Michele Martinez - Most Wanted

Blind with rage, she backed out into the hallway. Before she thought twice, she was in the anteroom to Bernadette’s office.

Shekeya’s two daughters, maybe four and six, played jacks on the linoleum floor while Shekeya typed. Intent on their play, they granted Melanie only the same brief, resentful glance she received from their mother. Shekeya kept typing, not bothering to explain their presence, a foul silence hanging over her.

“Bernadette in?”

“What you think? It’s the middle of the afternoon,” she said coldly, eyes on the keys, not looking up a second time.

“It just seems quiet.”

“Quiet like a snake before it bite you.”

Not troubling to decipher that comment, Melanie walked in unannounced. Bernadette looked up from a paper she was reading. The afternoon sunlight glared through the window behind her desk, hurting Melanie’s eyes, making it difficult to see Bernadette’s face. Melanie knew that her boss had placed the desk there for precisely that reason, to gain advantage, to unnerve visitors.

When Melanie’s eyes adjusted, what she saw surprised her. There wasn’t a trace of last night’s excessive drinking or its stormy aftermath. Bernadette looked fresh, better than she had in recent memory. Her eyes were clearer, her color better, her carriage more vigorous and erect. She looked like a woman who had come through a terrible ordeal relatively unscathed and finally figured out who she was and where she stood.

“Sit down,” Bernadette commanded. “You’ve saved me the trouble of summoning you. We need to talk about your handling-or should I say mishandling?-of the Benson investigation.”

“What?” Melanie exclaimed, shocked, stumbling as she backed into a guest chair. Her heart began to pound.

“I assume you’ve heard about Slice’s latest victims? Amanda Benson and her bodyguard?”

“Yes,” Melanie said warily.

“I was just proofreading this memo. Here, take a look.”

Bernadette slid a piece of paper across the desk with her fingertips. Her fingers were gruesome. Like Dorian Gray’s picture, they revealed the strain that didn’t show in her face-red polish horribly chipped, cuticles bitten to bloody shreds. Melanie picked up the memo, saw it was from Bernadette to the U.S. Attorney, dated that day. It announced Melanie’s reassignment to administrative duties. The Benson case would be handled by Bernadette herself.

“Did Rommie Ramirez put you up to this, Bernadette? You know it’s completely wrong.”

“Wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Assigning this case to you was wrong. Rommie’s been telling me that all along, and now I finally see.”

“You know why he wants me off the case? Because I’m getting too close.”

“Close? You’re not even in the ballpark, girlfriend. I gave you a chance. But enough is enough. You’re parading around like a hotshot, screaming about conspiracy theories while the killer picks off your witnesses one by one. Do you have any idea what it means that Amanda Benson was killed? Any minute we can expect her mother to march into the front office and demand our resignations. I can’t believe it hasn’t happened yet.”

“Do you have any idea what it means that Amanda was killed, Bernadette? She was a scared, confused little girl. Fifteen years old, and now she’s dead. She’ll never get a chance to grow up. And you’re sitting here worrying about how it looks to the front office.”

“Yes, I’m worried,” Bernadette snarled. “You should be, too. With the way the bodies are piling up, we look downright incompetent.”

“Oh, it’s a lot worse than that!” Melanie cried.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not incompetence, it’s corruption, and your boyfriend is in the middle of it. Rommie told Slice where to find all my witnesses. He was involved, Bernadette. Open your eyes! His fingerprints are all over a can of accelerant found at the scene of Jed Benson’s murder. I’d show you the report proving that, but it was stolen from my office last night, along with the bank records Rommie was so interested in at the retirement dinner. Funny coincidence, isn’t it? Was Rommie here last night, after the dinner?”

Bernadette’s mouth fell open, all color draining from her face.

“He was, wasn’t he? He has free run of our office after hours, isn’t that right, Bernadette? That’s how he found out where Rosario Sangrador was sequestered, I bet. Who let him in here, any idea? Would it happen to be you? Don’t you think the front office would be interested to know that ?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Bernadette said, her voice fierce and quiet.

“Let me explain it more clearly, then. The fingerprint analyst compared the print on the kerosene can to all law enforcement present at the crime scene. Rommie’s prints matched.”

“Well…so?” Bernadette stuttered. “He messed up. Didn’t handle evidence properly. That’s bad, but it doesn’t mean-”

“I already spoke to Butch Brennan,” Melanie interjected. “The can was recovered from the scene before Rommie ever arrived there. So it couldn’t have been a mistake.”

“No. No, there has to be some other explanation,” Bernadette declared emphatically, shaking her head. “You’re just confirming everything I said about crazy theories. To accept that a fifteen-year veteran could be involved in murder, rather than doing the extra work to find the right answer. It’s…it’s…why, it’s just ludicrous!”

“I believe the evidence I see before my eyes, Bernadette. Maybe I don’t have personal motives for disregarding it.”

They stared at each other. Melanie imagined she saw a second’s hesitation, a moment’s doubt, flicker on Bernadette’s face. But then Bernadette squelched it out. Doubt was not an emotion she tolerated.

Holding Melanie’s gaze, Bernadette pressed the intercom. Shekeya came into the room.

“This memo is fine. Distribute it!” Bernadette snapped.

Shekeya took the memo without so much as a glance in Melanie’s direction. She must have typed it right before Melanie walked in. No wonder she’d acted so hostile; she was covering up her embarrassment. She knew that Bernadette was about to deliver a humiliating blow, yet she’d presumably been instructed not to tell Melanie.

“It’s done,” Bernadette said dismissively. “You’re off the case. I’ll handle this matter from here on out. If you want something done right, do it yourself, I always say. Oh, and by the way, I made you a list of new assignments, starting with a week of bail duty. Idle hands do the devil’s work, after all.”

She thrust a piece of paper at Melanie, who took it without looking at it.

“You’re going to find out I’m right, sooner or later,” Melanie said, standing up, looming over her boss’s desk. “Let’s just hope nobody else dies in the process.”

Melanie turned on her heel and marched from the room. When she got out to the hall, she took Bernadette’s list of bullshit administrative chores, ripped it to shreds, and threw it in the nearest trash can. She wasn’t about to get sidelined. Damned if she’d leave that animal and his cohorts on the street one second longer.

ONLY ONCE SHE HIT THE STREET DID MELANIE ask herself where she was going. New York was a big town. Slice could be anywhere.

The basic principles of investigation counseled starting with his last known location. That would be Mount Sinai Hospital, last night, wielding a nine-millimeter. The way things had fallen to shit on this case, she doubted anybody had even canvassed the hospital staff to pick up leads. She hailed a taxi. She’d do it herself. And if somehow she managed to find him, then she’d figure out how to take him down. No point worrying about that now.