Most Wanted

39

THE ATTENDANT’S BOOTH IN THE G-CAR PARKING lot was locked up tight. Melanie cupped her hands around her eyes, peering in the window, as if someone might be hiding in its cramped, dark interior. The sign posted on the door said the lot opened at nine, and it was only eight-fifteen. She stood there sweating in a tailored shirtdress, trying to think of an alternative to waiting for forty-five minutes. Waiting was not an option at this point in the game.

A faded gray four-door sedan turned into the lot and pulled up beside the booth. With the glare on the windows, she couldn’t see who was driving. Then the door opened, and Joe Williams, her colleague from the office, stepped out.

“Joe.” She was genuinely glad to see him.

“Why here so early? You have a court date on Long Island or something?” he asked, squinting through his thick glasses against the beating sun.

“Not exactly.”

He looked at her closely. “Everything okay? You don’t look so good.”

“No, actually. All hell is breaking loose. Another witness killed last night. Benson’s daughter. We can’t seem to catch Slice, and I don’t know which way to turn. I need to get to Otisville right away to interview a prisoner. But I can’t get a car for another forty-five minutes. Unless you’re returning that one,” she said hopefully.

“I am, but old Stella here is not in great shape. She’s been making a funny grinding noise.”

“Hey, I don’t care. Beggars can’t be choosers. Just give me the key.” She held out her hand.

“Are you sure? I don’t know much about cars, but she doesn’t sound good.”

“Joe, it’s an emergency.”

“Okay.” He handed her the key. “If you like, I’ll fill out the paperwork for you once the attendant gets in.”

“That would be great. You’re a pal.”

“Hey, anything I can do. Watching you suffer through this case, I actually feel guilty you caught it instead of me.”

“Oh, come on, we both know I deserve whatever I get. Teach me to try to further my career,” she said. She opened the car door and slid behind the wheel, throwing her bag onto the passenger seat.

“Oh, speaking of careers, I have some news,” Joe said, then waved his hand. “But never mind. You’re in a rush.”

“No. What is it?”

“I’m considering an offer from Fogel, Bingham and McGuire. I may be leaving the office.”

Her face fell. Her friends were deserting her. Not like she had many to spare either. Steve had been right about that.

“Oh, Joe! No, you can’t. How will I get along without you?”

“It’s nice of you to say that. I’ll miss you, too. But it’s not like we ever see each other, you know.”

“But we will, once things slow down.”

“As if that’ll ever happen. The thing is, Melanie, I need work that challenges me intellectually. No matter what I say, Witchie-Poo keeps assigning me buy-busts.”

“When I get a minute, Joe, I’m talking you out of this.”

He smiled. “Aw, well, thanks for caring.” He stepped back as she pulled the door shut. “Good luck!” he shouted, but she’d turned on the air-conditioning and didn’t hear him.

HER LEG WAS CRAMPING FROM THE TENSION OF pressing the pedal to the floor.

“Godamnit, Stella!” she shouted, pounding the steering wheel. Damn thing kept losing power. She had to get to Delvis before the engine died. She had to hear the answer. It wasn’t just about catching Slice anymore. If people around her were dirty, she needed to hear the rest. Because the pattern had become too obvious to ignore. The missing evidence. The doors left unguarded. Rosario. Jasmine. Now Amanda. Someone on the inside was working with that animal, tipping him off. She needed to find out who. She had to stop the killings. And, for her own reasons, she needed to learn the truth about Dan O’Reilly.

As she passed through the barbed-wire gates of the prison, she breathed normally again. She made it this far. It wouldn’t be long now until she knew. Melanie turned off the engine, wincing at the terrible grinding sound. Then she grabbed her bag and ran for the entrance, clip-clopping in her high heels.

Leona Burkett, the bleached blonde with the wide behind whom Melanie remembered from the other day, met her by the X-ray machine. Melanie flashed her credentials, shivering in the frigid air-conditioning, thinking about what she would ask Delvis. It was amazing how work calmed her, focused her mind. She felt the ground back under her feet.

