Melanie made a complete circuit of the Temple grounds, working up her nerve to approach Clyde Williams. Clyde stood in a prominent spot on the plaza surrounded by an ever-shifting horde of well-wishers and glad-handers. Melanie sampled the hors d’oeuvres along the way. She had to; they were too tempting. Tuna tartare with dilled crème fraîche, puff pastry filled with wild mushrooms, rare roast beef with wasabi cream on pumpernickel toast points. The food was delicious, but her excursion was nothing more than a stall for time, and she knew it.
Melanie could no longer justify her presence at the party if she wasn’t going to do her job, so she climbed up onto the plaza and attached herself to the outer edge of the crowd that orbited Clyde. She began working her way inward until she could overhear the conversation—which was better described as a monologue, really, given that Clyde was the only person talking. Everybody else seemed to be there merely to laugh appreciatively at the proper intervals.
“Back in ’79, President Carter had called up and asked me to lead a task force on urban renewal,” Clyde was saying. “We were looking for a public face, somebody glamorous for the press to latch on to. Even then, we understood PR. Well, one night I was out at CBGB for an aide’s birthday. The club of the moment, what Lotus is now. What Studio 54 used to be. But hardly my sort of crowd. There were, there were—”
At that moment, Clyde’s restless eyes settled on Melanie, and he lost his place in his speech. Rockwell Davis was standing beside him. When Davis noticed his boss’s stumble, his glance sought out the point where Clyde’s eyes had fixed. As he caught sight of Melanie, Davis’s expression changed dramatically, and he slipped from his boss’s side, melting into the crowd.
“It was a punk crowd,” Clyde said, recovering, “with a dangerous vibe, not my scene at all. But suddenly across the room I spot Debbie Harry. This was in Blondie’s heyday. She was a huge star and hot, mmmph, like you would not believe. About five minutes later, she sends somebody over with a note asking me to meet her in the bathroom. Being a single brother at the time, and club bathrooms being what they were in those days, naturally I had some exotic things on my mind. Here I am thinking me and Blondie—”
Rockwell Davis suddenly materialized at Melanie’s elbow, giving her a start. He leaned down and whispered fiercely, “Who let you in?”
“I need to speak to Clyde right away. Something big has come up. I’m sure he’d rather hear it from me than on the eleven o’clock news.”
“He can’t talk to you now. Whatever you have to say, you can say to me. And outside.”
Davis’s fingers closed around her arm with viselike strength. Melanie locked eyes with him.
“Hustle me out of here against my will and not only will I make a huge scene, but you’ll face charges,” she said through gritted teeth.
People were turning to look, and Davis saw that. Clyde was watching them out of the corner of his eye, and he raised his voice, racing to the punch line to distract his curious guests.
“And then Debbie said, ‘Why, Mr. Williams, that’s not what President Carter told me!’”
The crowd broke into waves of laughter. Rockwell Davis dropped her elbow, but the way he loomed over her was pure intimidation.
“The only road to Clyde is through me. Your choice. We step outside or you leave.”
“Back off, I said.”
Melanie stood her ground, and Davis took a step backward. There was ruthlessness in his ascetic, pockmarked face. Clyde might be too smart and too smooth to commit murder in pursuit of his political goals, but was Davis? Melanie had asked Dan to look into Davis’s alibi as well as Clyde Williams’s, but with everything else going on in the investigation, she hadn’t had time to follow up. Could she be looking at the Butcher of Central Park?
“Come with me. We’ll talk privately,” Davis said under his breath.
He turned and headed for the exit that led out into the Egyptian galleries. Melanie considered the possibility that she’d be walking into a trap if she followed. Granted, she was now powerfully curious about Rockwell Davis, but that was no reason to get sloppy. She checked the reception on her cell phone and noted the locations of guards surrounding the Temple entrance. She wouldn’t sacrifice her safety, but she had to follow him. She couldn’t resist the prospect of learning more about Davis.
Melanie stepped into a long gallery that displayed mummies and sarcophagi and sculptures of emaciated cats with blank eyes. The place was full of dead people, empty of live ones, and eerily silent in contrast with the buzz of talk at the party. Melanie’s footsteps echoed back at her as she walked halfway down its length looking for Rockwell Davis, who seemed to have disappeared. She was far away from the guards, but still within screaming distance. Melanie paused before two identical statues flanking an entrance to a secondary gallery. They were strange beasts carved from blackest stone, with the head of a lion and the body of a woman.
SEKHMET. THIS GODDESS REPRESENTS THE FORCE OF VIOLENCE AND UNEXPECTED DISASTER, read the plaque.
Great.
“In here,” a voice, insinuating and cold, said from behind the statues.
Melanie’s senses were on high alert. She found Davis standing before a glass case that held a display of three painted coffins suspended by wires. They levitated weirdly, one on top of the other, several feet apart.
“Why the theatrics?” she asked.
“No theatrics. I’m just looking for privacy. There’s press around. I saw that piece of trash Gilmartin before. God knows how he got in.”
“I need to talk to Clyde,” Melanie said.
