Bernadette authorized Melanie to approach Clyde Williams with the limited mission of asking him whether he had an alibi. Because of the sensitive nature of the assignment, Melanie was instructed to bring witnesses.
Clyde Williams’s office was located on the first floor of a renovated brownstone off St. Nicholas Avenue in the Hamilton Heights section of Harlem. Melanie, Dan, and Janice cooled their heels in the reception area waiting for Clyde to finish a conference call. The room had hardwood floors and freshly painted white walls hung with public service posters and artwork from the local elementary school. It was dominated by an enormous campaign poster of Clyde from the last election, smiling his toothpaste-commercial smile. A receptionist and a press aide sat at nearby desks fielding telephone calls.
Melanie leafed through a day-old copy of the Times she’d picked up from the coffee table. They’d run a story on the Shepard slaying above the fold on the front page of the Metro section. On the morning after the murder, the Post and the News had gone with huge front-page headlines, but when it came to the Times, front page of the Metro section was considered big coverage for a local crime story.
Janice was busy reviewing old segments of High Crimes on an iVideo player. She claimed to have fast-forwarded through sixty episodes in the past twenty-four hours, enough to script the show herself.
Dan looked at his watch. “Guy’s a city councilman,” he said, catching Melanie’s eyes. “You’d think he was the fricking president of the United States the way he’s treating us. What’s it been, half an hour now?”
The receptionist heard him, and she sent a huffy look sailing in his direction. She probably assumed Dan was some racist Irish cop who didn’t like being made to wait by a black man. Melanie, who’d carefully probed Dan’s views on such matters over time, knew this wasn’t true. Dan thought of himself as a working stiff. He didn’t take it well when anyone, of any race, pulled rank or treated him disrespectfully, and he really hated it when somebody slowed the pace of his investigation. The fact was, Melanie was getting pretty annoyed herself.
“How much longer?” Melanie asked the receptionist, an attractive woman in her fifties with a West Indian accent.
“I really can’t say. He’s talking to the mayor.”
“Ma’am, I understand that, but we’re investigating a brutal murder that took place in Central Park Wednesday night. The Central Park Butcher—perhaps you’ve heard of him? He’s at large on the streets of this city. If he strikes again while we’re being delayed here, you can imagine how bad that would look for the councilman.”
The receptionist appeared to weigh what Melanie said. “I can text him and remind him you’re out here.”
“I would appreciate that.”
As the receptionist turned to her computer, Dan winked at Melanie.
“Hey,” she said, “how’s your sick friend?”
He looked startled. “What?”
“I was calling around last night to check up on the Harris surveillance. Julian Hay told me you were visiting somebody in the hospital.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to get back to you.”
Their eyes held. He didn’t volunteer anything further, and since he didn’t, she felt she couldn’t ask. “That’s okay,” she said.
“Hey, I found something!” Janice exclaimed, ripping off her headphones. “Remember you asked me to look for links between David Harris and Suzanne Shepard, to figure out whether he had a reason to want her dead? Well, about two years ago, Suzanne did a segment on a couple of big-name New York City lawyers who were taking fat fees to advise clients on appearing before this business ethics review board that they actually served on. Clear conflict of interest, right?”
“Harris was one of the lawyers?” Melanie asked.
“No, but his boss, Stan Feinerman, was. The segment caused a minor scandal. Feinerman resigned from his position on the ethics board, and Suzanne made a fuss. Here, I’ll play it for you.”
Janice turned the video player so Dan and Melanie could see. On-screen, Suzanne Shepard was jogging backward in front of the imposing federal courthouse at Foley Square, trying to get a comment from a tall, bent man with a craggy face and silver hair.
“Mr. Feinerman, why did you resign?” Suzanne yelled, shoving a microphone at him.
“No comment,” Feinerman said, waving his hands as if to swat her away like a gnat.
“Leave him alone!” yelled the muscular man hurrying along behind Feinerman. The camera focused on his face for a brief moment. It was David Harris.
Janice paused the monitor at looked at them triumphantly.
“That’s it?” Melanie asked.
Janice shrugged. “It’s a connection. Why didn’t Harris tell us he’d met Suzanne? And under such adversarial circumstances?”
Dan nodded. “She’s got a point. Harris claimed he never met Suzanne, never even watched her show.”
“Maybe he forgot?” Melanie asked dubiously.
“Who’d forget something like that?” Dan asked.
