Most Wanted (7 page)

THE SLICK TILES OF THE LINCOLN TUNNEL flashed by at warp speed as Melanie raced toward New Jersey in a government car, heading for the hotel where the housekeeper who witnessed Jed Benson’s murder was under protection. A few hours after leaving Melanie’s office with the to-do list, Dan had called from the hotel and told her to get there fast.

“We got a big problem with Rosario Sangrador,” he said, his voice urgent. “She doesn’t want to stay holed up anymore while we look for the perps, but she can’t go back to her apartment while they’re on the loose. Not only is she refusing to testify, she’s threatening to run.”

“That can’t happen. We need her testimony.”

“You better get here ASAP and talk some sense into her. Or else I’m gonna cuff her to the doorknob, and she’s not gonna like that.”

Black clouds hung low in the sky as Melanie pulled into the hotel’s vast parking lot. The modern tan brick building stood apart, rising like a squat mountain from the deserted wasteland of on- and off-ramps. A hot wind coming off the parkway tasted of asphalt and rain as she gathered up her briefcase and slammed the door. She’d come armed with a hastily typed subpoena with Rosario’s name on it. She’d use it if she had to, but it was always better if witnesses testified of their own free will.

Melanie rapped firmly on the hotel-room door. An eye appeared at the peephole. Dan opened the door, stuck his head out, and checked both ways down the corridor before letting her in.

“You didn’t tell anyone where you were going, did you?” he asked.

“Just Bernadette, so she could sign for the car.”

He frowned. “You filled out a sheet? Those things go to the filing pool. When you get back, you better pull it and white out the destination.”

“You think so? That sounds kind of paranoid to me.”

He shrugged, then turned and led her down a cramped foyer into a small room with salmon pink carpeting, pink and green upholstery, and blond wood furniture. It smelled stale, a combination of old cigarette smoke and room deodorizer. A petite, middle-aged Filipino woman with short hair and steel-rimmed eyeglasses sat on the bed staring blankly at the television resting on the bureau. She turned, and Melanie’s jaw dropped.
Abuelita
. The woman was the spitting image of her grandmother, who’d lived with her family when Melanie was young. But the left side of the housekeeper’s face was darkly mottled, angry bruises punctuated by the black railroad tracks of a stitched gash. Something stiff in her posture suggested she was in pain.

Rosario Sangrador stared at Melanie morosely. In the hostile blankness of her gaze, Melanie read fear.

“Rosario, I want you to meet somebody,” Dan said. “This is Miss Vargas. She’s the prosecutor. She’s gonna put Jed Benson’s killers in jail.”

Rosario glared at Melanie. “I not testify. No way. Send me home now,” she said, ignoring Melanie’s extended hand.

Melanie walked over and snapped off the television. She moved a small armchair from the desk to the foot of the bed and sat down facing Rosario. Dan pulled up another chair nearby.

“It’s Mrs. Sangrador, right, ma’am?” Melanie kept her tone deferential, sympathetic.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Rosario deliberately looked away toward the window, though the blinds were drawn and there was nothing to see. Melanie shifted the chair to place herself directly in the housekeeper’s line of sight.

“Look, Mrs. Sangrador, I can see how scared you are. Believe me, I understand what you’re feeling.”

Rosario made eye contact, her face full of fury, the fury of someone who’s been attacked. “How you understand? These men, they gonna kill me! He tell me if I talk to you, he come back and hack me in little pieces.”

“Who told you that?”

“The man who kill Mr. Jed!” Rosario dropped her head to her hands, shoulders heaving. “You not care about me! I testify and they kill me!” she choked out between sobs.

Melanie got up and fetched her a tissue and a glass of water. Rosario took them, sipping the water, dabbing at her eyes carefully to avoid the stitches that snaked down her cheek. After a few moments, she quieted and looked up.

“I have a plan to keep you safe,” Melanie said gently. “We can get you away from here, far away, where this man can’t reach you.”

“You pay my ticket? Because I don’t got too much money.”

“Yes. Not only will we transport you, but we’ll pay your living expenses until the trial.”

Rosario looked at her suspiciously. “What I got to do to get that?”

Melanie met her eyes. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Mrs. Sangrador. You have to testify. Now in the grand jury. And later at trial.”

“No. No way.” Rosario shook her head emphatically.

