Friday morning, on her way to an appointment with the head of security for Target News, Melanie made what she thought would be a brief detour to the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home to pay her respects to Suzanne Shepard. She did it because she thought it was the right thing to do, but her little trip turned out to have some unanticipated benefits.
Frank E. Campbell was Manhattan’s prestige funeral parlor, the place where the wealthy and socially prominent took their final bows. It sat, austere and imposing, on a fine Madison Avenue block, within striking distance of the palatial apartment buildings of Fifth and Park Avenues and convenient to the best shopping. The rich and famous didn’t even need to call a limo to take them there, although of course they preferred to. Two uniformed officers and a sober-suited funeral director took shelter from the sun under the red awning, checking IDs to make sure that no unauthorized mourners crashed Suzanne Shepard’s last personal appearance.
Melanie flashed her credentials and got waved inside, where she stepped into a small elevator with a blonde wearing a tight black dress, four-inch sling-back heels, and a black picture hat. Though her perfect smile and generous cleavage weren’t on display at the moment, Melanie instantly recognized Kim Savitt from the photo Detective Estrada had shown her yesterday. Kim’s overpowering gardenia perfume made Melanie sneeze, which in turn caused Kim to shoot Melanie an annoyed glance. She was talking on a cell phone and apparently finding it difficult to hear.
“What? Say that again…Oh, come on, Miles. I told you, I can’t,” Kim said, studying her manicure with a frown, as if it were, to her expert eye, less perfect than it appeared. On her left index finger, she wore a square-cut diamond that reached to her knuckle. Kim seemed utterly oblivious to Melanie’s presence in the elevator.
“Because. I’m going to Suzanne’s viewing, then I have to find something good to wear to Danielle’s party at Buddakan tomorrow night. They’re expecting photographers from Avenue…No, just the viewing. The funeral’s tomorrow…Do whatever you want, but don’t expect me to talk to you if you show up. All of New York’s gonna be there, and I need to be careful. Drew’s lawyer is having me watched. He’s got some pond-scum PI after me.”
The elevator doors opened.
“Gotta run,” Kim said. “I’ll see you Sunday. Don’t call before then; they’re watching my phone bills, too. Kiss, kiss.”
She snapped her phone shut and met Melanie’s eyes briefly, as if by accident, without seeming to actually see her. They both stepped out of the elevator. Trouble in paradise? Could Kim and Miles Ortiz be on the outs, leaving her willing to snitch on him? Melanie had to bite her tongue to stop herself from demanding an interview on the spot. She’d find her opportunity later, but for now it felt like dirty pool to corner the woman at a viewing—although she had to admit Kim Savitt didn’t exactly look brokenhearted.
Melanie stayed a few steps behind Kim as they made their way into a large, high-ceilinged room, soothingly lit and filled with the hushed buzz of whispered conversation. The carpet was thick and soft and absorbed the sound. Between the backs of the moneyed and influential, Melanie caught a glimpse of a gleaming mahogany coffin hoisted on a stand at the front of the room. Before it, Lorraine Shepard greeted the mourners like a royal princess receiving guests at court, extending her hand with lofty courtesy, her coiffed head erect. Melanie’s eyes flew around the room until she spotted young Charlie seated on a chair near a window, rubbing his face with his hands. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him, so Melanie maneuvered through the crowd to his side.
“Charlie?” she said gently, touching his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
He looked up at her, his cheeks wet. Recognition dawned in his eyes. “My mom in a box. It’s too weird. How can that be her?”
Charlie’s shaggy hair showed fresh teeth marks from a comb. He wore a prep school blazer with a crest and beat-up Top-Siders without socks, so that his too-short khakis left several inches of gangly white ankle exposed. He looked even younger than he had yesterday, and Melanie’s heart ached for him.
“You’ll see her again someday,” Melanie said.
“I wish I believed in that afterlife stuff. Maybe I’d feel better. But the truth is, my mother’s dead, I’ll never see her again, and my life is ruined.” His eyes welled up, and tears streamed down his face. Melanie gave him a Kleenex from her bag.
“Your life isn’t ruined,” Melanie insisted. “What happened is incredibly sad, but people survive the loss of a parent. I did. My father left me when I was just about your age, after a terrible act of violence.”
Charlie wiped his eyes with the Kleenex, looking interested.
“He owned a furniture store in Bushwick,” Melanie continued. “He was shot during a robbery. I was there. I saw the whole thing. My father survived, but he was really different afterward. He left us—moved back to Puerto Rico, remarried, had a second family. I’ve only seen him twice since then. So for me, it’s like he died, except…I always thought it was my fault somehow. I’m telling you this because I had a terrible time, but I got through it. I have a daughter now, and I love her more than I ever knew I could love anyone. I have a job I love. You just go on, and eventually things get better.”
“I know you’re trying to help. But don’t lie. Your life was never the same again after that, was it?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Did they catch him?”
