®
For Susan
Always, for you
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Linda McFall. To simply thank her for being a good editor
would be overlooking the thousand ways she makes the
writing and publishing process a joy. Linda forced me to
reach inside this manuscript and, kicking and screaming,
pull out a better book.
Adam Wilson, who was always there in a pinch and kept
everything on track.
Joe Veltre, whose insight and savvy make him an über immortal among agents. Thanks also to Diane Bartoli and
Sara Wolski, who patiently answered all my fine-print
questions (some of which were half-intelligent).
My deepest thanks to Donna Hayes, Dianne Moggy,
Margaret O’Neill Marbury, Craig Swinwood,
Loriana Sacilotto, Stacy Widdrington, Maureen Stead,
Katherine Orr, Marleah Stout, Heather Foy, Ana Luxton,
Jayne Hoogenberk and Valerie Gray, aka Team MIRA.
Whenever I don’t think I could be more impressed with
my publisher’s dedication and aptitude, they raise the
bar. I only hope I’m able to keep pace.
Cris Jaw, designer extraordinaire. Behind those bullet
holes lies her brilliance.
Michael Wallis, Professor James Starrs,
Frederick W. Nolan and Marcelle Brothers, whose sturdy
shoulders provided support in my research for this novel.
Timothy L. O’Brien, who shared the wonders of
journalism’s most hallowed halls.
Mom, Dad and Ali, supportive and nurturing as always,
thank you again for helping me live my dream.
Wilson, who always gives me something to look forward
to when I come home.
Jeff, Jane and Sabrina, my beloved in-laws, who not
only bent over backward to spread the good word in
every way possible, but raised the wonderful girl who
became my wife. Great job!
And to Susan. My first reader, my best friend, my
soul mate. Thank you.
Prologue
They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have
loved at all.
I disagree.
I’ve lost before. I lost the affection of my parents before
I was old enough to know that the world looked upon an
estranged child with sad eyes. I lost my first love because
I was too cowardly to protect her. I nearly lost my life due
to circumstances beyond my control. All of those losses
created holes in my life. Holes I’ve attempted to patch up,
to cover, but they’ll always be there, even if they don’t
leave a mark on the surface.
Doesn’t mean I can’t try to forget. Through life. Through
work.
Through Amanda.
If she wasn’t here, lying next to me in our bed, her head
inches from mine, I wouldn’t be here at all. It’s not that I’d
be back in Oregon, paying my dues at the news desk of the
Bend Bulletin, skiing at Mount Bachelor, thirsting through
thirteen inches of annual rainfall, and paying two hundred
bucks a month in rent.
If she wasn’t here, I would either be rotting in the ground
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somewhere or in a jail trying to stay alive while cursing a
simple twist of fate.
Her soft brown hair cascading down her back, eyes so
bright and big I get lost in them.
One year ago I was running for my life. A total stranger
saved me. Without her, everything would have been lost.
And God help me I can’t lose her, because I don’t have the
strength to patch that kind of hole.
So as I lie here, watching Amanda’s chest rise and fall, all
I can do is hope I’m here to witness every last breath of her
life. And hope that, finally, the stories I report won’t be my
own.
1
The limousine pulled up to the curb outside the Kitten
Club, and like a cult waiting for its leader, dozens of heads
turned at once. Hundreds of eyes widened. Pulses sped up,
hearts raced.
A black-clad bouncer stepped to the limo and opened the
door. A slender leg stepped onto the curb. Then it stopped, its
owner making sure the cameras had time to swallow up every
inch of perfect skin. Then another leg slipped out. The crowd
moaned, her body glitter giving the girl’s normally pale skin
a translucent glow. The crowd gasped as her full form emerged.
Those who weren’t too stunned to move pressed against the
velvet ropes, the bouncers going into full push-’em-back mode.
Flashbulbs popped by the dozen. She flashed that millionwatt seductive smile, the one that had seduced and captivated
people all over the world. They shouted at her. Nothing she
hadn’t heard before. Yet as she stepped onto the red carpet,
rolled out just for her, listening to the throng of fans chanting
her name, Athena Paradis couldn’t help but feel that the world
had given itself to her.
She waved to the dazed crowd, stopped to sign a few autographs and blow air kisses through ruby lips, laughed at the
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mismatched chunky schlubs who would be fantasizing about
her that night as they lay alone in the dark.
One-thirty in the morning, but the flashes and strobe lights
made it seem like broad daylight. It was just late enough for
the party to be in full swing, just late enough to make sure
she’d be the last memory in a night her fans would never
forget.