“Look, it’s a free country. If you tell us to leave you alone, we will. But then we can’t pay for the hotel and twenty-four-hour guard. That kind of protection is only for people who testify. If that’s your decision, my case might be weaker, but at night I go home in one piece. For you it’s a death sentence.”

Rosario gasped, eyes wide with shock, but Melanie was only telling her the truth. She’d be doing her a disservice if she didn’t. They stared at each other, Rosario’s mind obviously racing behind her glasses. In the silence Dan’s pager went off with a piercing wail. He jumped up and excused himself, stepping out into the corridor to return the beep.

When he came back a few minutes later, Rosario drew a breath and said, “Okay. I testify. But you promise me, missus, you promise me, right? You promise me I be safe?”

“Yes!” Melanie leaned forward and clasped Rosario’s two hands in her own. “You’ll be guarded at all times. You’ll be completely safe. You have my word.”

MELANIE CALLED THE GRAND JURY CLERK’S office from the hotel and booked the next available time slot, spelling Rosario’s name carefully for the clerk. Rosario would testify the following afternoon at three. In the meantime she needed to be prepped.

“Okay, Mrs. Sangrador,” Melanie said, pen poised over her yellow legal pad, “tell me what happened. Take me through it, step by step.”

“Nine o’clock last night, man come to door. Mrs. Benson away, and Mr. Benson downstairs in office, so I answer.”

“Did you get a good look at his face?” Melanie asked.

“Oh, yeah! I never forget him!”

Melanie looked over at Dan, who leaned down and pulled the folder with the mug shots from his battered canvas briefcase. Before he could open the folder, she stopped his hand with a touch.

“Single photos aren’t allowed,” she said. “Did you put it in an array?”

“This ain’t amateur hour, sweetheart,” he said, meeting her eyes. Too aware of his warm skin under her fingers, she pulled her hand away. He removed a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to her. It was a color Xerox containing six numbered photographs, all of teenage boys with short dark hair, no facial hair, and thin features. The mug shot of Slice was in position number four.

“Not suggestive in the least,” she said, nodding. “I approve. Proceed.”

“Okay. Rosario,” Dan intoned, reading from the boilerplate printed on the back of the array, “you’re about to view an array of six photographs that may or may not contain a photo of the individual in question. Hairstyles, facial hair, and skin tones may vary with time and photo quality. Examine each photograph carefully, and tell me if you recognize anybody. Take as much time as you need.”

Melanie held her breath as Dan handed the array to Rosario. The mug shot of Slice was so outdated. If Rosario didn’t recognize him, it wouldn’t mean he was the wrong guy, but it could torpedo their case.

Rosario snatched the array from Dan’s hands, glanced at it, and jabbed her finger at photo number four. “That him! Except he much older now.”

Melanie breathed out. “Okay. What happened when you answered the door?”

“I talk to him through video monitor. He say he deliver flowers for Mrs. Benson. I say, why so late? Then I see he have jacket with name of flower company, so I buzz door. Let him in. So stupid!” Tears welled in Rosario’s eyes again and slowly spilled over, reminding Melanie powerfully of the past.
Abuelita crying when she left for the airport. Melanie crying. No, Abuelita said
, mi hija,
don’t you feel bad. This not your fault. Your
mami,
she send me away
.

“Oh, Mrs. Sangrador, this wasn’t your fault!” Melanie exclaimed. “Don’t blame yourself! Anyone else would have done the same thing!” Don’t blame yourself, she told Rosario, though of course she blamed herself for all her own problems. “What next?” she asked aloud.

“He push door in and grab me. I feel gun on my cheek, I scream. Then, boom, he hit me with gun. That how I get this.” She pointed to the stitched gash.

“Did he say anything to you when he came in?” Melanie asked.

“He say, ‘You make problem, I kill you.’ Then he kick my feet, and I fall down. He tie my hands with twist tie, like from garbage bag. Very sharp. Hurt me. Then he walk back to the door and open it. His friends come. They all wear black ski mask, I can’t see faces. Oh, my God! And they have big dog!”

Rosario began breathing heavily, wringing her hands. Melanie patted her reassuringly and looked deep into her eyes, trying to convey strength. “It’s okay. Keep going.”

“Four or five guys maybe, and big black dog. Dog jump for me. His teeth, snap snap like this.” With her hand, Rosario mimed jaws biting. “They laughing. Say he smell my blood already.”

“Were they armed?” Melanie asked.

“Oh, yes. Guns. Big guns, all of them. Same like that one.” She pointed to the Glock protruding from Dan’s waistband.

