Sexy in the City
Page 138
“Jeez, Brian, can’t you at least say hello?” Sam sat back in his swivel chair and scratched his shiny head. “Glad to know you at least heeded my advice and returned home.”
“I returned home seeking answers, answers even I couldn’t obtain in Russia and I’m the reporter. ”
“Sit down.” Sam pointed to the rickety wooden chair set before his desk.
He slunk into it, keeping his hands on Sam’s desk.
“Brian, I’m not the enemy. I’m just your editor. As my most popular writer, I don’t want to see you dead. Cats may have nine lives, but I don’t think reporters, especially nosy ones, have that luxury,” Sam said, meeting and diffusing his stare.
“Tell me what’s going on?”
Sam sighed. “I’m not psychic so I can’t tell you what you want to hear. All I know is this newspaper received a threat, specifically a threat on your life, from Moscow. The message was that as long as you keep associating with Angelique, your life will be in danger as well as hers.”
“What kind of threat? Written? Telephone? Any leads?” he asked, leaning forward, ready to pounce.
“Written. The police have it in their hands. It’s part of their on-going investigation into the Davidsons.”
“Where is Angelique?”
“The next stop on her tour is Berlin, but I don’t have any word of her arriving there,” Sam said.
“Shit. She could have been kidnapped for all we know.” Brian shook his head, his headache beginning to throb, and raked his hands through his hair.
Chapter 22
After visiting with Sam at Our World, Brian walked to his apartment. He needed a stroll in the crisp autumn air to clear his head. Even the cold couldn’t eliminate the confusion stirring within his brain, mixing up dark scenarios involving Angelique. Were the Davidsons holding her prisoner once again? Was she being drugged? Was she dead? The rain began to pelt his head and dampen his clothes. He ignored the droplets dripping from his hair and drizzled down his face. With his five o’clock shadow and wet and wrinkled attire he knew he resembled a homeless person or worse. Other pedestrians ran for cover in bistros they passed or into stores for refuge. Brian chuckled. Perhaps they were escaping from him. The way he felt, he wanted to escape from himself.
As he continued down the deserted block, where even the traffic was sparse, a rarity for mid-day New York City, he had an odd feeling. Instinct told him he was being followed. He glanced back, but saw no one. Shaking his head, he wanted to shake the eerie feeling. Why would anyone be following him?
“Dumb question,” he muttered allowed. Why would someone tear his hotel room apart in Moscow and mutilate his things?
Finally reaching his apartment building, he sighed with relief at the familiar sight of the building’s doorman. A welcome sense of security washed over him.
“Afternoon, Mr. Andrews,” the doorman greeted, opening the glass door.
“Thanks, Benny,” Brian replied, entering the building. He was surprised he remembered the man’s name. He had never paid much attention to him until now. Never thought a doorman was a necessity until now.
Scurrying through the lobby, he punched the elevator, button and hopped in the car when the doors slid open. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pushed his floor and the elevator ascended. As he exited into the lit hall, he said a silent prayer.
“Please, let my apartment be in one piece,” he whispered.
He unlocked the door, entered, and double-dead-bolted it behind him. Leaning against the door, he surveyed his apartment. Clothes were draped over the sofa and chairs. Papers and manila folders were stacked on the floor. An empty pizza box was set on the glass coffee table. A thin coat of dust coated the tables and bookcases and a musty smell permeated the air.
“Thank you,” Brian said aloud and sighed, closing his eyes. Everything was as he had left it.
His cell phone rang and rang again.
“Brian Andrews reporting,” he answered.
There was no voice on the other line, just silence. The number was out of range for Caller ID.
“Great.”
After a hot shower and a can of soup he scrounged up from his nearly bare kitchen cupboards, he grabbed a recent file on Angelique and retired to his bedroom.
Slipping beneath the sheets and blanket, he paged through the photographs and press clippings.
