by Mavis Kaye
“You want to put something else in the mix?” he shouted. “That’s whack—niggas ain’t trippin’ that way now.”
“This is exactly the right time; no one can go to the police. Just listen to me—” the man said before staring at Mariana and cutting off the sentence. He grabbed Brixton’s shirt, pleading, and finally Brixton accompanied him to the edge of the dance floor. Mariana stretched to her full height, peering at them over the crowd as they halted several yards away engrossed in heated conversation.
“Why?” Brixton yelled over the noise of the music. Mariana had strained to hear but only caught snatches of conversation.
“Everything . . . falling apart,” the man had shouted, his voice intermittently drowned out by the music. When Brixton and the other man noticed that Mariana was watching and trying to make out what they were saying, the man had pointed angrily at her and, if she read his lips correctly, said, “Who the hell is she?”
Brixton said something in response, and they spoke for a few more minutes before the man turned and angrily walked away.
“Who was that?” Mariana had asked when Brixton returned. She shouted because the near-deafening sound of “Who Let the Dogs Out!” was now blaring from the loudspeakers.
“Nothing! No one—a bloody pimple on the backside of society!”
Brixton shouted. “Let’s dance.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her back toward the middle of the floor. Closing his eyes, he threw himself into the music. They were quickly engulfed by the swarm of sweating, arm-waving revelers.
Later that evening Mariana had tried to get some answers from Brixton. He refused to talk about it; he didn’t say a word before he left 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 99
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for the U.S. And when he died, she realized that she’d not only lost a close friend, but part of her story had died with him.
With Renee Rothchild, Van derVall, and Brixton gone, her strongest leads were Ruff Daddy; Petris Nicholov, Kees’s Amsterdam associate; Klaus Svrenson, the American financier; and Riccardo Napolini, an American mobster. In addition, there were Kees’s shadowy associates in Antwerp and at De Beers’s central selling office in London, the unknown Asian woman who seemed to be popping up all over the place, and the curious little man who had appeared at The Lollie. She had been using all of her resources to find out more about Ruff Daddy, Nicholov, Svrenson, and the De Beers execs.
So far, however, she had uncovered very little about the extremely cautious Nicholov, whose activities were shielded by a veil of propriety. She was pursuing leads on Ruff Daddy and Svrenson, despite their disappearance, but little had surfaced. An informant had discovered that one of the De Beers execs made frequent trips to the Antwerp diamond district, and Mariana had some other good leads, but still she hadn’t been able to pin down their actual identities. The Asian woman was more elusive than a ghost; Mariana had discovered that over the past six months she or someone who matched her description had been seen in Amsterdam, London, Paris, and God knows where else.
No one seemed to know who she was or exactly what she did. But over the last few days, she had been more successful in tracking down the little man from the dance club.
She had quickly confirmed that he was gay and that his name was Freesley, Marvin Freesley, by haunting the trendy clubs and asking questions. A few of the regulars at The Box on Monmouth Street and the Freedom Cafe/Bar on Wardour Street had recognized her description and given her the name. And, once she had the name, a bartender at Balans on Old Compton Street had supplied the other information.
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“Oh, that squirrelly little bloke,” he’d laughed. “Always sniffing around scrounging for a pickup—lots of cash, you know. Wormy sort, though, usually went back to his flat alone. They say he lives over in Mayfair; I think he’s a diamond cutter or some such thing.”
That was last night, and she had left her number with the Balans contact and a dozen or so waiters or bartenders in other clubs saying,
“Please, give me a call if you see him again, it’s very important.” She knew that tonight she’d make the rounds again. Maybe she’d get lucky and run into him. Perhaps even follow him and find out something about where and how he lived. At least, she knew who he was and, more important, what he did. The pieces were beginning to fit.
Today, however, she had to go back to work. She had taken the last two days off and she knew her editor would be furious. But even that thought wasn’t enough to immediately rouse her. She lay immobile for another half hour before dragging herself from bed and trudging toward the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The hasty preparations had left something to be desired. The dark slacks-suit she wore accentuated her slim figure, ivory complexion, and dark hair. But with little time to fuss over it, she had just pulled her hair back in a tight bun. And despite the rouge she applied to her cheeks, overall she had a stark, squinty, almost anorexic look. She had never been beautiful, but with the right hairdo and makeup she could be very attractive in a haughty, professional way. In fact, given the right lighting, she looked a bit like the actress from Friends, Courteney Cox. A few men, Brixton among them, had told her so. And on those occasions when she had let her hair down and slipped into a fashionable miniskirt, she was even sexy.
