The 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 colossal 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.