“You just show up, without an appointment?” Leona snapped.

“I apologize,” Melanie said. “This investigation is moving so fast. The need to speak to Diaz again came up unexpectedly.”

“Have a seat while I check the computer. I have no idea whether it can be arranged for today.”

“Please, whatever you can do. It’s urgent.”

Leona jerked her head toward a small waiting area to the left of the entrance, then walked away.

Melanie was beginning to get agitated, looking at her watch, when Leona returned about fifteen minutes later.

“Looks like you wasted a trip,” Leona said. “This is why I tell you people to call first.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Prisoner was just transferred to Leavenworth. Went out on the five A.M. airlift.”

“Leavenworth? Kansas?”

“Yes, ma’am. That scumbag’s attitude finally caught up with him. He pissed somebody off to get sent there. Leavenworth knows how to deal with the hardened cases. I doubt we’ll ever see Diaz again, but if we do, let’s just say he’ll be more cooperative.” She snickered.

“No! That can’t be right. I just spoke to him yesterday. He never said anything about getting transferred.”

“He didn’t know. They wake him up, tell him to grab his box of belongings, and get his ass on the plane.”

Something occurred to her. “Exactly when was the transfer arranged?”

Leona flipped through several sheets of paper attached to the clipboard she carried.

“Let’s see,” she said, removing one. “Here’s the redesignation paperwork. ‘Diaz, Delvis, number A6452-053, designation transfer, airlift, LV.’ LV is Leavenworth. This was entered into the computer last night at 1807 hours, so just after six o’clock.”

Delvis had called Melanie in the late afternoon, some time between four and five. If she had any doubt about whether the transfer was a coincidence, the timing re- solved it. Delvis was transferred for one reason and one reason only-to interfere with her speaking to him again.

“Who ordered him transferred?” Melanie asked.

Leona pointed to a column on the sheet of paper. “See here? It just says D for discretionary. That means it was at the discretion of the Bureau of Prisons rather than by a writ. So it was somebody in the BOP ordered it.”

“Can I find out who? Ask them why they did it?”

“I told you why. That scumbag was a pain in everybody’s backside. I could prob’ly name you ten guys wanted his ass out of here. But who keyed in the actual order, the computer doesn’t record that.”

“How can I get him back?”

Leona scowled and took back the sheet of paper. “Get him back? He just left.”

“But I need to speak with him.”

“You want him back, file a sentenced-prisoner writ. But I can tell you, people around here ain’t gonna be too happy to see his ugly mug again.”

“Okay, how do I do that?”

“Get a writ, get it signed by a federal judge. File it with the Marshals Service thirty days prior to the time you need the prisoner.”

“But I need the prisoner now.”

Leona shrugged. “Well, then. Guess you’re out of luck. Listen, if you don’t mind, I got a lot of work to do this morning.”

“Oh, of course. Thank you, Leona. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Don’t mention it, hon.”

MELANIE CROSSED THE BLISTERING-HOT BLACK-TOP back to where she’d parked. The way her day was going, she had a sinking feeling that the car would decide not to start. And that was before she saw the oily reddish brown puddle seeping out from under it.

She opened the driver’s-side door and felt waves of hot, acrid-smelling air rush out at her. Of course she hadn’t thought to park in the shade. She got in anyway, wincing as her skirt rode up and exposed the backs of her thighs to the scalding Naugahyde seat. Leaving the door open for air, she found the key in her bag, stuck it in the ignition, and turned it.

A strange whirring noise emanated from the engine, but when she put the car in gear and stepped on the gas, nothing happened. Stella refused to move. She pressed her foot to the floor. Still nothing.

“Come on, Stella. Come on, baby.”

The whir became a grind and then a screech, but no matter how hard she pressed, the car wouldn’t budge. She put her head down on the steering wheel, eyes completely dry. What good would crying do? Besides, she was too tired.

“Car trouble?” said a voice beside her.

She raised her head. Dan O’Reilly stood there looking down at her, the sun glinting off his thick, dark hair, a smile lighting up his handsome face.