Notorious (27 page)

W
ith Jennifer saying she
was doing all right, and Diamond—if he decided to show up at all—not expected until seven, Melanie decided she had time to pay a call on her friend Gary Nussbaum at the Medical Examiner's Office. It wasn't quite four o'clock, and she was fortunate to catch a lift from one of the agents returning to DEA headquarters. The agent, a clean-cut kid originally from Virginia who'd been on the job only a couple of years, insisted on dropping Melanie at the front door of the OCME on First Avenue, despite the fact that it was on the opposite end of Manhattan Island from DEA headquarters in Chelsea.

Melanie had called ahead, so Gary Nussbaum was expecting her. He greeted her at the guard's desk with such eagerness that Melanie felt guilty for getting the poor guy's hopes up. But she'd had no choice: she needed to see this evidence.

“I signed the DVDs out from our evidence vault and I've taken the liberty of examining them so I could speak to you intelligently on this issue,” Gary said as he led her down a long, grimy corridor.

“I'm most interested in the one that was in the DVD player at the time of Brenda's death.”

“Yes. That one was different from all the others.”

“Different how?”

“Come on in. I'll show you.”

Gary's office was smaller than hers, a cubicle with a big plate-glass window looking onto the corridor but no window to the outside. He sat down behind his desk, which was the modular type that stuck out from the wall, and pulled over a second chair so she could sit beside him. He snapped on a pair of disposable rubber gloves, then held the carton out to her.

“You need to wear gloves if you want to handle the evidence,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said, taking some and pulling them on.

Gary lifted an armful of clear plastic evidence envelopes from a cardboard box that sat beside his desk and began sorting through them.

“Nineteen DVDs were recovered in total,” Gary said, passing the envelopes to her one at a time so she could examine them. “Eighteen of them were seized by Officer Millie Nuñez from a table in the media room where Brenda Gould's body was found. All of those eighteen look identical to one another. They all appear to be home movies that were transferred from video to DVD format by a company called Tech Support Network, Inc.”

“A company recorded them?”

“I'm saying that Brenda Gould paid somebody to have her home videos put on DVD, that's all. This is very common now, since nobody uses VCRs anymore. So the eighteen DVDs from the table were all identical, but the DVD found inside the player was different. The ones transferred by Tech Support were burned onto blank Hewlett-Packard DVDs, and they all came inside these white plastic jewel cases, you see?”

Melanie nodded.

“The one from inside the DVD player was burned onto a Sony DVD rather than Hewlett-Packard. Also, from what I can tell, there wasn't any jewel case seized to go with it.”

“Officer Nuñez told me she couldn't find one at the scene. She thought that was odd.”

“It is odd. Especially since Brenda Gould appears to have been careful to keep the others in their original cases. For us, the effect of that is, no label to tell us where the DVD in the player came from. All we know is that it's different.”

“Can you play it now?”

“Certainly.”

Gary removed the DVD from the evidence envelope, holding it gingerly between gloved fingers, and fed it into the drive. An old-fashioned date readout popped up on the screen, glowing luminous green against a black background. It read
July 28, 1986 21:49.

“Oh my God,” Melanie said, clutching Gary's arm. “July twenty-eighth, 1986.”

He clicked his mouse to pause the image. “Presumably, that's when the original video was recorded.”

“That's the date of Charity Bishop's death.”

“Who's Charity Bishop?” Gary asked.

“A girl who died at Brenda Gould's house in Sagaponack. Gary, play the film.”

“Died how?”

“She was found floating naked in the swimming pool. She had water in her lungs and a contusion on the back of her head. But the evidence was inconclusive, and no charges were ever filed. Play it, come on.”

Gary clicked again, and the recording continued to play. It showed a grainy image of a brick patio adjoining a large swimming pool. The pool was lit from within and glowed aqua blue in the dim light.
Spotlights mounted on the shingle-style house created stark stripes of light and darkness on the patio. The film had been shot without the benefit of lighting, and it faded out to gray wherever the spotlights from the house didn't reach. In the background, voices could be heard arguing, but no people were yet visible on the screen.

“Turn up the volume,” Melanie said.

Even with the volume louder, the sound was still muddy—the words unintelligible, only the hysteria in the voices clear. Two women moved into view, and from the way the lens focused on them, it was obvious that the cameraman had been waiting for exactly this moment.

“Let me get dressed, you crazy bitch!”

The young woman backed toward the camera, hunching over like she was trying to cover herself. Blond hair cascaded down her back, leaving her naked butt and thighs exposed.

“That's Charity Bishop,” Melanie said, breathless, her eyes glued to the screen.

Charity turned sideways, bringing the other woman into clear focus. Older, darker, smaller. It was Brenda Gould all right, and she was brandishing some sort of club, threatening Charity with it.

