. Handsome and cruel, with sharp cheekbones and dark, sunken eyes.

“Miles Ortiz, personal trainer at Flex Gym, and narcotics trafficker,” Pauline said.

“Your burglary suspect?” Melanie asked.

“Yep. Found his prints in Suzanne Shepard’s apartment. One of the files that got boosted had a whole lotta dirt on him which now won’t see the light of day.”

“Lorraine told me he was selling drugs to his clients.”

“Not was.
Is
.”

“He has priors?” Melanie asked, fingering the mug shot.

“Yep, and not for singing too loud in church, neither. Two criminal possessions of a controlled substance and an assault. I’m amazed this guy is walking the streets let alone teaching kickboxing to rich housewives.”

“It sounds like you have a lot on him,” Melanie said.

“Yes and no. I’m convinced he’s the one who broke in and took the files. Took some money and jewelry, too. But the fact that his prints are inside the apartment, unfortunately, he can explain that away.”

“You interviewed him already?”

“Yeah, but I’m not taking his word for nothing. I heard it from Suzanne Shepard. Before she died, she corroborated everything he said.”

“So what’s the explanation? Why was Miles in her apartment?”

“You heard of Drew Savitt?” Pauline asked.

“I’ve heard of a Kim Savitt. From Lorraine Shepard.”

“Right. Kim is Drew’s wife. Savitt’s a big mogul type. Runs a major real-estate development firm that’s buying up all this waterfront property in Jersey and building fancy condos.”

“Oh, sure. Now I remember.”

“Savitt owns the building where Suzanne Shepard lives. Lived, I
mean. He’s separated from Kim, and he gave her an apartment there. Here’s Kim.”

Pauline laid down a picture that looked as if it had been ripped from a glossy magazine. It showed a group of five gorgeous, perfectly groomed women standing together, all in evening wear. The caption said the picture had been taken at a benefit for New York Hospital, and identified the woman in the center as Kim Savitt. She was taller and blonder than the rest, with more lavish cleavage, bigger diamonds, and a whiter smile.
I’d be smiling, too,
Melanie thought.

“It’s an ugly situation,” Pauline said. “Bitter custody battle over their little girl, lots of lurid allegations. Anyway, long story short, Kim Savitt belongs to Flex Gym, and her trainer is none other than our friend Miles Ortiz.”

“Really.”

“Mmm-hmm. And, Kim and Suzanne Shepard were friendly. Miles is a frequent visitor to Kim’s apartment. In-home training sessions, don’t you know. Kim brought Miles to see Suzanne on a couple of occasions. So that’s his cover.”

“Suzanne confirmed that?”

“Yes. Like I said, I wouldn’t take that lowlife’s word for nothing.”

“Have you interviewed Kim?” Melanie asked.

“No. I figured she’d just back Miles up and say they visited Suzanne socially.”

“I hate to sound cynical, but if Kim’s in a custody battle, the last thing she needs is police scrutiny,” Melanie pointed out. “Maybe she’d be willing to talk, just to keep a lid on things.”

“Good idea. Worth a try, anyway. I’ll make a note.”

“Where in Suzanne’s apartment were Miles’s fingerprints found?”

“Two locations. Hold on.”

Pauline pulled a fingerprint report from the file. Melanie took it, squinting, trying to locate the conclusion amid long paragraphs of bureaucratese.

“I find these things impossible to read,” she confessed.

“I know, right? Here,” Pauline said, running her finger along the text. “‘Latent print of value, yada, yada, lifted from right stainless-steel bar stool at kitchen island,’ and there’s a diagram, okay? Money was taken from that location, so makes sense, right? Now, ‘Analysis performed and identification effected with subject’s right forefinger.’ This is all crap about the whorl patterns, but here we go: ‘Latent print of value identified on top right drawer of desk in third bedroom and identification effected with subject’s right palm.’”

“Third bedroom? That’s Suzanne’s office, right?” Melanie asked.

“Yes. All of which means we can put him in the kitchen and at the desk in the back bedroom, both locations from which items were taken during the burglary.”

“So he didn’t wear gloves,” Melanie said.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

But the Butcher did, Melanie thought, remembering the talcum-powder marks on the wallet. What does that mean?

“Did Suzanne tell you whether Miles went into her office when he came to visit with Kim Savitt?” Melanie asked.

“She said he didn’t. Kitchen yes, office no. And even in the kitchen, his last social call was more than a week before the burglary. Their maid comes five days a week, and she always wipes down the bar stools with cleaning fluid, so those prints were fresh.”

Melanie paused, thinking. “Could Lorraine Shepard testify about Miles’s social visits?” she asked after a moment.

“She was there when they happened, yes.”

“And she’d say he never went in the office?”

“She’d say cows have wings if it would get somebody arrested. But yeah, I asked her, and she could testify he wasn’t in the office,” Pauline said.

Melanie pondered for another moment. “Well, there’s probably enough.”

“Enough to get a warrant?” Pauline asked.

“Close, but—”

Pauline broke into a huge grin. “
Hallelujah
. Now I see why guys love to take shit federal. I knew we had a case, but I just couldn’t make that
cabrón
of an A.D.A. understand.”

Melanie couldn’t help laughing.

“So I can go ahead and pop Miles now?” Pauline asked.

“I love your enthusiasm, but let’s not jump the gun. The burglary charge is pretty weak given his innocent explanation. If we got a warrant, it would only be to keep in our back pocket in case Miles decides to skip. We need to know more before we actually arrest him. Like where he was at the time Suzanne Shepard was murdered, for instance.”