Authors: Michele Martinez
Dave sank back into the cushy seat and rubbed his temples, closing his eyes and resting for a few minutes. Eventually, he took a few deep breaths and looked out the window.
As he registered his surroundings, Dave’s heart gave a jagged thump. They were nowhere near where they were supposed to be. Instead of heading uptown via the Westside Highway, toward his apartment, they were somewhere in the no-man’s-land leading to the Holland Tunnel, heading for New Jersey.
What the
…He opened his mouth to yell at Stanislaus, but shut it again as all the signposts finally clicked into place. He felt like throwing up. What an idiot he’d been, caught up in his meaningless personal problems. He’d forgotten to stay alert to his environment. How could he have been so stupid? He was an eyewitness to a brutal murder. His name and photograph had been in every newspaper. Had been on the evening news, for God’s sake. Of course the Butcher wanted him dead. What had happened to his survival skills, honed like a knife’s edge in the desert so many years ago? He’d gotten soft and lazy, and now he’d pay the price.
It was true what they said: Dave’s life flashed before him. A beautiful day in Jerusalem with his best friend when he was nineteen, holding his father’s hand as he died, the birth of his first son.
No,
he thought,
I will not leave my children fatherless
.
Dave snatched up the newspaper from the seat and pretended to read, his heart pounding. He knew how to do this. He could cope. He could fight. He could escape. Using the paper as a screen, he unfastened his seat belt and leaned sideways to peek at the driver up front. Silently, Dave berated himself. How could he have failed to notice?
This man was blatantly, obviously not the diminutive Stanislaus. He was taller and bigger altogether, robust and thick-necked. He was an impostor, armed and dangerous, surely intending to shoot Dave in cold blood and leave him to die like a dog in the street. Additional visual reconnaissance supported that awful conclusion: the driver’s hands on the steering wheel were encased in rubber gloves. Dave’s scalp crawled at the sight.
They were doing about forty, and the street was deserted. They were five blocks from the tunnel. Dave was running out of time fast. He didn’t want to leap out inside the tunnel, and he would have a decidedly poorer chance of survival once they reached the other side and the dumping grounds of the Meadowlands. If it was empty here, it was desolate there. Now was the time to make his move. Realizing that, Dave panicked, his eyes darting around wildly. He had to struggle to control his breathing so as not to alert the driver.
Still holding the newspaper in front of him for cover, Dave tried the door lock. It wouldn’t budge. He tried the window. Same result. The automatic locking mechanisms must be equipped with those childproof features, like they had on their minivan, where the back seat controls could be disabled completely. His best option was going to be kicking out the window and escaping though it. Dave studied the window. It was tinted, but otherwise appeared to be made from standard automotive glass. A well-placed, vigorous kick would shatter it. He was wearing his Johnston & Murphy wing tips, which had hard, sharp heels. They would do the trick. What he needed now was a diversion. A loud noise perhaps. Something to confuse the driver for several seconds, or as many as he could manage anyway, to allow Dave to make his escape before getting shot to death. He contemplated what he’d brought with him in his pockets and his briefcase and weighed the possibilities.
They were heading straight for the tunnel entrance. Still camou-flaged behind the
Journal
, Dave drew his cell phone from his pocket.
Calling for help was useless: he was flat out of time. But his phone came with a variety of ring tones, including one that sounded like a police siren. His hands shook violently as he scrolled through the menu searching for that one. He ramped the volume up as high as it would go and selected
TEST
.
The shrill blast of a wailing siren filled the car. Dave reeled back onto his shoulders, raising his legs and kicking with all of his substantial strength. Just as the window shattered and he felt the rushing air on his face, he heard an explosion. Chunks of rough glass showered down on top of him. He’d propelled himself forward and up, going for the window. He heard a second explosion and felt a burning in his back. His breath had been knocked out of him; he’d been kicked or punched or…Robin! Everything went black.