“You told me that already. I’m indulging your request by meeting with you myself. You should be grateful for that, given what happened at our meeting earlier today. You can tell me your news, and if I think it’s important, I’ll convey it to the councilman.”
“You’re calling the shots around here, aren’t you?” Melanie asked.
“I don’t have time to discuss the dynamics of our organization with you. Say what you got to say, or I’m going back inside.”
She noticed he hadn’t denied her accusation.
“We have evidence that Suzanne Shepard received a threat the day after she broadcast the segment on Clyde’s affair with Emily King—” Melanie began.
“Alleged affair. We deny it.”
“Alleged. Whatever. That’s not my concern. The point is, we’ve now linked this threat definitively to the murder. I’d be willing to preview the evidence for Clyde and give him a chance to prove that he wasn’t the one who made the threat. But in return, I need some information.”
“What kind of information?”
“A heads-up on what he’s planning to say at the press conference later.”
Davis laughed. “Am I hearing right? You’ll allow us to give you some information if we pay for it by giving you some other information? What kind of suckers do you take us for?”
“I don’t understand why this has to be such an adversarial discussion,” Melanie said.
“Maybe because you’re trying to hang a murder on my man that he didn’t commit.”
“I’m not trying to hang anything on anybody. I’m looking for the truth.”
“You say that,” Davis said, snorting derisively. “But in reality you’re looking for a conviction and some sweet press. Who you have to screw over to get to that, you don’t care.”
“You’re wrong, Rockwell.”
“You want to know what Clyde’s gonna say at the press conference? He’s gonna say you’re harassing us. And the more you mouth off, the louder he’s gonna say it. He’s going to accuse you by name of trashing his reputation in order to throw this election to his opponent. You coming here to try to sabotage our fund-raiser just gives him more ammunition.”
“Sabotage? I’m beginning to think you’re seriously paranoid.”
“Think whatever you want, sister. But if I was you, I’d watch my back.” Davis pushed by her roughly and was gone.
Was that a threat? By telling Melanie to watch her back, was Davis signifying an intent to get violent, to go to the mattresses? Filtered through his icy anger, the words had seemed deadly enough. Melanie decided that on balance, this encounter had been quite productive. Not only could she give the front office a heads-up on the scathing press she was about to receive, but she had a viable new suspect, one she hadn’t focused on carefully enough before.
But as she turned to leave, the unmistakable sound of a footfall in the long gallery froze Melanie in place. Somebody was out there, just beyond the twin statues of Sekhmet. The steps sounded like a man’s, and they were coming in her direction. Had Davis returned to make good on his threat?
Melanie ducked around behind the case holding the three coffins and peered through the glass, prepared to make a run for it if she saw him. But it wasn’t Davis. He’d been wearing a dark suit, and this guy had on a blue blazer with brass buttons. She couldn’t see his face, but he was big and blond. Big and blond, big and blond. What was she remembering? Male, big, and heavyset, probably white, David Harris had told them about the man he’d seen in the Ramble. But no, this didn’t add up. Killers didn’t buy their clothes at Brooks Brothers, not in her experience. She was just about to emerge from behind the glass case when he spoke.
“I know you’re in there,” he said.
And he reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Melanie saw the bright glint of metal. A gun, a knife? She backed up fast and slammed into a huge marble sarcophagus. Her head connected with the stone and she grunted in pain. She looked around for an exit, but the gallery came to a dead end. The only way out was back between the statues, right past her pursuer.
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” he called out, and this time Melanie listened to his voice. It was deep and resonant, with a heavy Australian accent.
She stepped around the case, so mad she could have spit.
“What the hell are you doing, Gilmartin?”
“I’m working on a breaking story, Vargas.” He pushed a button on the small silver tape recorder he carried. “Duncan Gilmartin reporting from the Clyde Williams benefit at the Metropolitan Museum, speaking with Assistant U.S. Attorney Melanie Vargas.”
“Put that thing away!” she snapped.
“I’m giving you a chance to respond to the allegations,” he said. “I’d take it if I were you, or things might get unpleasant.”
“What allegations?”
“The allegations of a cover-up. The allegations that Clyde Williams will go scot-free despite all the evidence pointing to his involvement.”
“Don’t you people worry about libel laws?”
“Oh, we study them carefully, looking for loopholes. Truth is a defense. It’s true Suzanne Shepard was murdered after she aired a segment on Clyde Williams. It’s true that you’re friends with the Williams family. What I make of that truth is protected speech.”
“Go to Clyde’s press conference. You’ll see what good friends we are.”
There were no limits to what this guy would do to advance his career. As Melanie looked at Gilmartin in disgust, something clicked. Something in his height and build, in the way he carried himself.
“Wait a minute, you followed me onto the subway the other day, didn’t you?” she said.
“I do what it takes to get the story, Miss Vargas.”
“Stay the hell away from me.”
Melanie turned and hurried toward the exit, pleased with herself for finding Gilmartin out, for refusing to let him get over on her. Then she realized that his tape recorder had been on the entire time. So much for outmaneuvering the tabloid press. She’d be hearing her bold words played back to her on the eleven o’clock news.