“The man who shot my father? No, but don’t let that worry you. The city was different then. Rougher. There was more crime, fewer cops. And besides, my family was poor. We had no connections. Your mother’s murder is getting the best attention. That may not be right, but it’s true. We’ll find the man who did this. I promise.”
“Good. Because it’s the only thing I care about. That’s what I’m holding on to. The thought of seeing him locked up like some animal in a cage keeps me going. Do you think I’m bad for wanting that?”
Melanie put her hand on the boy’s head, as if to protect him. The roughness of his hair made her want a son.
“No. I think you’re human.”
Seeing Charlie Shepard’s grief spurred Melanie on. She expressed her condolences to Lorraine, who seemed more interested in the celebrity chef on line behind Melanie than in hearing about the investigation, anyway. Then she hurried to the doorway, where she’d caught a glimpse of Kim Savitt’s dramatic hat making its exit. Manners be damned; Melanie couldn’t stand on ceremony if she wanted to get justice for that motherless boy.
By the time Melanie got out to the hallway, the elevator doors were closing. She raced down the stairs, reaching the ground floor in time to see Kim stepping out into the blazing sunlight. Melanie tailed her south for half a block. Kim was heading for an enormous white Escalade idling on a side street. A handsome, dark-skinned driver wearing a business suit and mirrored aviators stepped smartly around the massive vehicle and pulled the rear passenger door open as Kim approached.
Melanie broke into a run. “Mrs. Savitt, wait!”
Kim turned.
“Melanie Vargas. I’m a federal prosecutor investigating the murder of Suzanne Shepard.” She flipped open her credentials.
“What’s that got to do with me?” Kim snapped.
“You’re involved in a relationship with Miles Ortiz. I need to ask you some questions about him. He’s a suspect in Suzanne Shepard’s murder,” Melanie said.
“Jesus.” Kim glanced at her driver, then over to the spot where a bunch of photographers congregated in front of the funeral home.
“From what I know of your personal situation, you can’t afford bad press,” Melanie said.
“Get in.” Kim walked up to the driver, placed her hand in his, and used it to hoist herself smoothly into the Escalade, quite a feat in heels and a tight dress. Melanie clambered in after her. Inside, the second row of seats had been replaced with two luxurious leather swivel armchairs that boasted acres of space between them and control panels in each arm that presumably operated the flat screen TV. The air conditioning combined with the tinted windows made the hot city feel suddenly a hundred miles away.
“Hamad, take me to Michael Kors,” Kim commanded as the driver took his seat.
Kim removed her big hat and smoothed her lemony-blond hair. Without the hat, she looked less extraordinary, more like a woman with a good body and an average face who’d made herself over at great expense rather than a true beauty. She seemed to be shrewd without being intelligent, and the faintest trace of Jersey lingered in her voice.
The driver stared straight ahead as if he were deaf and blind, but that didn’t make it so. The last thing Melanie needed was a leak.
“Ask him to turn on some music,” she said quietly. “What I’m about to say, you’d prefer to keep private.”
“Hamad, put on your headphones,” Kim ordered.
The driver whipped out an iPod. Tinny music emerged from the headphones as he inserted them into his ears.
“Listen, I know you eavesdropped on my conversation in the elevator before,” Kim said. “No wonder you think I’m involved with Miles. But that was a different guy. I was talking to Miles Drentell, not Miles Ortiz. Miles Ortiz is just my trainer. I barely know him.”
“Mrs. Savitt, lying to a federal official in the course of a murder investigation is a crime. You could go to jail for what you just said.”
“How dare you accuse me of lying!” Despite her huffy tone, Kim looked frightened.
“I’m not an idiot. Miles Drentell was a character on thirtysomething. Besides, in order to prove you’re lying, all I have to do is subpoena your cell-phone records. They’ll tell me who you were talking to.”
“What if I was talking to my trainer on the phone? Big deal. You can’t do anything to me over that,” Kim insisted.
“You have a sexual relationship with Miles Ortiz, and he gives you drugs,” Melanie said calmly. “Miles broke into Suzanne Shepard’s apartment a week before she was killed. Your husband owns the building. The building has tight security, and under normal circumstances, Miles wouldn’t have been able to get in. But because of his relationship with you—well, you begin to see how bad this looks? You could end up implicated not only in a burglary, but in the biggest murder of the year.”
Kim hadn’t denied a single word Melanie said, but her eyes had grown wider as Melanie spoke.
“I have a daughter,” Kim said. “Abigail Rose. She’s three. She’s my mini-me. I dress her up like a little doll. Drew is trying to take her away from me. Not because he wants her, but because he wants to hurt me. It would be a big problem if I got arrested for anything. Okay? Can you understand?”
“I understand completely. I’m divorced, and I have a little girl, too,” Melanie said. And she did understand, enough to feel grateful that her own divorce had been amicable and swift, and that Steve hadn’t resorted to any nasty tricks.
“So you won’t arrest me?”
“Whether you get arrested or not is up to you, Kim. If you’re truthful and cooperative, there won’t be any need.”