“Then he lied. You’ve got him under surveillance, right?” she asked Dan.
“Every minute. And we should get the DNA results back soon, so if he killed Suzanne Shepard, we’ll know.”
“Ms. Vargas, Councilman Williams will see your party in his office now,” the receptionist said, still eyeing Dan with hostility.
Clyde and an aide, a thin, bookish-looking guy with a pockmarked face and glasses, stood up as they entered the room. Clyde was a big man, tall and solidly built. Melanie couldn’t help noticing that he was the right size and body type to be the killer—if you believed David Harris’s description—albeit the wrong color.
Clyde came around the desk with both arms raised, and Melanie promptly stuck out her hand out to fend off an embrace. It was tough to put the screws to a suspect who greeted you with a big hug. Clyde, always an expert at taking the temperature of a room, shook her hand with distant politeness as if that’s what he’d intended all along.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. We’re in the middle of budget negotiations and as usual the mayor and the City Council are at odds.”
Introductions were made, and they all sat down at a conference table situated in a bay window overlooking the street. Melanie’s seat faced into the room. Every square inch of wall space was covered with memorabilia from Clyde’s political career—testimonials, handshake photos with presidents and civil rights figures and movie stars, plaques and certificates and awards. Even in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, where people framed every last atta-boy letter that came across their desks, she’d never seen a wall of glory so extensive. It was difficult not to feel intimidated. Melanie cleared her throat, placed her notepad squarely on the desk before her, and looked Clyde in the eye.
“Councilman, as you know, Suzanne Shepard was murdered on Wednesday night,” she began.
Clyde drew his brows together and steepled his fingers. “I do know that. What I don’t understand, Melanie, is what the hell it’s got to do with me.”
The anger in his tone took her by surprise. This was not going to be a collegial visit with the father of a good friend.
“We’re not here to accuse you of anything,” she replied. “We need to cover our bases, that’s all. We’re speaking to a lot of people who—well, frankly, who might’ve had reason to be angry with the victim. We’re talking to you because Suzanne Shepard had just run a very damaging story on you.”
“Some reporter smearing Clyde with a pack of lies makes him a murder suspect?” demanded the aide. His name was Rockwell Davis, and Clyde called him Rocky. Davis radiated cold hostility.
“He’s not a suspect. We’re here to cross his name off the list of people who might have been involved. In order for us to do that, he simply needs to tell us where he was at the time of the attack.”
“I’m supposed to start accounting for my movements?” Clyde said.
“Only at the time of the murder,” Melanie replied. “That’s all we’re interested in. We’re not trying to burden you. In fact, we have your best interests at heart. The press is making a big fuss about your connection to our office through Joe. If we could tell them you have an alibi—”
“You are burdening me. I find the question completely outrageous and insulting, and I have no intention of answering,” Clyde said.
Melanie looked at Clyde in amazement. For all the time she’d spent thinking about how to phrase the question, it had never occurred to her that he might refuse to answer. Her only hope of salvaging the situation was to keep her cool and try to ease his hostility.
“Clyde,” she said in a soothing tone, “I’m begging you not to take this personally. I’m only here because questions have been raised in the press. I’ll tell you right now, I don’t believe you’re involved in any murder, but we have to follow procedure. You’re not the first person we’re asking to provide an alibi, and you won’t be the last.”
“What do you plan to do with the information if he tells you?” Davis asked.
“First, we’ll verify it, and if everything checks out—”
“You see where this is going?” Davis demanded, turning to Clyde with a sneer. “Verify it. We give an inch, and next thing we know, they’re all up in our business. They’ll want your phone records, a list of everybody you talk to, where you went. Domestic spying. Big Brother tactics. Plain and simple.”
“You’re making that up,” Melanie insisted. “I haven’t asked for any of that stuff.”
“You know what I don’t understand?” Clyde said to Melanie. “You already arrested another man for this crime. It’s all over the papers. Rocky, hand me today’s Daily News from over there.”
Davis grabbed a newspaper from the chair beside him. Clyde slapped it down in front of Melanie. The front-page headline, over a picture of David Harris and Bob Adelman leaving the courthouse, read, LAWYER NABBED IN TV STAR SLAY.
“Why the hell should I let you question me when you’re in court telling a judge somebody else did the deed? You think I’m a patsy?”
