“How do you know these balloons leaked?” Melanie asked.
“Under the microscope we saw small lesions on two of the balloons. The lesions occur when stomach acids compromise the latex. Extremely unfortunate for the victim,” he said, shaking his head.
Melanie was silent for a moment, staring at the tiny orange pellets that had ended a young girl’s life. There was no question in her mind that Jay Esposito was behind this. But she still had to prove it.
“What about Whitney?” she asked. “Did you find balloons in her stomach, too?”
“No. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She could’ve excreted them all prior to her death.”
“Is there any other way to tell whether she OD’d from leaking balloons as opposed to snorting the heroin voluntarily?” Melanie asked.
“Not based on the toxicology results, no,” Dr. Drucker said. “But we can look to other indicators. In this case Whitney had fresh track marks between her toes, so I’d say she probably ingested voluntarily. But not by snorting, by shooting up.”
Melanie and Ray-Ray looked at each other in confusion. “That’s weird,” Melanie said. “We found empty glassines but no works. And the glassines were right beside the bodies. To shoot up they’d have to cook the stuff first, right? There was no indication of that at all.”
Dr. Drucker shrugged. “I can only tell you what I observed in the autopsy.”
“Is it possible Whitney died from leaking balloons, and that the track marks are unrelated?”
“Anything’s possible, Ms. Vargas,” the doctor said. “But how likely is it?”
“Still, I’d like to run those other toxicology tests. Who knows what Whitney was taking? I need the complete picture.”
“Seems unnecessary, frankly, but I won’t say no. I’ll order up a generalized toxicology for common poisons and controlled substances. Given that it’s Christmastime and we’re understaffed, though, I have to warn you, it could take up to a month.”
“A month? Isn’t there some way to get it done faster?” Melanie asked.
“I can put a rush on it and see what we get.”
“Thank you, I would appreciate that. The sooner the better.”
Melanie and Ray-Ray took their leave and made their way to the elevator.
“Very fucking weird,” Ray-Ray commented as they waited. “Girls like that swallowing.”
“I agree, but it’s a relief to finally have some solid evidence. It’s looking pretty clear that Jay Esposito is responsible for these girls’ deaths. And he probably knows where Carmen Reyes is, too.”
22
THOUGH IT WAS WELL past rush hour, the number-six train was packed to the gills with commuters. Everybody was weighted down with parcels, having come straight from the Christmas shopping Melanie still hadn’t found time for. She fought her way into the subway car just as the doors closed, ending up pressed against the glass with the sharp corner of someone’s lavender Bergdorf’s bag poking into her. Mmmm, Bergdorf’s. Last year for Christmas, Steve had gone there and bought her an assortment of the most lavish Jo Malone perfumes and lotions. They came in gorgeous cream-colored boxes tied together with black ribbons and cost a pretty penny. Too bad she’d used them all, because Santa would not be visiting Melanie Vargas this year. At least until the settlement was finalized and she got a handle on her finances, her dollars were going to buy goodies for Maya. And she doubted anybody planned to buy Christmas presents for her.
The steep stairs of the Eighty-sixth Street station were slick with black water, the trampled remains of last night’s snow. Melanie picked her way carefully up and emerged into a blast of cold air. Crossing Park Avenue, she looked at the row of Christmas trees stretching downtown as far as the eye could see, their white lights glittering like diamonds, and tried to muster some Christmas spirit. But she felt too alone on the elegant boulevard, watching her fellow New Yorkers bustle by laden with their expensive haul. Here she was, almost divorced, half crazy for some gorgeous, moody guy she barely knew and had to work with, who might or might not feel the same. Trying to be a mother to her daughter while working this insane case. Hardly a recipe for Christmas cheer.
The sight of Hector, her portly, balding doorman, cheered her. His Puerto Rican accent always reminded her of her father. What didn’t was that he actually behaved in a fatherly manner.
“Hey, mi’ja, how you doing tonight?” he asked as he opened the door for her.
She sighed, not even trying to hide her feelings. “All right, I guess.”
“Why so down? And don’t deny it. I can tell.”
Melanie glanced around the small lobby, dominated by an artificial Christmas tree and a partly lit electric Hanukkah menorah. Hector she trusted, but she didn’t need the whole building knowing her business. Her first baby-sitter had quit after learning that Melanie and Steve were splitting up, and she’d been nervous ever since that the co-op board would have a cow, too, and get all nervous about Melanie’s ability to make monthly maintenance payments. Luckily, none of her fellow tenants were around to eavesdrop at the moment.
“Just the usual, I guess. It’s lonely facing the holidays being separated. I’m a little worried about money. That sort of thing.”
“No te preocupes, mi’ja. I got the answer for your problems.”
“You do?”
“Heck, yeah. You bring the little one over to my house on Christmas Day. My Manny’s gonna be there. He’s doing real good with his accounting business. Time he settled down. Nice girl like you, so pretty, who knows?”
Melanie had met Hector’s Manny, and he wasn’t for her. He might be making money as an accountant, but the boy’s heart was still in the block. Which in his case meant he was a little too into girls with fake boobs and tattoos, who’d cook and clean for him. No thanks.
“Aw, Hector, that’s sweet, but you know I’m not ready. Besides, Manny wouldn’t be interested in somebody with a kid.”
“Naw, he’s fine with that.”
“Well, listen, I’ll think about it. Maybe after some more time goes by,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.
She got her mail and leafed through it on the elevator. A pile of bills and a couple of Christmas cards. One of the cards had a San Juan postmark. Melanie ignored her father’s handwriting, and opened the other one instead. It was from Amy Robards, a law-school classmate whom she hadn’t seen in years. Amy had worked briefly at the same law firm as Melanie after graduation. Around the time Melanie went to the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Amy married a senior partner, had three kids in rapid succession, put on forty pounds, and retired to Bedford to chair bake sales. Looking at Amy smiling out from the glossy photo card, ensconced among towheaded toddlers and a dull but steady-looking husband, Melanie was overwhelmed by a bitter wave of jealousy. Not that she wanted to turn back the clock in her own life. She hadn’t liked being married to a two-timer, and Steve was in the process of proving he’d never change. But she couldn’t help envying what this woman had. The contrast was just too stark: Amy so happily settled and Melanie without a clue where her own life was going.
AN HOUR LATER Melanie struggled out of a cab, juggling Maya and a shopping bag in one arm and a briefcase and folded stroller in the other. She pressed the buzzer to her sister’s building with her elbow. It was nine-thirty, ten degrees, with a bitter wind blowing. The door buzzed, and she pushed it, stumbling toward the enormous, graffiti-covered freight elevator. Lofts! Linda was nuts to live down here. Melanie would take uptown any day.