“Where are you?” he whispered, tracing a finger over the oval of Angelique’s flawless face, over her perfect nose, and the silver strands of hair. Her eyes glittered back at him, almost teasing.
He hated being in bed alone, eating alone, showering alone, and being alone in the depressingly quiet and confining apartment. How in the hell could he survive in a world without Angelique? A world without Angelique was empty.
• • •
The morning news drew Brian’s attention. He sat at the kitchen table sipping black coffee while sorting through the mail that had littered his mailbox to overflowing. He had turned on the television to drown out the silence.
“The Davidsons were apprehended by New York City police early this morning. The couple, on the run for embezzlement and attempted murder of the famed singer, Angelique, put up little resistance when captured in the lobby of their midtown Manhattan hotel. Several armed accomplices were also taken into custody,” the news anchor reported, flashing footage of the Davidsons, who shielded their faces with their arms while being led to waiting patrol cars.
“I’ll be damned,” Brian screamed. The small boutique hotel was on the same block as his apartment building and was a rather obscure address for tourists visiting the city.
The Davidsons were so close one could almost smell them and, yet, he hadn’t. They were so close and yet so far. He could have staked out the place to land the second biggest story of his career and become a real hero to Angelique. Instead, he was cloistered in his apartment while events revolved around him. Never had he felt so negligent and so left out. Other reporters were on the scene. The scenario was played out on national television for all to see. He let Angelique down and he let himself down.
His cell phone rang and Brian shook his head. He let Sam down.
He let the hone ring three more times before deciding to answer it.
“Brian Andrews reporting,” he answered, his voice as low as his mood.
“What took you so long to answer the phone?” Sam asked, bellowing.
“You don’t have to rip into me. I saw it on the news. I know, I blew it,” he said.
“Brian, you didn’t blow anything.”
“What are you trying to do? Make me feel good?”
“You didn’t know, did you?”
“Know what?” he asked, plopping into a nearby chair.
“You helped the authorities capture the Davidsons.”
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“Hear me out. The Davidsons and their accomplices followed you from Moscow to New York in hopes of your leading them to Angelique. They were tailing you like a shadow on Groundhog’s Day. Notice how close their hotel is to your apartment?”
“Yes, I noticed that much. They were following me?” Brian asked, shaking his head. The thought seemed more absurd than realistic.
“That’s why Angelique left in haste. It seems her security team got wind of the plot and whisked her away to an undisclosed location to protect her. Had you gone to her hotel as scheduled, and departed on that dusk flight to Berlin, you would have led the Davidsons and their accomplices straight to Angelique,” Sam explained.
Chapter 23
Morris and Edwina Davidson moved from the posh surroundings of a hotel’s presidential suite to sparse, dingy, windowless cells in “The Tombs,” the detention center in the Criminal Courts building. In separate cells they sat, hands manacled behind their backs. They stared at white ceramic tiled walls and the steel bars, reminding them of their new status as prisoners. Edwina Davidson needed a cigarette and she needed it badly. Her hands trembled and droplets of perspiration formed on her brow. A
headache began to throb and to make matters worse, her nose itched and she couldn’t scratch it.
All of this was Mo’s fault!
Of all the blokes to fall in love with in Chelsea, she had chosen Morris Davidson. Cocky, self-assured, streetwise with a knack for making money, he had won her heart. The fact that his were ill-gotten gains hadn’t fazed her. She had been born and raised in such poverty that money, any money, was important. Didn’t she deserve nice clothes and trinkets and a boy who was dapper and drove a jaunty automobile? Weren’t those who were foolish enough to lose their money to Mo deserving of their loss? After all, their loss was Mo’s gain, and hers.
With ease, Edwina had molded herself into his life. He taught her the tricks of deception and fraud. Realizing that together they made a formidable and financially agreeable pair, Mo married her and offered her his world.
Edwina choked on the word “world.” Yes, Mo had shown her the world, thanks to Angelique’s income.
