Dolan Reed knew Mary well enough to perceive the resistance in her neutral gaze.
“Oh, for Chrissakes, don’t go getting all moral on me now.”
“Whatever your ultimate decision, Dodo, we’d be wise to at least appear compliant.”
The intercom buzzed simultaneously with the door flying open.
“Miss van der Vere,” his secretary’s flustered voice announced over the intercom as Sarah bolted in.
“Look at this!” Sarah cried, holding out a piece of paper.
“Our Miss Vargas has been busy,” Mary noted wryly, taking it from Sarah’s hand and perusing it. “Hmm. This one’s a bit different. It calls for testimony before the grand jury pertaining to certain criminal acts. I’m a bit rusty on my criminal-code citations. Securities fraud I recognize, but this other one…hmm.”
Mary got up and strolled over to the bookshelf, pulling out a crimson-bound volume, enjoying the way they followed her with their eyes. She turned the pages slowly, drawing out the suspense.
“Oh, of course! Title 18, United States Code, Section 1951. Interference with commerce by threats or violence. It’s the extortion statute. How could I have forgotten?”
She snapped the book shut and replaced it on the shelf, then made her way sedately to her seat. Leaning back, she held the subpoena at arm’s length to see it better.
“So Sarah’s being asked to testify about acts of extor tion. And below, in the section relating to documents sought, it asks that she bring any and all videotapes and audiotapes used or intended to be used to extort any benefit, monetary or otherwise, from Dolan Reed, members of the Reed firm, its employees, agents, or clients.” Mary stopped reading, raising her eyebrows. “Any idea what that’s about, Sarah?”
Dolan was staring at Sarah, thunderstruck. He sat down heavily in his colossal leather chair.
“Mary,” he said, in the quiet tone she recognized as his most dangerous, “would you be so kind as to leave us alone?”
32
MELANIE CALLED HOME FROM THE TAXI ON THE way to the retirement dinner and told Elsie she’d be late again. She hated doing it. She missed Maya terribly, and what’s more, Elsie was starting to make noises about quitting. But Melanie had no choice in the matter. It was imperative that she accompany Bernadette to the dinner. She’d discovered a bombshell, and she needed some time alone with her boss to break the news.
Sharing a cab with Bernadette, Melanie sank back on the ripped leather seat and let Bernadette talk at her. She dreaded opening her mouth. Bernadette wasn’t going to like what she had to say one bit. In the mess on her desk, she’d found some devastating information about Rommie Ramirez. Ironic that Bernadette was the one who’d told her to sort through it in the first place, or it might not have seen the light of day for a while.
According to the fingerprint reports she’d gotten from the lab, Rommie had mishandled a critical piece of evidence, possibly contaminated the whole crime scene. Somehow he’d touched the can of kerosene used to set the blaze in Jed Benson’s office, leaving his fingerprints on it. It was a major, career-threatening screwup, one he’d be hard-pressed to survive even with Bernadette’s support, and it put the whole prosecution at risk of being thrown out. She cringed at the thought of telling her boss, but how could she hold back something so big? There was other new information, too-evidence of Jed Benson’s corruption. Maybe she’d begin with that to ease the shock.
When the cab dropped them on First Avenue near the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, she still hadn’t brought herself to say anything. She was getting cold feet. Maybe she should double-check with the lab. Maybe she should call Butch Brennan and go back over the crime scene step by step to figure out how the screwup had happened. Making such a damaging accusation against Bernadette’s boyfriend demanded rock-solid information. Melanie could only imagine the consequences if she opened her mouth and then it turned out she was wrong.
Looking up at the bridge’s squat outline against the flaming afternoon sun, she marveled at her ability to screw up her own life. To choose this, of all cases, to run after. She could blame it on bad luck, but it was starting to smell like bad judgment. To go after a high-profile, highly political case at a moment of personal crisis? How stupid was that? Muy estúpido, but no turning back now. She had important reasons to stick with it. Three important reasons, and their names were Rosario, Jasmine, and Amanda.
She and Bernadette walked into the dark restaurant, Melanie’s eyes seeing red echoes from the sun. She trailed Bernadette through the thick crowd, stopping every few feet so Bernadette could talk to the VIPs. Bernadette introduced her to everybody she spoke to, shouting over the din of voices and blaring Irish music. They headed to the bar. Melanie leaned against its dull, sticky surface, looking out over the crowd in the dim light as Bernadette held court. Cops were the worst violators of the antismoking laws: a haze of smoke hung over the low-ceilinged room. Except for a couple of other prosecutors she recognized, they were the only women there. Middle-aged men with aggressive ties and slicked-back hair, mostly bosses in the PD and the federal agencies, kept coming over, offering to buy them rounds of drinks. There would be no chance right now to speak with Bernadette privately. Melanie tried not to feel too relieved.
Bernadette threw herself into networking with frenzied abandon. Pretty soon she was on her third scotch, wheeling and dealing, scrounging for business and making promises, flirting and wangling. She was good at it. Melanie nursed a glass of cheap chardonnay and watched the spectacle, all the while picturing Bernadette’s face when she broke the news. By the time they sat down to dinner in the adjoining banquet room, Bernadette was totally smashed. They had lingered so long at the bar that they ended up seated far from the dais, at the back of the long, narrow banquet room. Their table was empty except for two stragglers who sat down across from them. One tall and gaunt, the other with jowls and a beer belly, they greeted Bernadette by name, then fell into animated conversation about the Mets.
“Fucking Siberia. Should’ve saved a seat,” Bernadette complained, her words slurring delicately, her head lolling to one side like a sodden blossom after a rainstorm.
Did it make any sense to tell Bernadette when she was in this condition? She’d be less likely to evaluate things objectively, more likely to lash out at Melanie for being the bearer of bad news. Maybe Melanie should just make an excuse and leave, so she could do her homework properly before dropping the bombshell. She had plenty of good reasons: Dan was still waiting for her at the hospital. Elsie was fuming at home. Steve had left her a message saying he’d gotten them an appointment with that marriage counselor for later this evening. She was pleased by his fast work, but she hadn’t even had time to return his call.
“Hey, Bernadette,” she began tentatively.
Bernadette didn’t hear her; she was too busy signaling the waiter for another drink. Up on the dais, far away, someone tapped on a glass. A powerfully built man with steel gray hair walked up and adjusted a microphone, moving with a boss’s arrogance. He winced at the eardrum-piercing feedback, then began to talk. Melanie raised her voice so she could be heard over the drone of his speech and the bursts of laughter from the crowd.
“Bernadette, listen, I was thinking-”
Bernadette turned to her with a warm smile. She looked so relaxed, so normal, that it made Melanie realize she almost never saw her happy. Suddenly she understood it all. How vulnerable Bernadette was at this moment in her life. How dependent she was on Rommie and how blind to his flaws. In Bernadette’s mind, Rommie was the only thing standing between her and a lonely, empty middle age. Ugh, Melanie couldn’t, she just couldn’t shatter that illusion. And she couldn’t get up and walk out, leaving her boss sitting alone, drunk, at this table. She’d stay, at least until Rommie showed up.