“What's that in her hand? A golf club?” Melanie asked.

“Or a polo mallet,” Gary said. “That's Brenda Gould, right?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing in his bed?”
Brenda shrieked.

“I was taking a nap. He's not even home. For Chrissakes, put that thing down.”
Charity was slurring her words. She sounded drunk, or drugged. Melanie remembered that the autopsy report had shown a high blood alcohol level.

“You're fucking him, aren't you?”

“You're really starting to piss me off, Brenda!”

“I know you are. Philippe told me he saw you together.”

Charity lunged for the mallet, but her reflexes were off. Brenda
was faster and more coordinated, and brought the mallet down on Charity's outstretched hand with perfect aim.

“Aagh! You hurt me!”

Charity charged at Brenda, but she was unsteady on her feet. She tripped and pitched forward face-first into the grass bordering the brick patio. Brenda raised the mallet so fast that it whizzed by in a blur, making a dull squashing sound when it connected with the back of Charity's head.

Brenda stood there breathing hard. Whoever was holding the camera chose not to reveal himself and made no attempt to help the unconscious girl. After a moment Brenda walked over to the edge of the pool and dipped the head of the mallet in, swishing it around, then lifted it out and wiped it off in the grass.

“Who's the creep with the camera?” Gary asked. “He's not doing anything about this! He's
filming
it.”

Brenda was once again standing beside Charity's inert form. She leaned over, grabbed her by the arms, and dragged her across the brick patio toward the pool. When she got to the edge, Brenda stopped for a second to catch her breath, then planted a foot firmly on Charity's nude backside and gave a spirited push. The body hit the water with a splash. Melanie and Gary both gasped.

“Did you see that?” Gary said.

“I can't believe it. Brenda Gould murdered that girl in cold blood. She looked like she was sober when she did it, too.”

“What I want to know is who made this film? Who would stand by and watch somebody get murdered and do nothing to stop it? It's sickening.” Gary paused. “I'm right, aren't I? He didn't call the police?”

“No. The body was discovered by the pool man the next morning.”

“Then whoever made the film is an accessory to murder. Do you think it was Brenda's husband?”

“No, I think it was her stepson, Philippe, Lester's son. He spent summers at that house, so he had the access. And he was the one with the motivation. Charity was his girlfriend, and she betrayed him by sleeping with his father. He was every bit as enraged as Brenda was.”

“He let her be killed? And he never went to the police?”

“This film was never turned over to any authority, as far as I know.”

“How did it get into Brenda's DVD player?”

“Good question. Let's assume Philippe kept the tape and wanted to use it as leverage. But maybe he wasn't savvy enough to figure out how to do that on his own, so he reached out for help, to somebody who he knew was corrupt. Evan Diamond. We have evidence that twenty years later, Evan Diamond was blackmailing Lester Poe with damaging evidence concerning Charity Bishop's murder. This tape was the smoking gun. Diamond got it from Philippe. Philippe and Diamond were working together. At first, they were trying to get money from Lester. But after Lester died, they went after Brenda instead. They played the tape to pressure her, but something went wrong. Maybe she wouldn't go along with it. Maybe she threatened to call the police. I know the autopsy concluded that Brenda died from an accidental overdose, but, Gary, I don't believe that. Officer Nuñez told me that when she arrived at the apartment, Diamond and Philippe Poe were waiting for the police together. I think they murdered Brenda Gould.”

J
ennifer Lamont was curled
up in the corner of the sofa with the cat on her lap, watching a bunch of strangers install devices in her closets and wire things to her telephone. She was grateful to the cat for sticking close by her. The warm vibration of his body against her stomach was her only comfort. Snickers was not a sociable animal and didn't normally like being held. He obviously sensed Jennifer's pain today. Pain wasn't the word—despondency. When she wasn't watching the DEA poke around in her private possessions, Jennifer was busy reviewing the tools she had on hand for killing herself.

On the kitchen counter, a brand-new set of Henckels chef's knives gleamed in the knife block. She'd bought them with the first paycheck from her clerkship. She could just cry, thinking of the hope she'd felt when she'd moved into this place. Her dreams seemed idiotic now, the prattlings of a stupid girl. She pitied her younger self, overreaching by such a wide margin, imagining that she might find a boyfriend, might watch the Food Network and learn how to cook for him. Of course the boyfriend never materialized. Who did she think she was—somebody other than her pathetic loser self? Cook
ing for one person had been a waste. She ate cereal instead, and used the knives for slicing bananas. All for the best, it turned out. They waited in the knife block now, razor sharp and ready to slit her wrists. What would it feel like, that first slice? Crisp and fresh, like snapping a celery stalk? Mushy? Tougher and more sinewy? Would she be able to make the cut, or would she chicken out, squeamish little coward that she was? Hanging might be easier. One leap into the void, and the ordeal would be over. Jennifer thought she could handle that. These DEA guys were leaving a lot of cables around. Maybe she could use one of them to do the job. Besides, she liked the drama of the discovery. The girl swinging slowly, her feet dangling just inches off the ground, her skin pale and tinged with blue. Tragic. She wondered who would find her body.

