Authors: Michele Martinez
“Maybe I should start saying no,” she tossed over her shoulder as she stepped to the curb. Ha, fat chance. The nonchalance was an act, and he knew it as well as she did.
L
uckily for Melanie, Seth Parker, the young gun who produced
High Crimes with Suzanne Shepard,
got to his desk early. She’d called ahead, and he had somebody waiting by the elevator to meet her.
“Melanie Vargas?” asked a ponytailed intern type in low-slung jeans and a tight black sweater.
“Yes.”
“Ashley LeClerc. I’ll be your handler this morning. This way, please.”
She led Melanie down a corridor lined with glossy photos of Target News Network’s stars. Suzanne Shepard was prominently featured, and Melanie couldn’t help stopping before her picture, comparing the face to the one she’d seen staring up with blank eyes from the floor
of the ravine a few hours earlier. In the photograph, Suzanne leaned back against a desk, her arms folded over her chest, looking smug and gorgeous and utterly untouchable. For a split second, Melanie understood how somebody could want this woman dead, and it almost made her slap herself. Nobody, not even the rich and the beautiful, deserved such a brutal end.
Ashley stopped at a small room at the end of the hall. A row of chairs faced the door, several of them occupied by people with strangely bronzed skin.
“This is our Green Room. Have a seat, help yourself to some Danish, and I’ll go check with makeup to see if they’re ready for you.”
“Wait a second, there must be some mistake,” Melanie said.
“No mistake. We do a live early, early show with a local focus. You’re on-air in sixteen minutes.”
Tempted as she felt to go on TV again, Melanie knew it was time to get down to the hard work of solving this case.
“I’m not a guest,” she said. “I’m here to interview Seth Parker about a criminal matter.”
“I know,” Ashley squealed. “Suzanne got murdered by the Butcher! Seth’s all over it. He wants Cassandra to interview you for
Sunrise Manhattan
. They don’t call him the fresh prince of TV news for nothing.”
“I’m here to interview
him,
not the other way around. I just gave a press conference. I don’t have time to do another.”
Ashley’s chipper expression turned petulant. “I’ll tell him what you said, but he’s not gonna be happy,” she announced, and flounced off on her high-heeled boots.
A few minutes later, Ashley reappeared. “Follow me,” she said flatly.
This time, Melanie was led up a shallow flight of stairs toward a glassed-in cubicle overlooking the brightly lit newsroom set. Everything below was in motion—people, cameras, video cables, flashing
images on numerous TV screens. A glamorous brunette in a low-cut dress sat at a desk fussing with her hair, the network logo glowing neon blue behind her.
“I have flyaways. I see them in the monitor. Get Maurice,” she ordered.
Ashley opened the glass door and motioned Melanie inside. Opposite the glass wall was an entire bank of televisions screens, each displaying the brunette from a different angle as a slender guy in tight pants sprayed something on her hair. Seth Parker paced the tiny space, his eyes on the monitors, talking into a headset in a flat, affectless voice. He glanced over at them as they entered, holding up a finger to tell them to wait.
“You seem incapable of processing basic information this morning, Howie. I said investment-bank prostitution scandal, then rat infestation on Park Avenue. What’s difficult about that? Are those two stories interchangeable to you?…Good. In the future, please follow my instructions.”
Seth clicked a small switch that hung from his headset by a cord, disconnecting the call, and turned to them. He was thin and pale, with shaggy light brown hair and a wispy soul patch like a smudge of dirt on his chin. In his frayed corduroys and ratty sweater, he looked about fifteen, and he acted like a surfer dude on heavy meds.
“Is this Ms. Vargas?”
“Yes it is, Seth,” Ashley said.
“Fine. Refill my coffee. Then go to the Green Room and tell the hip-hop guy we’re moving him up five minutes. I’ve already cued Cassandra.”
“Yes, Seth.”
“Don’t stand there like a retard. Go.”
Ashley whirled and rushed out the door.
Seth indicated a leather director’s chair opposite his own swivel chair. “Have a seat.”
They sat down facing each other, their knees virtually touching in the small space. Before Melanie could say a word, he’d clicked the switch again and resumed talking into the headset in his strange monotone. The interruption gave her a chance to pull her credentials from her handbag.