To think she had actually grown attached to the girl. Angelique was, after all, everything Edwina wasn’t, but wished she could be. Angelique was young, beautiful, talented, innocent, pious, and strong. If Edwina had, indeed, birthed a daughter, she couldn’t have asked for better than Angelique. The thought made her gag. Edwina had never wanted children and was grateful she hadn’t. Children grew up to spite their parents just as Angelique had spited her and Mo.
Mo. How did he get them into this jam? Why hadn’t he listened to her and left well enough alone? Wasn’t orchestrating the explosion at Brian Andrew’s cottage enough of a statement? Oh, no, not to Mo. His temper often got the best of him. When seeking revenge, he was ruthless.
Until Brian Andrews came along, Angelique was under Mo’s control. There she would have remained, working for him, providing the quality of life they deserved. Money was power. Money could buy anything and anyone. So Mo had thought.
Edwina had feared getting caught. Ever since they cheated the nuns at the abbey, she possessed a sinking feeling. Years of looking over her shoulder and watching Mo’s back had come back to haunt her.
Edwina didn’t want to see Angelique dead. Mo did.
To him, the exposé in Our World signaled the death knell. Brian Andrews had corrupted and stolen Mo’s meal ticket and Angelique had betrayed them. Mo had felt secure in the fact that he had money safely stashed in secret Swiss bank accounts and enough hired thugs to carry out his every wish.
Little did he know that in New York City, one thug was undercover in the police department.
Edwina twitched her nose trying to quell the itch, but it was no use.
A uniformed corrections officer unlocked and entered her cell. Without a word he led her out into the main room, up a narrow stairway, and through a room where other corrections officers sat at beat-up metal desks. Unlocking a steel-barred door, he led her down a narrow, windowless corridor.
Edwina stepped gingerly to avoid prisoners slumped on the floor. The stench of the confined space made her queasy and she gagged. She looked up at an officer who stood at the far end of the hallway, his hand poised on a revolver at his hip. She gagged again.
Once through the door, the officer removed the handcuffs from Edwina’s wrists. She reached up to scratch her nose and to swipe at a stray tear rolling down her cheek. Before her was a courtroom. She had to wait her turn.
• • •
Brian had a front row seat to the proceedings. As a reporter, he wanted to absorb every detail of the case against Edwina and Morris Davidson. As a man, he wanted to confront the demons who abused his lover and attempted to snuff out both their lives. He wanted to know what possessed the Davidsons to hate so deeply and profoundly.
His dark gaze was steady on Edwina Davidson as she shuffled into the courtroom. The woman could have easily been mistaken for any timeworn, disheveled housewife. A nervous twitch was beneath one eye and she kept rubbing at her wrists where the cuffs had been. Her head was held high and she pursed her lips in an obstinate line. Brian met her gaze and could sense the torment beneath the tough façade.
The judge in his black robe sat behind his bench of cheap-looking blonde wood. A matching wooden fence divided spectators from the proceedings.
A hush brushed over the crowd as Edwina was led to the stand before the judge. Though it was only a preliminary hearing, the interest level was high due to the association with the great Angelique. Those who couldn’t get seats within the court mulled around the lobby, eager for any snippets of information.
He could only imagine what a circus the trial would be. And he was certain there would be a trial. Actually, there would most probably be trials held in the jurisdictions where each of the crimes had taken place. They’d face charges of fraud, larceny, abuse, assault and battery, forgery, robbery and attempted murder. These were in the United States. France and Russia were seeking extradition of the Davidsons to face charges in their respective countries as well.
So the Davidson case would be in and out of the courts for years. He was just pleased they were denied bail and would remain incarcerated. With Morris and Edwina locked away and the wheels of justice spinning, he was assured that Angelique would be safe.
Chapter 24
When the special embossed invitation and ticket arrived by messenger, he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. The thought of attending Angelique’s special performance at Carnegie Hall brought a smile to his face. This was her first performance after the Davidsons trial and sentencing and he was anxious to see what impact the permanent departure of the Davidsons influence would have on her.