Tommy Yee came over to her.

“You holding up okay? Need something to eat?” he asked.

“No thanks. I'm not hungry.”

She stared at him, trying to read what he was like inside. He'd treated her so much nicer since she'd made that phone call to Evan. He must be the type of man who believed in a black-and-white world. Jennifer was his enemy or else she was his ally; nothing in between. When she'd been feeding information to Evan, she was a worm, deserving to get squashed. If she'd been alone with Tommy Yee then, no telling what he might have done. Rape, torture, humiliation—he'd hated her enough to be capable of anything. She'd felt the hot blast of that hatred when he'd grabbed her in the library. There weren't any borders to it; it was infinite like the universe. But now everything was different. This morning was another lifetime: now Jennifer was Tommy's friend, his ally. More than that, she was his informant, and he would care for her tenderly. Jennifer didn't find that strange at all. She understood a code like that.

“You sure you're okay?” Tommy asked. “Your eyes look glazed over.”

“It's been a difficult morning.”

“It has. That's why you need to keep your strength up. You have to stay focused. Diamond might actually show up, you know. If he does, it's your job to match wits with him, to get him to say stuff on tape. You have to be sharp.”

Snickers meowed and leaped from Jennifer's lap.

“Can I ask you something?” she said to Tommy.

“Of course.”

“Who'll take my cat if I die?”

He put his hand on her knee and squeezed. There was nothing lascivious in the gesture. In fact, Jennifer found it so reassuring and so comforting that she faltered for a second in her determination to commit suicide. She wondered whether Tommy Yee had a girlfriend. He seemed old and worn-out. Maybe he needed somebody young. Maybe he needed Jennifer enough that he'd be willing to overlook her shameful past.

“Don't worry, kiddo. I've been doing this a long time. I won't let anything happen to you,” he said.

It wasn't dying in the cross fire that Jennifer worried about. Chances were, she wouldn't become Tommy Yee's girlfriend. She wouldn't find any miraculous relief from her problems. She'd get disbarred, face jail, and probably wind up killing herself.

“Just in case,” she persisted. “Would you maybe take him? He's very easy. He cleans himself, and he doesn't need to go out. The cat food is less than ten dollars a week, even with a premium brand.”

Tommy laughed. “Relax. Everything will be fine.”

“But—”

“Yes, all right. If you die, I'll take your cat.”

“Thank you.”

The telephone rang.

“Are you expecting a call?” Tommy asked.

“No.”

“Go ahead, answer it. We've got the equipment set up.”

Jennifer reached for the telephone on the side table. Tommy crossed the room in two steps and put on his headset, nodding at her to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Jennifer?”

It was him.

“Evan.”

“What are you doing at home? I called the office, and they said you'd left.”

“I didn't feel well.”

“Are you sick?”

“Weren't you listening before? Susan knows what we did. I'm going to lose my job. I'm so upset, I had to come home. Will you please just come here so we can talk about it?”

“Are you alone?”

Tommy nodded vigorously.

“Of course I'm alone,” Jennifer said.

“Call you back,” Diamond said, and hung up.

Tommy peeled off the headphones. “What was that?”

Jennifer shrugged. She was listless; a simple gesture felt like an effort.

“You know what I think it was?” Tommy said. “He was checking to see if you were alone. We need to get set up for a visitor.”

“What kind of visitor?”

But Tommy had already started rallying the other agents, snapping out orders, gathering up equipment. The entire apartment was in motion—people throwing stuff in boxes, picking up debris, removing any sign that they'd been there. Within minutes, the other three agents had disappeared out the back. Jennifer's apartment had a door that opened out to the back garden, underneath the big wooden deck that her landlady used for barbecues in the nice weather. The
garden was surrounded by a high wall that had a door of its own onto an alley where the trash cans were kept. The surveillance van was parked just beyond that alley. The other agents would monitor the video feeds from there and move in for the takedown when Tommy gave the arrest signal.

Tommy tested the back door to make sure it was unlocked so they'd be able to come in without alerting Diamond.

“What about you?” Jennifer asked. “Will you stay?”

“I'll be in the closet in your bedroom the whole time. You won't be alone. Do your best to draw him out, but if it doesn't work, or if you fear for your safety, don't take any chances. Holler, and I'll come running.”