“No, cut her intro by forty-five seconds. I want time for the kid with stigmata…Do it. No back sass, please.” He clicked off abruptly and looked at Melanie.
“Mr. Parker,” she began, “as I explained over the phone, I’m a prosecutor in the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I’m working with the FBI to investigate the murder of Suzanne Shepard, and I need to ask you some questions.”
“Ashley tells me you have some kind of problem being interviewed?” he asked, stifling a yawn.
“I’m here to interview
you
. This was a very brutal murder, and the killer’s at large, so this is urgent. I need to find out why Suzanne Shepard was in Central Park last night, and I’m thinking maybe it had something to do with a story.”
“Yes, of course, I understand. Now, when and where was the body was discovered?”
The question struck her as odd, but then something occurred to her. “Are you taping this conversation, Mr. Parker?”
He wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Taping?”
“Lying to me in the course of this interview is a crime. That’s why Martha Stewart went to jail, if you recall.”
“Are you threatening me?” Seth demanded.
“I’m trying to protect the integrity of my investigation. We have to control what information is made public or else the killer finds out exactly what we know.”
“It’s my practice as a journalist to record conversations. It avoids disputes later over the accuracy of what’s reported on the air.”
“You’re not reporting this interview on the air. I can’t allow it.”
“Ms. Vargas, we’re all devastated over here. We believe the best way to honor Suzanne’s memory is with innovative coverage of her murder. Please don’t interfere with our grieving process. I have a very fresh idea, and I’m sure you’ll be as excited about it as I am.”
“I really don’t have time to—”
“We embed a reporter with you, like they did in Iraq. We get inside details of the Central Park Butcher investigation, you get—”
“Mr. Parker—”
“Hear me out. You get complete, one hundred percent access to our files. In return, we get to place a
High Crimes
correspondent on the street with you. I have the perfect man for the job. Duncan Gilmartin, one of our Aussie transplants. He’s young, dynamic, handsome, aggressive. He’ll shadow your every move—”
“I can’t do that,” she said firmly.
“Why not?”
“Publicizing all our leads is a sure way to screw up our investigation. Any information we can make public now, we gave out at the press conference. The rest has to be treated as confidential.”
“If you won’t help me, I don’t see why I should help you,” Seth said.
Melanie stood up. “If you’re unwilling to give me information voluntarily, I’ll have to subpoena you to appear before the grand jury. I’ll serve the subpoena within the hour, returnable today at nine
A.M.
at the federal courthouse. Your lawyers can accompany you. Tell them it’ll take the entire day. The grand jury is slow. They ask a lot of questions.”
They locked eyes briefly, and Seth Parker blinked. He’d been bluffing, and she’d called him on it. He sighed, reached into the top drawer of his desk, and clicked off a tape recorder.
“Sit down. Please,” he said. “The Butcher story is big. I can’t afford to lose a day to some”—he waved his hand dismissively—“grand jury thing.”
Melanie held out her hand. “I need that tape. Otherwise, something tells me I’ll be hearing it on the six o’clock news.”
Seth popped the cassette out and handed it to Melanie sheepishly.
“I need to know why Suzanne Shepard went to the Ramble last night,” she said, resuming her seat. “I’d like to review her calendar, her voice mails and e-mails, that sort of thing.”
“I can arrange for all that. Just give me a minute to make some calls.”
“Great, thank you.”
“But I can do more for you than that. Aren’t you interested in getting a list of Suzanne’s enemies? Her specialty was digging up the dark secrets of the rich and powerful. Half this town wanted her dead. I’m convinced that she died because of a story.”
As much as Melanie would’ve loved to believe Suzanne Shepard’s murder was a revenge killing—since that would make it easier to solve than a random slaying—she wasn’t persuaded by Seth Parker’s little speech. His ulterior motive was plain to see. If Suzanne had been killed in retaliation for a story, then Target News would get a lot of free publicity and a nice ratings boost.
“I need more than a general statement that Suzanne made people angry,” Melanie said. “I need something specific. Like a direct threat. And recent enough to suggest it could be connected to her killing.”
