After Lieutenant Deaver left, Melanie turned to Dan in a panic.
“I can’t do it,” she said. “My boss doesn’t know I’m out here. We have a strict press protocol in our office. Even the most routine press releases require supervisor approval.”
“So here’s a phone. Call your boss and get approval,” Dan said, whipping his cell phone out and waving it at her. But Melanie just stared at it, feeling daunted.
“What do you, have fear of success or something? You’re about to get on TV. Call her,” he said.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“She’s getting married.”
“She’s getting married Saturday. It’s fucking Wednesday. Besides, from what I hear, she’s less of a shrew than usual these days. Vito must be keeping her satisfied.”
Melanie wrinkled her nose in mock disgust. “What a thought.”
“The Melanie Vargas I know is stone-cold ambitious. You’d better do it, sweetheart, or you’re gonna be seriously pissed at yourself later. Come on, jump in with both feet. It’s the only way.”
Dan was right. He was right that Melanie would regret not pursuing this case once she woke up from her torpor. He was also right that her boss, Bernadette DeFelice, chief of the Major Crimes Unit in the New York City U.S. Attorney’s Office, had mellowed out lately. The old Bernadette had struck fear in the hearts of her subordinates, Melanie included. But Bernadette was getting married on Saturday night for the first time in her forty-seven years to NYPD lieutenant Vito Albano, the head of the premier narco-terrorism task force in the city and a beloved figure in the law enforcement community. And she actually seemed happy about it, giving the lie to those who swore up and down that she was marrying Vito for his primo drug cases. What the hell, Melanie might as well pull the trigger. If worse came to worst, Bernadette would yell and then order Melanie to go home, which she sort of wanted to do anyway.
“Hand me the phone,” she said.
Melanie dialed Bernadette’s pager number, and in less than a minute, Dan’s phone started vibrating wildly. You might loathe Bernadette, but you had to hand it to her. When it came to her job, she didn’t spare herself.
“Hello?” Melanie answered.
“It’s one o’clock in the goddamn morning, Melanie. This better be good.”
“Turn on your TV,” Melanie said.
There was silence on the other end. She’d gotten her boss’s attention: Bernadette was doing as Melanie had directed. Melanie prayed hard that the Suzanne Shepard murder was actually on TV or her tactic would immediately backfire and she would never hear the end of it.
After a few minutes, Bernadette came back on the line.
“I’m seeing that a couple of local cable channels and one network affiliate are broadcasting live from Central Park about a stabbing,” Bernadette said, her interest clearly piqued. “The Central Park Butcher. Is that what you’re calling about?”
“Exactly,” she replied.
“What’s the case, and what’s your connection to it?”
“Suzanne Shepard was stabbed and mutilated tonight in the Ramble. Do you know who she is?”
“Sure. The television personality, right? Celebrity crime reporter?”
“Yes, and listen to this. The killer carved ‘bitch’ on her stomach with a knife.”
“Very dramatic,” Bernadette said in a jaded tone. “Enlighten me, girlfriend. What’s this got to do with me? Are you suggesting we try to get in on the case?”
“I’m already in. I’m in Central Park. The A.D.A. couldn’t handle the blood and guts. She left. I just got done reviewing all the crime-scene evidence. The press wants a statement. The NYPD lieutenant asked me to make it. I called you first to get approval. But, Bernadette, if you feel I’m overstepping, I’ll understand completely. Just say the word and I’ll go home.”
“Are you insane? This is amazing! How the hell’d you swing it?”
“The Bureau is involved in the case, so—”
“O’Reilly tipped you off and you tagged along?”
“Yes.”
“And they say you can’t teach balls! I admit, I’ve been having my doubts about you lately, but this is excellent work. You done me proud. Do I have time to get there to do the press conference myself?”
“Maybe. We’re doing it at the Seventy-ninth Street gate in about ten minutes.”
“Shit, I’m out in Bensonhurst, and I don’t have my TV outfit with me. Can you hold them off?”
“No, apparently the reporters are about to storm the barricades and trample evidence if we don’t give them something,” Melanie said.
“Goddamn Brooklyn! Vito, I told you this was the middle of nowhere. I’m missing a chance to go on TV! Melanie, listen up. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to do this on your own.”
“Okay. I can handle it.”
“Here’s what you do.”
“Hold on a minute,” Melanie said, and scrambled to dig her notebook and pen from her handbag. She tucked the cell phone against her shoulder and got ready to write.
“Go ahead, Bern,” she said.
“Wear dark lipstick and lots of blush or your face washes out,” Bernadette declared.
Melanie waited for a moment but there was nothing more forthcoming. “What should I say?” she asked.
“Oh. Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Never say anything to the press. Give them no information, not even the victim’s name. Tell them you can’t until next of kin is notified.”
“NYPD already notified next of kin.”
“So what?”
“The press already know the victim’s name. I’m not sure who leaked it, but they know.”
“You’re not listening, Melanie. When you’re on the record in front of the cameras, you keep your lips zipped, or else the defendant ends up moving for a change of venue for adverse publicity and you lose. You don’t want to be forced to try this case in goddamn Hauppauge or Schenectady, for Chrissakes.”
“Okay, but how do I—”
“Get a bunch of the law enforcement guys to stand behind you so it looks like you have a huge team working on this. Cops, agents, whatever. Get the precinct to send over everybody they have, whether they’re officially assigned or not. And make sure the cops are ethnically diverse so we don’t get accused of racism if it turns out the defendant is black. In fact, if you have a black cop, put him next to you.”
“But—”
“This is television, goddammit. What matters is how things look. Do you comprende?”
“Yes,” Melanie said, borderline offended. But Bernadette probably would have said that to anybody. She was an equal-opportunity bitch.
“Good. Then you introduce yourself. Say the U.S. Attorney’s Office and the FBI are on the case.”
“And the D.A.’s office?”
“Forget them. They can do their own goddamn press conference.”
“Yes, but the A.D.A. was here earlier and—”
“What’s his name?”
“Her name is Janice Marsh.”
“Fine. I’ll make some calls. Don’t give it another thought.”
“But what’s our jurisdiction? What’s the federal crime?”
“We’ll figure something out before we indict. Where there’s a will, there’s a way into federal court. And, Melanie?”
“Yes?”
“Remember the makeup. If I can’t be there to lend substance, let’s get some mileage out of the fact that you’re young and attractive. You look like a prosecutor from a TV show. Our goal is to get the press focused on you instead of some psychotic killer terrorizing the city.”
“All right.”
“Good luck, girlfriend. And good work.”
Melanie hung up. Dan was staring at her.
“Well?” he asked.
“She was happy. Happier than she’s been with me in a while.”
“What’d I tell ya? Stick with me, kid. We’re going places.”