“Sure?” Dan asked, removing it and displaying it for her.

“Yes.”

“Nine-millimeter semiautomatic,” Melanie said, making a note on her legal pad. “Matches the shell casing recovered from Benson’s office. Did you notice, Mrs. Sangrador, were they wearing gloves?”

“Oh, yes, and it very hot night, so I know. They not want leave fingerprints, right?”

“Right. What next?” Melanie asked.

“Next they pull me up so leader ask me questions. Where Mr. Benson, he want to know.”

“Did they ask for Benson by name?”

“Oh, yes. Seem like they know him. Sometime they say Jed, sometime Mighty Whitey.”

“They called him…what? Mighty Whitey, you said?” Melanie asked, making a note.

“Yes. And they know house. The leader ask me, ‘Is Jed down in office?’ he say. But I so scared I can’t talk. I pee my pants. He very mad, push me down again. Kick me, call me names.” Tears leaked from Rosario’s eyes, and Melanie squeezed her shoulder.

“You’re doing great,” Melanie said. “Keep going.”

“Okay. Then I hear Amanda. She screaming. They talk about they gonna rape her. I lay on floor. Pants wet, very cold. I get so scared I go away in my mind. Think about my church. Pray to Jesus. I not remember for a while.”

Melanie remained silent for a moment, letting Rosario collect herself, then asked gently, “What’s the next thing you remember?”

“I realize it quiet. They all gone except big one.”

“Tell me about the big one. What did he look like?”

“Very tall, very fat. Name Bigga. But he wear mask. I never see his face.”

“Did you hear anyone else’s name?”

“Yes. The first one who come to the door, they call Slice. Later I see why!” She heaved a sob, her shoulders trembling visibly.

“Why?” Melanie asked.

“The way he cut Amanda!” Rosario was shaking all over.

“That happened in the office? Down in the basement?” Melanie asked.

“I not see. When I get there, her fingers gone already!”

“How did you get down to the basement?”

“Slice call Bigga on walkie-talkie. Say get some Clorox because he want do trick like he do with Colombian that time.”

“What trick?”

Rosario shook her head violently, covering her eyes with her hand as if she could stop herself from seeing.

“Okay, let’s take it one step at a time. Bigga asked you to get Clorox?”

“Yes. He pull me up. I show him Clorox in laundry room. Then we going back downstairs, but new man come.”

“Another man came? You mean another perpetra—another bad guy?” Melanie asked.

“Yes. We hear tapping sound. He banging on door with gun. Bigga open door and tell him, ‘Why you late? Slice very mad. Watch your back.’ Like that.”

“Did the new guy say anything?”

“He say, ‘Fuck that little prick. I tell him I handle the problem—now look what he’s doing.’”

“Was he wearing a mask? Did you ever see his face?” Melanie asked.

“He putting it on while he walking in the door. So I see he have brown hair. Nice brown hair. Like him.” Rosario pointed at Dan’s thick, wavy, dark locks. “So he take us downstairs. He know the way. He push office door with his foot, I remember. He not wearing gloves like the others.”

Melanie scribbled a note. “That’s great, Rosario. Details like that really help us. What did you see when you got inside the office?”

Tears spilled over and began rolling down Rosario’s cheeks again.

“Inside, I see Mr. Jed, tied up in chair. Oh, my God, covered with blood! Blood everywhere! Smell like market back home when they kill the chickens. Dog have blood on his mouth, too, so I know he bite Mr. Jed.”

“Now, tell me: What did they do with the Clorox?”

The tears were coming faster now. “Mr. Jed, his eyes closed. So Slice slap him, like one-two-three. Wake him up, you know? He tell him, you watch this, then you talk. He take needle from his pocket. Big needle, like from the doctor. He fill it with Clorox, then he grab Amanda’s arm and poke it in. He put his thumb on the needle like he gonna push. Then he say, ‘Hey, Jed, you know what Clorox do in the veins? You talk, or I push.’”

“‘You talk or I push?’ What does that mean, Mrs. Sangrador? Why did Slice say that? Were they asking Jed Benson for information?”

“I don’t know. I not hear that part.” Rosario looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, and took a deep breath. “He poke the needle in. Then I see Amanda’s arm. Her fingers.” She spoke under her breath, almost talking to herself. “Oh, my God. Amanda’s fingers gone! And so much blood.”

“Then what?”