“I’m not following you.”
“This may sound far-fetched, but think how crazed they are at Holbrooke right now over this endowment campaign. Not just the headmistress but the general counsel, too, who-remember-has some fetishes of his own. Think about the devastating impact Whitney’s little business would’ve had on Holbrooke’s fund-raising if it came to light before the campaign closed. The timing is exactly right. Their campaign ends Friday with some big gala.”
“Let me see if I understand this,” Ray-Ray said. “You’re suggesting the headmistress or the general counsel of Holbrooke could’ve whacked Whitney Seward in order to shut down her Web site so it wouldn’t interfere with the Holbrooke fund-raising campaign? And made it look like an OD?”
“Yes. Well put.”
“Due respect, ma’am, that’s one of the craziest ideas I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s not crazy. It’s thinking outside the box. It might even be the right answer.”
“Right, and if my grandmother had wheels, she’d be a trolley car. Look, ma’am, I think I can tie Whitney’s Web site right back into Jay Esposito and the drug angle. That theory makes sense to me. But yours? Wicked crazy.”
“Fine. But I’m not dropping my Holbrooke idea.” To make her point, and also since she didn’t trust herself to remember anything this morning, Melanie carefully wrote, “Look at Holbrooke/Andover/Siebert involvement in deaths” on a yellow legal pad, circled it twice with black marker, and put a star next to it.
“Now, most of the pictures Whitney sent to her customers were pretty tame,” Ray-Ray continued, glancing at her note with an exasperated smile. “They showed her alone, only partly undressed. A guy buys Whitney a pair of Jimmy Choos, he gets his own private JPEG of her in her Holbrooke uniform flashing some titty. That sort of thing. But bigger-ticket items got you more graphic pictures. One in particular I want you to see. In my humble opinion, ma’am, it explains the blog getting erased, and it figures a helluva lot more heavily in the girls’ deaths than your so-called Holbrooke theory.”
Ray-Ray brought up a copy of an e-mail that Whitney had sent to one “sugardaddy69” and clicked on the attachment.
“This user, we actually traced,” Ray-Ray said. “He’s fifty-four years old, a civil engineer in Kansas City, Mo, with a family and everything. No criminal record, no indication he was in New York at the relevant time. He did, however, buy Whitney a four-thousand-dollar alligator handbag from Barneys in exchange for this picture. The girl was commanding serious money. But it is a lot more graphic. The caption is ‘See Whitney get…uh, expletive, from behind.’”
The digital photo appeared-crystal clear, in vivid color, leaving nothing to the imagination. Whitney was bent over a chair, looking back over her shoulder with a lascivious grin on her face. Her Holbrooke kilt was up around her waist, her panties around her ankles. The naked man doing the honors was muscular and deeply tanned, with a shaved head. His face was turned away from the camera, but the large diamond stud in his ear was clearly visible.
“I see what you mean about who erased the blog,” Melanie said. “That’s definitely Jay Esposito. Not that I’ve ever seen him naked.”
Of course Dan O’Reilly had to pick exactly that moment to walk through her office door. And with Bridget. Melanie fumed with jealousy when she realized they must’ve ridden up in the elevator together. Boy, after last night, she’d never look at elevators the same way again.
“Yo, team,” Bridget said. She carried a brown paper bag, which had split apart on the bottom. She set it down on Melanie’s desk, where it instantly formed a puddle of sour-smelling coffee.
“I brought some joe for everybody, but I think it spilled. Do you have any paper towels?” Bridget asked Melanie.
“In the ladies’ room down the hall.” Melanie momentarily exulted at getting Bridget out of the room. But then she felt guilty, not to mention worried about her own mental health, and resolved yet again to calm down.
“Holy shit. Who’s that doing Whitney, your boyfriend Expo?” Dan asked Melanie. His eyes were fixed on the computer, his handsome face clouded. She couldn’t decide if he looked angry or just tired.
“He’s not my boyfriend!” she protested. She’d meant to sound jokey, but it came out defensive.
“Too bad. If you could testify you recognized his naked butt, we could use the picture as evidence for the wiretap,” Dan said.
“I can testify I recognize his naked head,” Melanie offered, still searching Dan’s face. But he wouldn’t look at her. Hmm, he didn’t seem mad, but he didn’t seem not mad either.
“We’re in pretty good shape to go up on Esposito’s phone anyway,” Dan said. “I spent last night at my computer following up on a few things. A woman by the name of Mirta Jimenez was found dead in a restroom at Marín Airport in San Juan ten months ago. Autopsy said cause of death was acute heroin poisoning, caused by leaking balloons in her stomach. She was booked on a flight to New York but never made it onto the plane. I already pulled the passenger manifest. One Jay Esposito was seated three rows behind her.”
IN CERTAIN RESPECTS Melanie’s fortunes had taken a turn for the better. Working swiftly, the team finished the wiretap affidavit and got Justice Department authorization by early afternoon. When they were ready to go to the judge for the final okay, the assignment wheel spit out the name of the Honorable Constance Stanchi, referred to fondly by prosecutors in Melanie’s office as the Smiling Lady of the Bench, the one jurist who could be counted on to sign anything, anytime.
Melanie had had wiretaps before Judge Stanchi in the past, and the approval process was blessedly minimal. She brought Dan rather than Ray-Ray to swear out the affidavit, because Judge Stanchi was known to appreciate a good-looking cop. They were ushered in to the jurist’s delightful chambers, which smelled of perfume and the large display of fresh roses on her desk. Judge Stanchi’s snow white hair was, as always, beautifully arranged. Her impressive pearls, as usual, carefully peeked over the collar of her black robe. And her delicate, blue-veined, manicured hands cradled a copy of the affidavit, which, based on past experience, Melanie was fairly confident she hadn’t read.
“Good afternoon, Miss Vargas,” the judge said in her cultured voice, bestowing one of the beatific smiles that had earned her her nickname. “And who is this fascinating young man you’ve brought to visit me?”
“Judge, this is Special Agent Daniel K. O’Reilly from the FBI, who is prepared to swear to the truth of the allegations contained in the affidavit. We’d be happy to answer any questions Your Honor might have about the investigation.”
“Questions. Hmmm. Yes.”
Judge Stanchi opened the bound affidavit and began leafing through it. Before another judge this was the moment Melanie normally got major butterflies, worrying that he’d throw her some curveball she wouldn’t be able to answer, deny the wiretap, and call up Bernadette screaming about Melanie’s incompetence. Not like it had never happened before either. But with Stanchi you didn’t sweat it. Not only was the Smiling Lady flipping through the affidavit from back to front, making it impossible to absorb its content in any event, but her delphinium blue eyes were busy ogling Dan rather than reading the document.
“Everything seems in order,” Judge Stanchi said when she’d finished pretending to read. She smiled yet again. “Agent, please raise your right hand.”
Minutes later they stood waiting for the elevator with the paperwork authorizing them to intercept Jay Esposito’s telephone calls in hand. And that’s when Melanie discovered that her fortunes hadn’t actually improved, not when it came to lo importante anyway.