Seth leaned back in his chair, tossing his beanbag. “How’s this for recent? Just last week, Suzanne got a box of dog shit in the mail, and it had a picture of her inside, cut up into little tiny pieces.”
“That could be important,” Melanie agreed.
“Our security director can show you the box,” Seth said. “He’ll be in later this afternoon. He thinks the doggy doo relates to a story Suzanne just ran on the Clyde Williams sex scandal.”
Melanie had been taking notes, but she stopped in midscribble and stared at Seth Parker. “Clyde Williams?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Clyde Williams the city councilman was involved in a sex scandal?”
Clyde Williams was a prominent African-American lawyer and city councilman who’d been positioning himself to run for mayor of New York in the next election. He was handsome and silver-tongued and already had an impressive war chest accrued thanks to his efficient political action committee. He also happened to be the father of Joseph Williams, a shy, intellectual assistant U.S. attorney, and Melanie’s best friend in the office.
“I can tell you don’t watch Suzanne’s show. Clyde had an affair with a young, white intern,” Seth said.
“An intern?” Melanie said, horrified.
“Yes. Twenty-one years old. Suzanne was going after the story aggressively, and we thought it had real potential to derail his mayoral bid. What if Clyde killed her? Clyde Williams and the Central Park Butcher, one and the same? The possible future mayor of this city also its most fearsome criminal? God, I love that angle.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I know Clyde. His son works in my office. He wouldn’t kill anybody,” Melanie said.
“The lead prosecutor is personal friends with the suspect? This story gets better every minute. First a sex scandal. Then a murder. Now a cover-up.”
“Clyde didn’t kill anybody, and I’m not playing favorites. You don’t believe any of this yourself, I can tell. It’s all just made-up trash.”
“I assure you, nothing we’ve aired so far was made up. Our stories are carefully vetted to make sure they have at least some basis in fact. Suzanne had obtained an amateur video shot with a cell phone at one of those rubber-chicken political dinners. It showed Clyde and his little hottie off in a corner leaning against each other in a very familiar way.”
“Leaning against each other? So it’s not like you caught them having sex?”
“No. That would’ve been better, obviously, but the video was pretty damning. If you’d seen it, you’d understand. There’s leaning, and then there’s leaning.”
“Does Williams admit to the affair?”
“They both deny it, but that wasn’t a problem for the segment. A self-righteous denial is good television, too.”
“Even if Clyde was having an affair, that doesn’t mean he’d murder the reporter who broke the story,” Melanie protested.
“I can’t prove Clyde killed Suzanne. I can’t even prove he’s behind the dog shit threat. But I’ve ordered my reporters to investigate his involvement, and you’d better do the same or it won’t look too good for the U.S. Attorney’s Office. We plan to make the Williams angle the centerpiece of our Butcher coverage.”
Thinking of her dear friend Joe, Melanie grimaced. With Target News after him, Clyde Williams was in for a rough ride.
T
he sun was up over the East River,
and doormen were out hosing down the sidewalks in their early morning ritual. Melanie stepped over rivulets of water as she approached the luxury apartment building where Suzanne Shepard had lived with her elderly mother. The officers from the Central Park precinct who’d made the notification hadn’t attempted to interview the distraught old lady, so nobody knew yet what details she could provide about the final hours of her daughter’s life.
Melanie showed her credentials to the doorman. Hector, the fatherly doorman in Melanie’s building, wore shirtsleeves with his uniform pants, but this doorman was dressed in full regalia down to the epaulets and white gloves. After calling to announce her, he directed her to a space-age elevator that whisked her up to the thirty-fourth floor so fast that her ears popped. Suzanne must’ve been loaded, living in a place like this. The wealth was conspicuous enough that Melanie made a mental note to look into who might’ve had a financial interest in her death.
As Melanie reached for the buzzer, the apartment door was
wrenched open by a boy of twelve or thirteen, barefoot, clad in a T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. Underneath long hair and an adolescent complexion, he bore more than a passing resemblance to Suzanne Shepard, and if looks alone hadn’t told Melanie who he was, the anguish in his eyes confirmed it beyond all doubt.
“Where’s my mom? Can I see her body?” he pleaded.
“Get away from that door, Charlie!”