Most Wanted (11 page)

“Whatever you say, Bernadette. As long as we both know that the delay was your decision. A day or two can be a long time in an investigation like this. I don’t want to be accountable for the consequences.”

Melanie’s frankness read like insubordination to Bernadette. She flushed an apoplectic red. “You’re obviously missing the point,” Bernadette hissed. “These complaints about your performance are very awkward for me. I better not hear any others, or you won’t like the consequences. So do like I said.”

“Okay.” The fight suddenly drained out of Melanie. Some battles couldn’t be won, she realized—like any battle with Bernadette.

Satisfied, Bernadette turned on her heel and marched out of the room.

Melanie slumped on her desk, pillowing her head on folded arms. She wanted to cry, but she was afraid if she started, she might never stop. She closed her eyes, breathing rhythmically, trying to calm herself, but a loud rapping on the open door shattered her attempt at a Zen moment. She jerked her head up. Maurice Dawson, the custodian, stood in her doorway supporting a large handcart loaded with boxes.

“Yo, Melanie, I got a big delivery here for y’all. This ain’t even half of it. I got, like, twenty boxes.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t know. Come over from 26 Federal.”

FBI headquarters. It had to be the files from the old wiretap Dan and Randall had done on the C-Trout Blades. Just as well. Work was her best refuge, she reminded herself again.

“Okay, thanks, Maurice. Just put ’em down on the floor wherever you can find space.”

“If I do that, you won’t be able to get out the door.”

“It doesn’t matter. The way things are going, I’m not getting out of here tonight anyway.”

Maurice laughed, but she hadn’t been joking.

AFTER MAURICE FINISHED STACKING THE BOXES and left, Melanie checked her watch. It was a quarter to six, almost time for Elsie to go home. Even if Melanie left that minute, she’d still be late. She picked up the telephone and dialed.

“Hanson residence,” Elsie answered.

“Hey, Elsie, it’s me.”

“Now, why you calling me at this hour? Aren’t you supposed to be in the subway? I don’t like the sound of this.”

“I’m really sorry, but I’m running late. I’m caught at work. There’s nothing I can do about it. Steve’s in L.A. until tomorrow, so I was hoping you could stay a little late.”

“Well, I can’t tonight. I need more notice than that. Who’s gonna give my kids dinner?” Three of Elsie’s kids still lived at home. The youngest was twenty-one.

“I feel terrible asking this, but could they possibly order a pizza?” she asked.

“They like
my
cooking.”

“Please, Elsie. I’ll make it up to you. And I’ll pay you overtime.”

“I should
think
so. But I still can’t stay. I’m not used to this. If Mrs. Hanson ever had a social engagement, she told me at least a week in advance.”

“This isn’t a social engagement. I have to work. My boss is on my back. It’s not my fault.”

“What kind of treatment is this, now? Mrs. Hanson never treated me this way.”

“Look, Elsie, I’m really sorry. It’s not my choice, believe me. I’ll call around. Steve’s parents are away in Maine, but I’ll try my sister and my mom. Maybe one of them is free tonight. We need to talk, though. I’m under a lot of pressure at work, and I’m going to need some extra help from you in the next few weeks.”

“Humph,” Elsie grunted, not committing to anything.

Melanie hung up, flushed with anxiety. She’d never discussed overtime with Elsie before. It hadn’t come up, because Melanie had studiously avoided working late since coming back from maternity leave. She rushed home to be with Maya at bedtime. But her banker’s hours were about to end. Before Maya had been born, Melanie routinely worked until eight or nine o’clock at night. When she had a trial or a brief due, she’d stay at the office until eleven, even later, sometimes all night. The job demanded it. Bernadette had obviously noticed she was slacking off, and now, with the Benson case, no way would she get away with it. Melanie sighed deeply, knowing that her baby-sitting problems were just beginning.

She longed to give up and go home to Maya. But that wouldn’t be doing right by her job. Time to call her mother or her sister. She’d been avoiding them the past few days, not wanting to let on about Steve’s moving out. They already knew about the cheating, and she couldn’t stand any more of their sympathy. It came with a tinge of smugness, of how-the-mighty-have-fallen. Like, she might have a fancy diploma, but she couldn’t manage her own life. As if they could. She almost wished she’d never told them, but that awful night she found out, it was either talk to somebody or go
completamente loca
.