Despite her seeming nonchalance, Athena spent many
nights in breathless anticipation of these delicious moments
when all eyes would be on her. Hearing digital cameras
beeping, fingers tapping on cell phones as flabbergasted fans
sent grainy images to their friends. Young men trying to give
her the same lame sultry looks she’d seen and laughed at a
million times. Yet she would always smile just enough to
make them think they had a chance.
This was Athena’s world, her oyster, and it was delicious.
Everyone else watched from outside the snow globe, hoping
that one special night they too might be touched by her magic.
In three days, Athena Paradis would release her very first
album, The Goddess Athena. Her promotional tour was in full
swing, and tonight at the Kitten Club was a prime stop. She
was scheduled to guest DJ, spin and sing tracks that had never
been heard outside the recording studio (created with the gentle
touch of some very talented—and patient—sound producers,
vocal coaches and technicians). Athena’s autobiography, HOW
YOU CAN BE LIKE ME, was ghostwritten by a pleasant sixtyyear-old Jew named Herman Goldstein. It spent eight weeks
on the New York Gazette bestseller list. Her signings all required extra security. Herman wasn’t allowed to attend.
Three bouncers the size of minivans controlled the crowd.
The mayor’s office had sent sever
al off-duty cops just in case.
Athena’s manager and publicist had called Mayor Perez’s
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office nonstop requesting massive police protection for their
twenty-two-year-old gold mine, but the second-termer refused. Not that he didn’t want to help. The mayor was well
known for his reliance on sizzle over steak, providing a good
show to distract people from their everyday woes. He’d
written three self-help books and was constantly photographed alongside celebrities, including Athena Paradis. But
the police union was busy negotiating a new contract, and
they were squeezing him hard. Adding additional unnecessary force tonight would only cost overtime the city couldn’t
afford.
Every nightclub Athena graced with her presence would
fatten her bank account by fifty thousand dollars. The
hotter—or more desperate—the club, the more they paid.
Most promoters, like the Kitten Club’s Shawn Kensbrook,
tripped over themselves to pay Athena ungodly sums of
money for a simple appearance. She would show up, pose for
the camera, down a few kamikaze shots, dance on the bar, and
within a week the patronage tripled. Best advertising in the
world, and a hell of a lot more entertaining than an ad in a
movie theater or those worthless postcards.
Tonight, though, wasn’t about appearance fees. If she
seduced the crowd, it would be worth its weight in platinum
for her album.
Athena sauntered past the throng of gawking men and
starry-eyed women, slipping into the pulsating darkness. Her
entourage was immediately met by Shawn Kensbrook, club
promoter extraordinaire and co-owner of the Kitten Club.
Just three years ago, what was now the Kitten Club had been
an abandoned warehouse in Manhattan’s meatpacking
district. It was destined to be torn down by developers or
vermin, whichever got there first. Kensbrook was able to
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mount an army of backers to buy what was widely considered a sinkhole. Through his A-list Rolodex, Kensbrook
turned a pile of rubble into Gotham’s hottest nightspot since
the heyday of Limelight. Its clout had grown to the point
where New York Magazine had referred to it as “The Oprah
Winfrey of music promotion.” If you had to jump on one
couch to get maximum exposure, the Kitten Club was the
place to jump.
Shawn was decked out in a wool Versace suit that ran
$2,200 and burned off a thousand calories a night. Shawn
had purposefully bought it a size too small, the fabric stretching over his taut frame. Athena knew the only thing he
worked harder at than promoting his club was promoting his
body. Unlike most in the entertainment field, Kensbrook accomplished it solely through weightlifting, protein bars and
the best personal trainers money could buy. Bastard didn’t
even drink.
Shawn pecked Athena on the cheek and ushered her
through the crowd to the DJ booth in the back. She shook
hands with a guy Shawn introduced as DJ Stix, a lightskinned black man wearing sunglasses rimmed with
diamonds. No doubt they were real. Kensbrook would want
his employees to dazzle in every way, no matter the price.
Athena’s manager, a twitchy man named Eddie, would be
standing by in case she got the crazy urge to sing without
proper electronic vocal support. Athena had an army of producers who made sure she sounded perfect in the studio.
Live, anything could happen.
After the current song ended, Stix turned down the music
and Kensbrook picked up the house microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, kittens, cats and lions of all ages,”
he said. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to the Queen of
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all Media, her royal highness herself, the woman whose debut
album drops this Tuesday, give it up, show your love, for the
beautiful Athena Paradis!”
The crowd roared as Athena waved, blowing imaginary
kisses, flaunting her body and striking glamorous pose after
pose. She was a god among mortals. She knew it, they knew
it, and they all loved it.