“Mr. Harris was an eyewitness to the murder,” Melanie explained. “We charged him with obstruction of justice for refusing to cooperate with the FBI. We’re investigating him thoroughly, and we think there’s a chance he’s the killer. We’ve taken a DNA sample from him, and we’re waiting for results. But we’re still duty bound to check out other credible leads.”
“Clyde is not a credible lead,” Davis said. “You’re on some kind of fishing expedition here.”
“That’s not true,” Melanie replied, fixing Clyde with a steady gaze. “We’re being careful and deliberate. That’s why we’re asking a broad spectrum of people to provide alibis. We need to hear from you, Councilman, in order to stop the hysteria in the press that says we’re giving you a free ride.”
Clyde folded his arms across his chest. “That’s your problem, now, isn’t it? Don’t expect any help from me. See, I don’t forget who appointed your boss.”
“You mean, the U.S. attorney?”
“That’s your boss, isn’t it?”
“Not my direct boss. There’s a bunch of layers of hierarchy between me and him.”
“But he’s your ultimate boss?”
“Yes.”
“And this president appointed him, am I correct?”
“Yes,” Melanie said.
“A president who would do anything to stop me from becoming mayor?”
“That may be, but it has nothing to do with why I’m here. I never even speak to the U.S. attorney, and I sincerely doubt that he talks to the president. The president has bigger concerns than one little murder in New York.”
“Yeah, like who’s gonna be the next mayor of this city!” Davis exclaimed.
Melanie was speechless.
“You bust into my office asking me intrusive questions when you already have another man in custody,” Clyde said, shaking his head in disgust. “What else am I supposed to think? This is harassment. It’s a conspiracy. It’s politically motivated, and it’s a blatant attempt to smear me.”
“Why would I smear you, Clyde? I support you!”
“If you support me, then you know I had nothing to do with this murder. So take my word for that and leave.”
“You of all people should understand the position I’m in,” Melanie exclaimed, frustrated. “Your son is a prosecutor in our office. We can’t do you special favors or treat you differently than we would anybody else who might’ve had a motive to go after Suzanne Shepard, or it’ll look bad. If you won’t answer questions voluntarily, then…” She trailed off, thinking about how ugly this could get.
“Then what? You subpoena me? Force me to take the Fifth?”
“I’d have no choice. And taking the Fifth would look pretty bad for a guy running for mayor, wouldn’t it?” she asked.
Clyde folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. “Not if he’s the victim of ugly smear tactics. You want to get into a pissing match with me in the media, I promise you, I’ll win.”
“I don’t want that. The only thing I want is to catch this killer.”
“I need you to leave now. Rocky, show them out.”
They stepped from the brownstone into bright sunshine. The scent of warm soil and lilac wafted toward them from a community garden down the block, and children’s laughter rang out from a nearby playground. Dan’s car was parked down the street, and as they headed for it, their moods could not have been more at odds with the glory of the day.
“What a fiasco,” Dan said. “Could you believe that horseshit about how we’re persecuting him because the U.S. attorney works for the president and the president hates Clyde?”
“Everybody’s got a conspiracy theory these days,” Melanie said.
“He’s guilty as sin,” Janice, who’d been silent during the interview, said with surprising vitriol.
“You think so?” Melanie asked. Yesterday, Janice had been convinced David Harris was the killer. Melanie was beginning to question the girl’s judgment.
“He told us he’s planning to take the Fifth! Why would he do that if he wasn’t involved with the murder?” Janice asked.
“For political reasons,” Melanie said. “Maybe we stumbled into some game Clyde is playing with the press. I’m more concerned about Rockwell Davis. I got the distinct feeling he was turning Clyde against us.”
“He’s a troublemaker, big-time,” Dan agreed.
“What do we know about him?” Melanie asked.
“Not enough. Nothing, really,” Dan said.
“You should’ve asked them both for DNA samples,” Janice said.
“I wasn’t authorized to,” Melanie said. “Besides, they’d never agree. If we get to that point, we’ll need a court order. Hell, we’ll need straitjackets.”
“Here’s what I don’t get,” Dan said. “If Clyde gave us his alibi, we’d pack up and go home. Leave him alone. So why not give it to us? He’s hiding something about where he was that night.”
Melanie was getting tired of defending Clyde Williams. Besides, in her heart of hearts, she was beginning to wonder about him herself.
“To hell with the paperwork,” she told Dan. “Start looking at them. Find out whatever you can.”