When she started with the Globe, she had occasionally explored that part of her personality, slipping over the line between reporter and groupie, and joining several of the rock bands she covered in late-night trysts at their hotels. She had been twenty-six then and nothing had 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 101
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been out of bounds. After spending four years at the University of Michigan then returning home to get her M.A. in journalism from the University of Sheffield, she had spent nearly two years traveling and partying in Europe and North Africa. She was hungry for life and new experiences and had enjoyed every minute of it, even those few times when she’d gotten herself into some sticky situations. It was her father, a professor at Sheffield, who stopped it by cutting off her allowance and demanding she get a job. Her first six months at the Globe were little more than an extension of that youthful spree. Daddy would have erupted had he known how much carousing his little girl had done during that time.
She had changed, however, and gotten more serious, even before she stumbled onto the intrigue involving Kees and Ruff Daddy. After a punk rock lead singer high on Ecstasy had literally thrown her out at 6 A.M. on a Sunday morning and invited a sixteen-year-old nymphet into his hotel room, she vowed to keep the entertainers and celebrities she wrote about at arm’s length. It was another reason that she and Brixton had never slept together. Earlier, she might have leapt at the chance.
Resigned to the impossibility of covering up the stress of the last few days, Mariana took one last look at herself and went to her computer.
As always before leaving for work, she checked the Internet for breaking news. Initially nothing stood out, and she scrolled quickly through a list of new Mideast violence, Parliament doings, Bush’s new agenda, the missing U.S. congressional assistant, and the Euro’s downward spiral. When she saw a brief note on the Yank rapper Cheeno, she stiffened. He had apparently drowned in Los Angeles the night before.
She didn’t know him personally, but she had seen him perform over a year ago in one of the small clubs near Piccadilly Circus. The article immediately brought back memories of Brixton’s death, and, when she finished, her mind was racing. Another rap musician dead under suspicious circumstances, could there be a connection? How far did this go?
She read it again, questioning her own instincts—trying to con-16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 102
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involvement, and police vagary about their findings—it was a brief mention of Cheeno’s agent, “Kim Carlyle, a former NYPD detective, who was present when the incident occurred.” Mariana didn’t know the woman, but the name seemed familiar.
She stood and paced the floor for a few minutes, trying to place the name—Kim Carlyle. Then, realizing that she would be over an hour late for work, she returned to the computer. She quickly transferred the notes she had entered the previous day onto a floppy disk, then dragged the file on her hard disk to the trash. Before leaving her apartment, she replaced the floppy master disk in an envelope and slid it into the folder she had taped to the underside of a drawer in the bedroom bureau. A few minutes later she stepped out into the misty morning air.
Before entering the tube, she stopped at the corner newsstand to pick up the Daily Mirror, one of her paper’s chief rivals. A photo of Britney Spears, half naked in a tank top and cut-off jeans, was spread across the front page. As the train rumbled through the London underground, she scanned the rest of the paper. But her thoughts kept returning to Kim Carlyle, and she racked her brain trying to determine why.
It was not until she reached Vauxhall Station that she made the connection. Kim Carlyle had been Ruff Daddy’s agent when she met him. She had also been the agent of the diva who had recently died at the Apollo Theater, Tiffany Jones. She didn’t know quite what to make of it, but as she dodged the Vauxhall Cross traffic and set out on the five-minute walk to the Globe offices, she decided that she had to call New York and talk to this woman.
When she arrived at the small, littered office, she hurried past the 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 103
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three reporters who were already at their desks, nodding good morning as they sifted through paper cups and napkins scattered in among the pages of stories in progress. Once at her desk, Kim Carlyle’s number was easy to obtain, and, although it was 5:30 A.M. in New York, she made the transcontinental call. The phone rang four times and then a voice-mail message came on: “Hi, this is Kim Carlyle, I’m sorry I missed your call. But your call is important to me. Leave a message and number, and I’ll get back to you at my earliest convenience.”
Mariana knew little about Kim Carlyle, but she decided to be forward and direct with her. “This is Mariana Blair. I’m a news reporter for the Globe, the London newspaper,” she said. “I was a friend of Brixton’s—I’m sure you’re aware of his death—and in light of what happened to your client in Los Angeles, I think we should talk. I have some information that might be useful to you. Please give me a call. I think we can help each other.”
Mariana left her telephone number at the Globe and hung up.
Bill Wittington, her editor, approached just as she turned and began riffling through the stack of papers on her desk. He was an obese, frumpy man with a care-worn face. As usual his shirttail was hanging out of his trousers. “So, you decided to honor us with your company today,” he said sarcastically.
“Yeah, sorry about that, Bill,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’m on to something. I’ll brief you in a few days.”
“Nice of you to mention it, Mariana. It would be good if you made some time for the work that you’ve been assigned to do.”
Mariana turned to her computer terminal. “Trust me, Bill. You’re going to love this story,” she said, her annoyance barely contained.
“Oh, I’m sure I will. So long as it’s not another piece on these half-ass rap stars. I need something that grabs our audience, something on Jagger, McCartney, Rod Stewart, or Elton John—even Madonna or that Yank trollop J-Lo. Look at the Mirror. That’s what we need.”