T
he facade of the Metropolitan Museum of Art
had recently undergone a cleaning that had left it draped in a material resembling cheesecloth for nearly two years, but the end result was breathtaking. Melanie paused at the bottom of the sweeping limestone steps that led to the main entrance of the museum, her eyes drawn upward to take in the magnificent sight. On this sultry Friday night, with spotlights trained on it, the Met glittered like a white diamond set against a purple velvet sky. Three enormous banners in jewel tones of red, blue, and green graced the facade, trumpeting the latest blockbuster exhibits. The gigantic structure stood sentry at the eastern edge of Central Park, and the scent of flowers and green leaves floated out to Melanie on the warm summer breeze. It would be easy enough to forget to look over her shoulder tonight, or to lose sight of the fact that she was here on serious business.
Clyde Williams’s fund-raiser was going on inside. When Susan Charlton had instructed Melanie to intercept Clyde and find out what he intended to say at his press conference, they had both been relatively confident of Clyde’s innocence. But Melanie had since learned
that the killer had gagged Suzanne Shepard with the same packing tape used to seal the box of dog excrement. This established an undeniable nexus between the box and the murder. The box had contained a photograph of Suzanne taken an hour after the segment about Clyde had aired, and it had been mailed the following day. Circumstantial, Melanie told herself. Perhaps only coincidence. Yet the inference was there to be drawn. There was at least some chance that Clyde Williams, the father of one of her best friends and many voters’ hope for the future of this city, had if not actually committed murder at least arranged for it to happen. Or that somebody close to him had. And not just any murder, but a horrific, ugly, brutal murder, the gruesome results of which Melanie herself had witnessed two nights ago, less than a ten-minute walk from where she now stood.
Immediately inside the main entrance, velvet ropes channeled Melanie toward a long table used for searching bags. Several guards in blue blazers were stationed there. One of them, a tall Indian man, gestured at her warningly, saying something, but his words floated up and dissipated into the vast empty space between the terrazzo floor and the three formidable marble domes that topped the Great Hall.
“I’m sorry?” Melanie said.
“The museum is closed, ma’am.”
“I’m here for the Clyde Williams fund-raiser at the Temple of Dendur.”
“In that case, I need to see your invitation and picture ID,” the guard said, holding out his hand.
“I forgot my invitation, but here’s a photo ID.” Melanie handed him her creds, crossing her fingers that they would impress sufficiently to do the trick.
“If you don’t have an invitation, you’ll have to wait while I check the guest list,” he said, and walked away with her credentials.
Damn, they were sticklers here. Sure, they were guarding world treasures, but did she look like an art thief?
Melanie pulled out her cell phone, toying with the idea of calling Joe Williams, whose cell number she had in her directory. Surely Joe was inside and could come out and vouch for her. But she hesitated, thinking how awkward that would be in light of her mission. Yes, there was the part about asking Clyde what he planned to tell the media. But first, Melanie intended to inform Clyde about the packing tape, on the off chance that the news might shock him into confessing. If there was anything to confess.
Before she could make up her mind, Melanie spotted the guard walking back toward her, frowning. Almost simultaneously she saw a familiar, slight figure crossing the cavernous hall. Chance had decided for her.
“Joe!” she called, waving. He saw her and hurried over.
“Melanie. I had no idea you were planning on coming tonight. Everything all right?”
Joe searched Melanie’s face, and a great deal of information passed between them silently. He understood she was there for reasons that would upset him if he were fully informed about them. She wished she could tell him what they were, but she couldn’t. He realized that she was only doing her job, and he wouldn’t stand in her way.
“This young lady is a friend of our family,” Joe said to the guard.
“She’s a
crasher,
” the guard retorted.
“If her name’s not on the list, then there’s been an oversight. She can come in. I’ll escort her back to the Temple,” Joe replied.
The guard thrust Melanie’s credentials at her, obviously annoyed that his authority had been trumped. Melanie and Joe took off for the Egyptian wing, their shoes ringing out on the hard marble floors.
“Once we’re out of range of that guard, you can go in on your own. I’ve got to find Rocky Davis so he can set up for the press conference. You know how to get to the Temple, right?” Joe asked.
“Sure.”
They paused in front of a set of ruined walls built from colos
sal marble blocks many thousands of years old, and Joe turned to Melanie.
