In front of her building, Melanie told Agent Crockett that it wasn’t necessary for him to come inside as long as he watched to make sure she made it to the lobby safely. She’d managed to hold herself together on the ride home, but the strain of her fight with Dan was beginning to tell. She needed to be alone. If she broke down and cried, she didn’t want some guy she barely knew from Dan’s squad witnessing her pathetic scene.
“I live in a doorman building,” she explained. “It’s pretty secure. I’ll take down your cell number and call if anything seems out of place.”
“I’ll remain stationed here until U.S. Marshal’s Service relieves me.”
“Thank you. Just so you know, my protection detail isn’t showing up until morning.”
“No problem, ma’am.”
Melanie dashed from the door of the unmarked car into her building. In the lobby, she was greeted by Hector, her portly, fatherly Puerto Rican doorman. The sight of him made her think twice about having Agent Crockett come in. Melanie loved Hector to death, but the most vigilant guy on the planet he was not. He was too fond of his newspaper and of chatting with delivery people to keep an unrelenting watch. He made her building feel like a home, but a clever intruder would get past him with little trouble.
“Hey, Melanie, a man was here looking for you,” Hector said.
“Did he give a name?” Melanie asked, anxiety clutching at her chest. Had the Butcher figured out where she lived? She wouldn’t be able to stay in her apartment.
“No, he didn’t say.”
“What did he want?”
“To see you, chica. He asked was you home, but he gave me a bad vibe. So I sent him away and didn’t tell him nothing about you.”
“What kind of bad vibe?”
“Pushy. Mean.”
“What did he look like?”
Hector, who was short, held a hand up over his head. “Big, tall guy with blond hair.”
“You told him I live here?”
“I didn’t have to tell him. He already knew.”
“Right, of course. I’m sorry.”
“Something wrong, mi’ja?” Hector asked.
“Maybe. How long ago was this?”
“Over an hour, and he hasn’t come back. Listen, I know from the papers that you’re working on that Central Park Butcher case. I read your name in the Daily News. I want to say on behalf of Puerto Rican people everywhere, you make us proud. And you can count on me to keep the door secure.”
“You’re the best, Hector. I do count on you,” Melanie said. She gave him a peck on the cheek, but she pulled out her phone and dialed Agent Crockett all the same.
Agent Crockett came into the lobby immediately, and together he and Melanie debriefed Hector about the visitor. The fact was, if the Butcher had paid a call on Melanie at home, not only was that a security issue, it was also a potential break in the case. They decided to show Hector the photos of the men standing in line at the post office on the day the threatening package was mailed. Agent Crockett had the photos in his car, and he fetched them and lined them up on Hector’s bellman stand. The doorman studied the photos diligently.
“These pictures. So blurry,” Hector said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize nobody. I don’t think it’s that the pictures is bad, either. I think the guy isn’t in here.”
“You’re sure?” Melanie asked.
Hector looked over the row of photos one more time.
“Yeah, I’m sure of it. He’s not here,” Hector said, nodding more decisively.
Melanie patted him on the shoulder. “Good work. That tells us a lot.”
She and Agent Crockett got in the elevator.
“What exactly does it tell us that your doorman can’t pick anybody out of the photo lineup?” Crockett asked.
“Hector might seem goofy, but he remembers faces,” Melanie said. “So either it wasn’t the Butcher who visited me or we don’t actually have the Butcher’s picture among those surveillance shots from the post office. I don’t know about you, but I’m pulling for the former.”
When they got to her floor, Agent Crockett unholstered his gun and did a security sweep. He checked the back stairwell where the trash chute was located. Then he put his ear against the door to Melanie’s apartment for a long moment and just listened. Hearing only silence, he nodded to her, and she turned her key in the lock. He flipped the light switch in the foyer, setting the place ablaze with light.
“Stay here,” he whispered.
He came back after a few minutes and reported that everything looked normal.
“What should I do?” Melanie asked. “Should I sleep here tonight? Should we call in forensics guys to dust the lobby door for prints?”
“Your call, ma’am. You’re the prosecutor.”
Crockett wasn’t much help in the ideas department. Melanie caught herself on the verge of calling Dan for advice, but then the memory of their argument hit her with the force of a punch.
“Give me a minute to think,” she said.
Melanie settled Agent Crockett in the living room and went to get her gun. She’d had the foresight to purchase one—or really, the hindsight—after surviving a harrowing episode on another case. Every once in a while, she’d catch a ride to the range upstate with some DEA or FBI guy and practice firing. Melanie was actually a decent shot, though of course there was a world of difference between hitting a paper target and going to the mat with somebody in a gunfight. Still, having the gun made her feel better at moments like this.
The metal gun safe was hidden at the back of a high shelf in her bedroom closet. She felt around for it blindly, dislodging several unopened packages of panty hose and sending them raining down on her head. She pulled out the matte-black pistol. The Beretta seemed to exude a brilliant light—trust the Italians to make even an instrument of death look sexy. Melanie kept the gun unloaded and stored her ammunition at the top of a cabinet in the kitchen in another locked metal box. All the manuals on gun safety said to do this if you had children in the house. Well, Maya wasn’t home tonight, thankfully. She was safe with Melanie’s mother. Besides, the gun wouldn’t be much help against an intruder if its bullets were on the other side of the apartment.
She had to go to the kitchen to get the bullets. The light was blinking on the answering machine on the counter. Melanie played the message as she loaded the gun.
“Melanie Vargas, Duncan Gilmartin of Target News. I’ve now obtained your home address and telephone number, so you can’t hide from me. As you may have heard, I paid you a visit tonight. I will not rest until I get the real story. What is your reaction to Mr. Sonschein revealing at the press conference that Clyde Williams was trysting with Emily King at the time of the Shepard murder? Did you tell him to go public with Clyde’s alibi? What do you say to the speculation that the Emily King affair is being used as a smoke screen to distract the public from Williams’s involvement in the murder? And what’s your comment on Clyde’s decision to drop out of the mayoral race? You might as well call back, because I won’t give up.”
So that was why Joe had been so upset at the wedding.
And, more urgently, that’s who had paid her a visit. Duncan Gilmartin was a tall, blond male. It was Gilmartin who’d been here, not the Butcher. At least, she hoped it was him. One way to find out. Melanie went over to the intercom and buzzed down to the doorman’s station.
“Front desk,” Hector answered.
“Hector, it’s Melanie in 8-B.”
“He ain’t showed his face again, m’ija, and I didn’t leave my post, not even to use the lav.”
“Let me ask you something. This man, did he have an accent?”
“Yeah, he did. English or something.”
“Could it have been Australian?”
“Australian?”
“Like Crocodile Dundee.”
“Oh yeah. It was just like that.”
“Thanks, Hector.”
“Don’t worry about a thing. I got your back.”
Melanie told Agent Crockett the news, then sent him down to his car with a bag of microwaved popcorn and a can of Diet Coke. She brushed her teeth, tucked the Beretta in to sleep beside her on the nightstand, got her cell phone out in case she needed to call for help, and huddled under the covers.
She’d planned to have a good cry, but she just couldn’t. She felt too numb and empty inside. Instead, she stared at the ceiling in the dark for what felt like hours, and fell asleep wondering where her life was going.