She deserved the prize for the worst way to find out your husband was cheating. It was almost a month ago now. Maya had been five months old and really sick for the first time—103.6, vomiting, her little body burning up. Steve was in L.A. on a deal, and Melanie was alone with the baby, worried, on the verge of taking her to the emergency room. She needed to hear Steve tell her it would be okay. She dialed his hotel and asked the operator to put her through to him. It was after midnight in L.A., but the phone rang and rang. He must still be working, she thought. So she tried the conference room in his firm’s L.A. office, where he’d been camped out the past few days. A woman answered. Melanie never found out who she was, but this girl had an agenda. Far from covering for anybody or sparing anyone’s feelings, she
wanted
Melanie to know.

“Oh,” she said, “you’re Steve’s wife. Steve and Samantha left
hours
ago. If you can’t get them in his room, try hers.” Then she carefully spelled Samantha’s last name.

Melanie’s body went cold and still, but her hands trembled violently as she dialed the hotel switchboard again and asked for Samantha Ellison’s room. When
she
answered, Melanie asked for Steve in a quiet, controlled voice.
Esa puta
handed the phone over to him. He said he would call back in a minute from his own room. She sat like a stone, barely existing, until the phone rang a few minutes later.

At least he had the dignity not to lie or make excuses. He told her that it had happened once before, that it was just sex, that Samantha meant nothing to him, and that he would end it right away. He told her that he loved her and Maya more than anything else in the world and that he hated himself for behaving this way. He couldn’t explain why he’d done it. Stress, maybe? Things tough at work, the new baby, Melanie busy and cranky and unavailable. Samantha had thrown herself at him; they were far from home. None of it was any excuse. He knew that. He told her he would never forgive himself, but that if she could find it in her heart to forgive him, he would be the best husband to her for the rest of his life. He told her he didn’t know how he would go on if she left him.

She couldn’t get her mind around it. He came home the next day and threw himself literally at her feet. She just watched, dry-eyed, unable to feel anything, while he cried. He went out and bought her an expensive diamond bracelet. She looked at it with disgust and told him to take it back to Tiffany’s. After several days of utter misery, she realized she needed some time alone. She told him to go stay at his parents’ for a while. He took some suits over there. Then he got sent back to L.A. That was nearly three weeks ago. Since then he’d been back in New York for just one weekend. She let him stay in the apartment so he could see Maya, but she made him sleep on the couch. She barely spoke to him. After he returned to L.A., she mostly screened his calls. She had at least five saved voice mails and, the last time she checked, seventeen unopened e-mails from him that she was thinking about deleting. She knew she couldn’t go on shutting him out. They had a child and a mortgage together. She had to make a real decision. But she couldn’t imagine the future. All she could do was grieve for what they’d lost. She couldn’t stand the sight of him, and yet all she wanted was to be with him, like nothing had ever happened.

She could sit here and wallow forever, but she had things to do. She considered calling her mother, then rejected it out of hand. Her mother wanted her to work things out with Steve. She couldn’t listen to that right now. Her mother was a little too clear-eyed for Melanie’s taste sometimes.
Grow up, Melanie, men are like that. Who should know better than me? Just be grateful he’s trying to make it up with you instead of walking out. If I were you, I’d take that bracelet and anything else I could get my hands on, and make him account for his every move from now on
. No, she couldn’t listen to that poisonous cynicism. Besides, her mother was too busy for baby-sitting. She was smack in the middle of her second youth, with a cute condo in Forest Hills and a good job as a bookkeeper for a flourishing dermatology practice. She’d gone blond after a lifetime as a brunette. She had at least two boyfriends that Melanie knew of, and she was addicted to swing-dance classes. No, Melanie would call only in a dire emergency.

Reluctantly, she dialed her sister’s cell phone.

“
¡Dígame
!” Linda was out of breath. Car horns blared in the background.

“Lin, it’s me. I need a favor.”

“Sí, claro, los Manolos.”

“Manolos? No, no, it’s Melanie.”

“Oh, Mel. I can barely hear you. I thought you were Teresa. She’s going to a benefit tonight, and she wants my brand-new gold stilettos with the crystals. Can you believe it? I paid five hundred Washingtons for those suckers. What’s up?”

“Listen, I have a problem. I’m in trouble at work, Steve’s still in L.A., and my baby-sitter is about to quit if I make her stay late.”

“Let me guess. You want me to baby-sit Maya?”

“Yes. Would you?”