Angelique. Just pronouncing her name out loud made his lips quiver. Being separated from her only increased his desire for her. The magic that happened those weeks alone in the New England cottage, and the tryst in a hotel room, couldn’t be denied. The reality was that he loved her. Loved her, deeper than any ocean or higher than the heavens.
When she telephoned after the hearing, he realized how much he had missed
hearing her voice and how much he had missed her. How much he loved her.
“I apologize for not calling earlier. I had been advised by security to remain in seclusion until the Davidsons were securely locked up.”
“Where have you been?”
“I’m in France, at the chateaux where I had recuperated after my ‘illness.’ Being out of contact was awful. Did you receive my invitation?”
“Yes. I can’t believe you’re coming here.”
“I can’t wait. I’ve missed you so.” There was a catch in her voice.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
• • •
The house lights dimmed until a dusky darkness masked the concert hall. Not a sound came from the audience, though it was overflowing to capacity.
A solo voice broke through the darkness and pierced the silence. High lyrical notes echoed off the walls as an eerie presence filled the hall.
Angelique stood on its stage, the New York Philharmonic seated in the orchestra pit. A lone spotlight blinked on to illuminate her as she stood alone and on cue, she sang again with increased vibrancy. The tone, register, and range seemed to come from the very depth and breadth of her being. The effect was mesmerizing. When the Philharmonic joined in, the hall vibrated with a music as pure, silky, and melodic as if from the heavens, for nothing else on earth had ever sounded so perfect.
Brian sat in the front row, center stage. He, too, was hypnotized by Angelique’s beauty and the perfection of her voice. Gone was the flowing white gown with the billowing sleeves that had been her trademark. In its place was a sparkling confection of royal blue sequins and black velvet. The gown hugged her petite frame and curves. Angelic innocence had been replaced with sophisticated elegance.
“Seems like old times, huh?” Stacey asked, nudging him with her elbow.
Brian was startled from his thoughts. “Almost.”
Stacey, Sam, and select others had been sent VIP tickets to the special performance. Brian knew it was An
gelique’s way of thanking them for their help during the previous year.
• • •
The private reception after the performance was almost as dazzling as the show. Ice sculptures carved in the images of angels graced over the lavish buffet. Tables of ornate silver platters presented whole smoked salmon, beef tenderloin, an array of fresh vegetables, salads, and fresh fruit garnished to perfection. The aroma alone was like an exotic perfume. Waiters in white waistcoats and gloves walked around the room serving glasses of Cristal champagne and canapés. A harpist performed in a far corner, Chopin mingling with guests’ voices.
Sam and Stacey sat at a reserved table. A centerpiece of white hydrangeas, red roses and ivy was set on the white clothed table. Brian was too nervous to sit. He paced the floor by the table, holding a glass of champagne. Like the other guests, he was awaiting Angelique’s arrival. The star and hostess was late.
When Angelique finally arrived, she glided down the curved staircase like Norma Desmond. Scores of media, arts patrons, and supporters stood at attention and applauded, all eyes focused on her. As she reached the landing, she flashed a glistening smile and blew air kisses to her adoring fans. She continued down the steps. Brian watched her in awe. For a moment he wondered if he was good enough for someone as beautiful, talented and loved as she. As their eyes met and she smiled, Brian knew that he loved her. And he surmised that she loved him. Love overcame all doubts.
Brian stepped forward, pushing his way through the crowd. He strode toward her like a man on a mission. When Angelique reached the floor, he stood before her and offered her his trembling hand. She willingly accepted and he clasped her hand in his. After exchanging a lingering gaze, he led her toward the front of the ballroom and up on the stage. He lifted her hand, drew its softness to his lips, and planted a kiss. After squeezing her hand in gentle assurance, he stepped down to blend into the crowd.
“Thank you for attending my special performance,” Angelique began, addressing the crowd. A silence permeated the room as she spoke in her lilting voice.