“Maya’s in our room,” she said, the “our” slipping out before she realized it. “She can have Motrin again at four if she needs it,” she said, opening the front door. At the sight of the elevator, her mind flashed ahead to the gruesome scene that awaited her at James Seward’s apartment. Two young girls, having died terrible deaths, lost forever to their parents.
She hesitated and turned back. “Christmas morning,” she said.
“What?”
“Christmas morning. It would be okay if you wanted to come over. Help Maya open her presents. I could make some scrambled eggs.”
His face relaxed into a smile. “Okay,” he said. “That would be nice.”
She straightened her shoulders and marched out the door.
2
MELANIE HAD TO FIGHT her way through a throng of reporters camped out in front of the Park Avenue building. Moments later, the mahogany-paneled elevator discharged her directly into the foyer of the Sewards’ penthouse. Her gaze traveled upward-taking in enormous oil paintings in gilded frames, ornately plastered thirteen-foot ceilings, and a glittering crystal chandelier-before settling back on the man standing in front of her. Dressed in slacks, a checked shirt, and a loud tie, he looked to be in his late forties, and he was in the process of finishing a cigarette. His thinning dark hair was carefully combed over his bald spot, and a small potbelly protruded like a melon from his tall, lanky frame.
“Vargas? I’m Albano. You’re late.”
“Sorry. I got here as fast as I could. I just-”
“All right, all right. You’re here now, let’s go.”
He took a deep drag, then crushed out his cigarette in a delicate-looking porcelain planter and took off through an archway to the left. Melanie hurried after him, down a wide hallway past enormous, darkened rooms, each more elaborately decorated than the last. They turned a corner and headed toward the back of the apartment, passing a gleaming kitchen, all white tile and stainless steel. A tuxedoed man sat at the kitchen table talking urgently on his cell phone. Melanie recognized him from having seen him on the news.
“Seward?” she asked Albano under her breath as she raced along beside him.
He nodded. “What’d your boss tell you?”
“That his daughter and one of her friends OD’d and that we’re supposed to track down the supplier and get a warrant for his arrest.”
“It was Seward’s stepdaughter, not his daughter. His wife’s kid from a previous marriage. But yeah. Seward calls the commissioner instead of 911, you believe that? Prick’s been on the phone nonstop since I got here, so we haven’t interviewed him yet. I’m gonna let you and the case agent do that, but come take a look at the bodies first.”
Albano halted before an open door at the far end of the hallway, turning toward her so her view was blocked. A hum of activity emanated from the room, and the faint perfume of decaying flesh sailed out to her on a blast of cold air.
“By the way,” Albano said, “your boss. Is she that redheaded girl with the nice, uh, the nice…voice?”
“She has red hair,” Melanie said, smiling. Not natural, of course, but undeniably red.
“Yeah, I think I met her at a conference last year.”
“Oh, is that why you called us? I know you usually work with Special Narcotics.”
“Ah, that’s just a money thing. Nothing personal. Special Narcotics has a budget for buying cops equipment, you know.”
“No, I had no idea.”
“Uh-huh. I’d love to take more cases federal. You get heavier sentences. But funding being what it is, I can’t afford to dis a prosecutor that wants to buy me cars and radios.”
“So why call us now?”
“Seward insisted. He wanted the feds called in, and the guy has the juice to do it. The mayor, the commissioner, everybody’s bending over backwards. I’m under orders to solve this thing fast enough to squash the press coverage, you believe that? Like we can lock up the supplier by sunrise and go for pancakes.” Albano reached into his pocket and took out a pack of Rolaids, shaking his head, tossing three into his mouth at once.
“I get the sense you don’t think that’s likely,” Melanie said.
“You have any idea how many mopes there are in this town selling dime bags to high-school kids? Needle in a fucking haystack. You want my opinion, this case is a nightmare. Seward’s a major pain in the ass, and the press is watching our every move.”
“Yeah, the tabloids must be drooling. Seward’s stepdaughter OD’ing, and both girls went to Holbrooke. You know, the fancy finishing school? That’s news in itself,” Melanie said.
Miss Holbrooke’s School, known simply as “Holbrooke” among the initiated, was one of the oldest and most famous private schools in Manhattan. Melanie had grown up in the city in a rough neighborhood and gone to public school, but she knew Holbrooke all right. She’d learned about it when she got to Harvard and discovered that the lunch tables in the Freshman Union were ruled by a clique of Holbrooke girls with famous last names, wearing just the right expensive jeans. They looked like models, were mean as cats, and hadn’t gotten in on their SAT scores.
“Did you talk to the doormen?” Melanie asked Albano. “Any evidence of anybody in or out of the building tonight who could’ve delivered the drugs?”
“Useless. Four guys on duty-two doormen, two porters. Nobody saw a fricking thing. There was a holiday reception for a hundred people happening on the twelfth floor. They were so distracted with that, King Kong coulda walked in and they wouldna noticed.”
“What about household help? These people must have a maid or something.”
Albano pulled a small notebook from his back pants pocket and consulted it. “Uh, there’s usually a live-in housekeeper, but she’s in Manila for the holidays. Rest of the staff consists of a day maid, cook, driver, and-get this-laundress-slash-ironing lady. Last person left at about six-fifteen tonight. None present on the scene when any events of interest occurred.” He put the notebook back in his pocket. “So…ready to take a look?” Albano asked.
Melanie drew a breath to steel herself for viewing bodies but just ended up with a noseful of death smell. As if an animal had died in a damp basement, except more so. No point in hesitating. Not like they would smell any better if she waited.
“Let’s go,” she said, and stepped through the door.
3
THE LARGE CORNER BEDROOM was crowded with cops and bitterly cold. The windows lining its two exterior walls had been thrown open to the freezing night air. Melanie clapped her hand violently over her nose and mouth. Even with the cross-ventilation, the room reeked of vomit, feces, and spoiling meat.
The ghoulish face of the girl on the bed drew Melanie’s eyes like a magnet. She’d collapsed half sitting against the headboard, her skin mottled and blue, her eyes open, bulging nearly out of their sockets. Vomit spilled from her slackened mouth, yet her long blond hair and classic features suggested she’d been beautiful in life. She was clad only in a skintight sweater and tiny thong panties, her long legs bare but rigid and inert.
“The other one’s here,” Albano said.
Melanie stepped around the bed. A pretty brunette lay splayed out stark naked on the floor near the bathroom door, her head turned sideways and her vacant eyes staring right at Melanie. Her cheek rested in a pool of congealed blood and white foam. Melanie took a step closer. A familiar-looking fleshy pink object lay in the pooled blood on the floor.
“What’s that?” she asked through her fingers.
“Tongue,” Albano replied matter-of-factly. “She bit it off. You can actually see a perfect impression of her teeth if you look close.”