“I’ll let you go on from here, but there’s something I need to say first,” he said.
“Sure.”
“Melanie, I haven’t interfered in your investigation. I’ve been silent because it’s technically the right thing to do, but what’s technically right can be wrong in your heart. I get the feeling that you’re here because you’ve got new information, information that reflects badly on my father.”
As Melanie opened her mouth to reply, Joe held up his hand.
“I’m not asking you to disclose any evidence. And when I’m done, you can report me if you feel you must. But hear me out.”
“Go ahead, Joe. I’m listening.”
“My father admittedly has some bad qualities. He’s arrogant and full of himself. He’s manipulative, as many successful politicians are. I’m even willing to buy that he’s a bit of a womanizer and hasn’t always been faithful to my mother. But what he’s
not
is a rapist and a killer.”
Melanie nodded solemnly.
“He’s just
not,
” Joe repeated. “I swear to you. So please, examine your evidence carefully before you accuse him of any crime. Examine your conscience. Otherwise you’ll risk damaging the reputation of an innocent man, possibly with very serious consequences for his career.”
Joe’s eyes were haunted as he turned and walked away. Speaking out had clearly cost him a great deal.
Watching her friend disappear into the next gallery, Melanie was at a loss. Joe had as good as invited her to rat him out for trying to influence her investigation, but she wouldn’t. He was one of the most ethical people she knew, and his words rang true: the technical rules didn’t always jibe with what was morally right. She’d have done as much herself for somebody she loved and believed in. The problem
wasn’t that Joe had tried to sway her, but that he’d succeeded, at least partly. His plea had taken the wind out of her rush to judgment, and now the doubts were pouring in. What evidence did she have against Clyde Williams, really, beyond the mere coincidence of timing? A politician of Clyde’s skill and finesse wouldn’t resort to brutish murder to silence an enemy, even an enemy with a bully pulpit as powerful as Suzanne’s. Clyde’s reputation mattered to his career, and his career mattered to the future of the city. Melanie might be under pressure to get a killer off the streets, but that didn’t justify anything less than the greatest caution in investigating this important man.
But wait a minute. Had Clyde put Joe up to making his emotional appeal? Was she allowing herself to be manipulated? It was like she’d told Dan the other night when she’d hesitated about going to the crime scene—big cases, big problems. And big confusion. As she stood at the entrance to the Temple of Dendur, surveying the lavish scene, Melanie felt less certain than ever that she could solve this case.
E
ven under normal conditions
the Temple of Dendur was a sight to behold, its ancient stones bathed in sparkly light and set against a vast, slanting wall of crystalline glass. But decked out for a party, it was drop-dead gorgeous. A reflecting pool shimmered before the indoor plaza where the millennia-old structure had been reassembled, meant to evoke the Temple’s original location beside the Nile. Tonight, the pool was decorated with potted reeds and grasses that swayed in the breeze from the air-conditioning. The spaces between the Temple columns were filled with enormous arrangements of palm fronds and lilies. Altogether, the scene bore an uncanny resemblance to the Nile on a dazzling Egyptian afternoon. The crowd sipping cocktails on the marble plaza was just as glamorous as the location. Melanie recognized many famous faces—media people, politicians, even the stray movie star or two—interspersed with those who were lesser known but, to a person, beautiful and richly attired.
Unsure of her purpose and feeling intimidated, Melanie hesitated on the outskirts of the party. The buzz of laughter and conversation washed over her, and a waiter walked up carrying a silver tray.
“Champagne, miss?” he asked.
Thinking she’d look less conspicuous with a glass in her hand, Melanie accepted. The champagne was pink. Holding it up to the light, she watched tiny bubbles race to the top of the fluted glass. The color suggested it would taste cloyingly sweet, but when she sipped, the champagne had a dry, delicate bouquet. Oh, to be rich. Maybe she should quit this crazy job and go to work for some sweatshop law firm that would pay her a ton of money. But then she thought of David Harris, how miserable he seemed, how shoved into an ill-fitting mold, and realized that wasn’t an option for her.