“What are you asking me to do? You’re not going to make me talk against Miles, are you?”
“Why? Are you afraid of him?”
“No, but he is my friend.”
“How would you feel if you knew he was involved in a murder? Would you think of him as a friend then?”
“What men get up to in the business world is none of my concern. My husband develops waterfront real estate in Jersey. You have to bust heads to do that. Nothing shocks me, and I don’t judge.”
“You may have an incentive to look the other way so you can enjoy your lifestyle without guilt,” Melanie said, “but don’t expect me to. You facilitated a burglary by letting Miles into your building. I’m betting you knew what he was up to. As soon as I can prove it, I’ll arrest you.”
“You’re wrong, I swear. I’ll tell you the truth, okay? Miles came over on Saturday when the nanny took Abigail to music class. We did some yoga, that’s all. I didn’t know anything about him robbing Suzanne’s apartment.”
Melanie took out her notebook. “You admit Miles came over to your apartment that Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Around two, which is when Abigail has her class at Diller Quaile.”
“Where?”
“Diller-Quaile. It’s a music school, an important place to be seen for the pre-K set. Abigail has a class there every Saturday, and I get some ‘me’ time.”
“Was Miles carrying anything when he arrived?”
“He usually carries a Louis Vuitton messenger bag that some client gave him last Christmas. I’m pretty sure he had it with him then. He can fit a lot of stuff inside that thing, so for all I know, he made a stop at Suzanne’s on the way to my place. Once he’s past the doormen downstairs, Miles can go anywhere he wants. It’s not like they patrol the hallways.”
“If Miles committed the robbery first, there would have been a long wait between when the doorman called to announce him and when he arrived at your apartment. Is that what you’re saying happened?”
Kim didn’t answer.
“Well?” Melanie demanded.
“Not that I recall,” she conceded.
“What time did he leave?”
“Around six,” Kim said, flushing. “I know, you’re probably going that’s a long yoga workout, right? But I have some back problems. Miles is certified in deep-tissue massage, and he does that for me sometimes. Therapeutically, I mean.”
“At any time during the four hours he was in your apartment, did Miles leave?”
“Like leave and come back?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe. I fell asleep, and at one point I was in the shower, so I can’t be sure.” Kim paused, studying Melanie’s reaction, then added, "Sleeping and showering are normal for me after a workout. So you see, he could have snuck out and done any old thing, and I wouldn’t have known. If Miles robbed Suzanne’s apartment, I didn’t have a clue. You can’t hold me responsible.”
Kim was so clearly lying about the nature of her relationship with Miles that Melanie found it difficult to believe she was telling the truth about anything else. But she wrote down everything Kim said anyway. At least she’d have a record of what the woman’s story was, so she could check up on it.
“Where was Miles on Wednesday night when Suzanne was murdered?” Melanie asked.
Kim shrugged. “Not with me.”
“Did you speak to him or see him at all on Wednesday?”
“We might’ve talked on the phone at some point, although I can’t remember what about. Nothing important. I was at Bliss all morning getting a facial and waxing, then I picked up Abigail from school and took her to my hairstylist to get her ends trimmed. At night, I went out with some girlfriends.”
“What drugs is Miles selling?”
“I don’t know anything about any drugs. The strongest thing Miles ever gave me was some echinacea when I had a cold.”
“You’re lying, Kim.”
“I’m in the middle of a custody fight. If I get high once in a while, you can’t expect me to admit it. I’d lose my daughter.” Kim looked at Melanie pleadingly. She seemed to be telling the truth, and for the first time, Melanie actually felt sorry for her.
“Michael Kors, ma’am,” the driver said.
They’d gone down Fifth Avenue, circled around, and ended up in front of a Madison Avenue boutique that was right near where they’d started. They could have walked there faster and saved the gas, but apparently walking in her Jimmy Choos wasn’t part of Kim’s lifestyle. Melanie’s momentary sympathy dried up and blew away.
“I can’t force you to talk,” Melanie said in a disapproving tone. “But don’t think you’re immune, Kim. I plan to look into these drug allegations, and if they’re substantiated, well, I would feel an obligation to let the family court know you’re using drugs.”
Kim blanched. “No, please.”
“It’s not a healthy environment for your daughter.”
“I never do anything in front of her! Please, let’s talk this over. I want to help. I want us to be on the same team. What can I do to show you that I’m acting in good faith?”
“You could start by telling the truth.”
“If I say I’m sleeping with Miles or getting stoned, I lose Abigail. Isn’t there something else?”
“Like what?”
“I know I said Miles was my friend, but you’re right, if he’s the Central Park Butcher, that’s not okay. I mean, I would be shocked, but people can fool you. Let me do something, anything, to help you out. Wear a wire. Whatever you want.”
Melanie thought for a moment. “There is something you can do. But it involves some risk to yourself.”
“What?”
“I need you to make an introduction. To introduce somebody to Miles, to vouch for this person.”
“Like a narc?” Kim asked.
“Honestly, Kim, it’s better for you if you don’t know the details.”