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Mariana again glanced at the photo of a glaze-eyed Britney Spears emerging from a club with just the hint of a nipple spilling from her halter top.
“Yes, Bill, I see what you mean. My story is not quite so, ah, obvious, but it’s the biggest scoop this paper has ever had. Just give me some time to put it together, you’ll see.”
“That may be, but right now I need you for something . . . more obvious. There’s a photographer waiting for you in the lobby. Get your pretty little bum over to Mayfair, and do what you do best. ’N Sync is staying at the Four Seasons Hotel and Eminem as well, with all that testosterone, something is bound to happen. If not, stir something up.”
He smiled knowingly and let his eyes travel from her modest bust to her face. “But first do something about those bags under your eyes; you look like you’ve been up for a week.”
As Wittington turned and walked away, Mariana cursed him silently. A minute later, she grabbed a note pad and stalked out of the office.
It was near six o’clock when she returned to the Globe. As she expected, nothing much had happened at the hotel. Access to the floors on which the pop stars resided was sealed; she and many other reporters had spent the early afternoon sitting in a coffee shop watching bobbies trying to control the mob of teenagers outside the hotel.
Two members of ’N Sync did surface briefly but allowed no interviews.
They were whisked away in limousines while security fought off the screaming fans. Her photographer got a few shots of the mayhem but that was it.
She related all this to her editor and wearily turned to go back to her desk. “Who is Kim Carlyle?” Wittington asked, a Cheshire cat grin playing across his face.
“What—did she call?” Mariana asked, suddenly enlivened.
“Something to do with this story you’re working on, I take it.”
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“Exactly—but did she call?”
“Yes, she called and left a cellphone number a few hours after you left. And there was another call from some guy at one of those swishy bars out on Old Brompton Road. He said you could find someone called the diamond cutter at The Lollie tonight.” He paused, looking at her suspiciously. “What the hell’s this all about, Mariana? What kind of cloak-and-dagger games are you playing?”
“It’s no game, Bill,” she said. “I don’t want to go into details, but this is getting bigger than even I thought. I need some time, just a few days, and I’ll tell you everything. I’ll have enough to write the story.”
“Okay, but just two days. I can’t have you running around like a loose cannon representing the Globe.” He tried to keep a stern look on his face, but she could see him softening. “Look, be careful out there; you sure you don’t want some help?”
“No, Bill, this is my story; I can handle it.”
She returned to her desk and, after a few minutes’ thought, dialed Kim’s number. The phone was picked up immediately, and she was greeted by an eager female voice on the other end of the line: “Hello, is this Mariana?”
Bill had followed her. When she noticed him standing near her desk, she pulled the phone from her ear and waved him away. She hated the way he lurked around reporters’ desks when they were on the phone, and today she was determined not to be overheard. She waited until he retreated before speaking.
“Yes, is this Kim Carlyle?”
“Of course.”
Mariana paused, hesitant to reveal too much but anxious to find out what Kim knew. “Look, I don’t know you, but I’ve read that you’re a former detective. So I’m sure that you’ve given some thought to the curious deaths of your clients Tiffany Jones and Cheeno.”
“Curious? What, you’re saying you have information on that?”
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was a friend of Brixton’s, and I think his death was part of it as well.
Then there were the deaths of Lester Bennett and Renee Rothchild; they may also be connected to this . . .” she paused again, to consider how much she should reveal.
“This what!” Kim demanded.
“All I can say with certainty now is that I have evidence that it’s much more than some entertainment vendetta. Diamonds are apparently involved, and I think it’s centered here—in England, Belgium, the Netherlands, and France—and it probably stretches much further.
Everything points to—”
Mariana paused again when she noticed that Bill had returned and was standing behind her. She crouched her shoulders and lowered her voice to a whisper, “I can’t really talk freely right now, but I’d like to find out what you know about Ruff Daddy and Tiffany’s husband Klaus Svrenson. I don’t know if it means much but they spent a lot of time in Amsterdam and both of them knew Kees Van derVall.”
“Kees who . . . slow down,” Kim said. “You’re implicating a lot of people—making this sound like a major conspiracy. Do you have evidence?”
“Trust me, I know I’m on to something here, and, if you know anything, I could use your help getting to the bottom of it. You can ask questions, find out what’s going on over there—these people were your friends, too. If you wish, I can even fly to New York.”
“Wait, can’t you tell me more now?”
“No. I have to hang up. I’ve said enough for now.”
“Will you call later?”
“No, not tonight, there’s something I have to do. But I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Mariana, wait—” Kim shouted as the phone clicked off.
“Damn it, Bill, I asked you to back off,” Mariana said as she stood and angrily faced her editor. They argued for a minute before she 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 107
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turned, snatched her bag from the desk, and stormed toward the door shouting, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” over her shoulder.