8

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.”