Suddenly a deep, throbbing bass began to reverberate
through the club. Squeals of joy leapt from the lips of heavybreathing men and women. Then, after a dozen bass thumps,
the synthesizer kicked in, and the club came alive.
The sweaty bodies congealed into a solid mass as the
expertly arranged rhythm sent ripples through them, electricity making every person sway, every person bounce, every
one of them belonging to her.
Sweat coated Athena’s upper lip. She licked it, shuddered
at the sensation, and knew the night would be a memorable
one. The blue Missoni dress clung to her body, the fabric
matted on her curves like tissue paper. The dress had been airmailed by Ottavio Missoni himself, specifically for Athena to
wear tonight.
She could feel DJ Stix’s eyes drinking her in. He didn’t
even pretend to look away. Even Shawn Kensbrook couldn’t
help but steal an eyeful as she danced and spun to the beat.
Athena looked at them with a seductive grin, then raised the
volume a few notches, the bass thumping harder.
The music consumed the night. And then Athena jumped
on top of the turntables.
The crowd stopped dancing, stared at her, cheered her on.
She ran her hands over her body, made every one of them feel
like they could be her lover.
Athena owned them. Every single one.
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Somebody handed Athena a clear glass. She drank it in two
gulps. Vodka tonic. With a hint of lime. She could feel the
ecstasy tab kicking in. The whole world became a velvet
dream, soft, wet and inviting. She kissed the air, watched as
her lips sent waves of passion through hundreds.
When the song ended, Stix took Athena’s hand and
escorted her back to her nine hundred pounds of bodyguard.
The lips pleaded with her to stay, reaching and pawing as she
was led through the crowd.
Shawn Kensbrook ducked through the prying arms.
Athena’s lead guard recognized him, parted the way. Shawn
was dripping with sweat. She envied that he could experience
such ecstasy while sober. He threw his arms around her. Whispered into her ear.
“Athena, hon, that was off the charts. ”
“No,” she said. “Come Tuesday, that’s number one on the
charts.” Shawn smiled, nodded.
“Look at this, I mean, will you look at it? All these people
here for you…what’s that feel like?”
She smiled at him, flicked her tongue into his ear. She felt
him shiver. Felt him grow hard in an instant.
“You’ll never know.”
Shawn watched as the bodyguards whisked her away. The
bouncers parted the curtains, flung open the doors. Her limo
waited just beyond the red carpet. It would take her to Nikos’s
SoHo loft, where he’d have champagne, strawberries and
other goodies waiting. They’d do it all night before passing
out naked on his satin sheets. Tomor
row she would see her
photo in newspapers across the city.
Athena stepped onto the red carpet and waved to her fans.
Her new fans. Her old fans. Fans who would give anything for
her. She took one step onto the carpet. Smiled. And then a crack
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of thunder filled the air, and a bullet smashed through her
skull.
And just like that, her blood staining the carpet an even
darker red, the Goddess Athena died.
2
I woke up thinking that Amanda must have hijacked my cell
phone. That’s the only way my ring tone could have been
changed from the standard and satisfying triple beep to an
electronic version of that awful new Athena Paradis song, “I
Want UR Love.”
And the only thing worse than hearing that song come
from a tinny cell phone speaker was being woken by it at three
in the morning.
Amanda grumbled. Her arm was thrown over my chest, but
her sleep hadn’t been interrupted. Figures I’d be the only one
disturbed by her diabolical creation.
I reached across to the nightstand where I kept the phone,
careful not to dislocate my shoulder since my other arm was
pinned under Amanda. There are worse things in the world
than having your arm stuck underneath a beautiful woman
who loves you.
I covered the speaker with my thumb and checked the
incoming number. Christ, not again; this was becoming a
routine. It was Mya, my ex-girlfriend. Two-thirty in the
morning. The third time this week Mya had called in the wee
hours. I was having a hard time putting an end to it. I knew
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since last year Mya had been on a slippery slope. Calling from
a bar, no doubt. I could practically smell the Stoli through the
mouthpiece.
Mya and I dated for several years in college, a time I could
hardly remember. When we met, I was smitten. She was tall,
beautiful, with confidence like no girl I’d ever met. And for
some reason she’d picked me. I don’t know if I ever loved her,
or simply loved being with her. Loved being with a girl I knew
would be somebody.
We’d broken up a year ago. Right before my life had
changed forever. Our relationship was probably doomed
whether or not I’d been accused of murder, but after I nearly
died and became a minor New York celebrity, she’d had a
change of heart. Suddenly she wanted to give our buried love
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