“Gee, sweetie, I don’t think that’s such a great idea. I’d probably drop her or something. Besides, I’m going clubbing later with a guy who can get me a meeting with the programming people at Telemundo. You know, about developing my show.”

Linda was a fashion and entertainment reporter for a local cable news channel. She was damn good at it, too. She walked the walk, lived the same lifestyle her subjects did, made the connections. Speaking of which, Linda never went out until the small hours, and Melanie knew it.

“What time are you meeting him?” Melanie asked.

“
A medianoche
, downtown.”

“Midnight? I’ll be home before then.”

“But I need to get my hair blown out.”

“Use my hot curlers.”

“Hmm. I do like those things. They give me good volume. But did you try Mom?”

“She’s so on my case these days, I couldn’t stand the thought.”

“I hear you on that,
chica
.”

“Besides, it can take her an hour to get in on the train. Please, Lin, just say yes—I’ll owe you so big.”

“You’re not gonna make a habit of this, are you? Because you know I’m low on maternal instinct.”

“This is the first time I ever asked!”

“You take my next two turns going with Mom to Costco and it’s a deal.”

“You never take her anyway.”

“Is that a no?”

“Okay, okay, fine! Get over to my house, though. Elsie’s waiting.”

“Never saw a woman so afraid of her own help. You should fire her ass.”

“Be nice to her, please!
Te amo
, sis.”

“Yeah, you better.” Linda laughed and hung up.

MELANIE ORDERED A TURKEY SANDWICH AND TWO cups of coffee from the diner across the street, then knelt down and started reading the labels on the boxes. She had only a vague idea of what she was looking for—something, anything, that could lead her to an address on Slice or Bigga. She’d done a few wiretaps in her day and knew how the files should be organized. But this was a big investigation, bigger than any she’d ever worked on, with numerous telephones tapped. Figuring out which telephones might have some connection to Slice without spending weeks reading every document—that seemed beyond the capacity of her already overtaxed brain.

She jumped when her phone rang. It was the guard in the lobby calling to say the delivery guy was on the way up with her food. She buzzed herself out through the bulletproof door and waited by the elevator, stomach rumbling. This would be her first meal since that bowl of Cheerios early this morning. The Benson case was good for her diet anyway. She’d lost twenty-seven pounds since Maya was born, but when she looked in the mirror, all she saw was the ten still to go. And they weren’t coming off without her starving herself, which she wasn’t good at, or hitting the gym, which she didn’t have time for.

The delivery guy got off the elevator and handed her a dripping-wet plastic bag; it must’ve started to rain. She paid him and went back inside. Several of her colleagues were hanging out near the fax machine, shooting the breeze. Brad Monahan, a tall, square-jawed prosecutor with perfect Ken-doll hair, snapped his arm back and sent a Nerf football sailing right for her head. She deflected it with her free hand; it hit the floor and bounced under a nearby desk.

“You’re supposed to catch it, Vargas,” he called good-humoredly.

“Her hands are full, you moron,” said Susan Charlton, a short, athletic redhead, perched against the fax table, arms crossed over her chest. Susan was a former Olympic swimmer and the only openly gay woman in the office. The same cops who called her “Miss Alternative Lifestyle” behind her back begged her to work their cases because she was so fierce in the courtroom. Melanie, Susan, and Joe Williams—who stood with Brad and Susan—had all started in the office around the same time and gone through basic training together. Brad was junior to the three others, so ambitious and competitive that they teased him mercilessly about it, but he was cheerful and fun to have around.

“You’re losing it big-time, Vargas,” Brad said. “If you can’t catch a goddamn football, how you gonna command a courtroom?”

“Brad’s favorite game isn’t Nerf football,” Joe observed. “It’s keeping track of who has the most macho points.”

Smiling, Melanie bent down and picked up the football. What the hell, she could take a little break, hang out for a minute, like old times. One thing she’d missed out on since Maya was born was the late-night camaraderie around the office. Melanie and her colleagues were too busy to chat during the workday. Their only chance to see each other—to seek advice and trade war stories—came after hours, when the courthouse was closed and the phones stopped ringing. By rushing out every day at five-thirty, she cut herself off from them. That was a price she paid for motherhood, a price none of them could relate to. Melanie was the only woman in her unit with a child. Almost none of the male prosecutors had families either. The job was too intense. It was for young, ambitious,
single
people. People with outside commitments just couldn’t handle the pressure. She tried not to think about that, about how the two things in her life that were any good—work and Maya—seemed to conflict with each other.