by Cheryl Crane
That night, Nikki was getting dressed in her drop cloth–draped bedroom when her cell phone rang. Rather than returning to Roxbury and then having to give a reason to her mother as to why she was going out at eleven p.m., she’d just come home to her own house to get ready. She needed to check on the paint job, anyway. Which had, apparently, not progressed. She’d have to call the painters in the morning.
The call was from Marshall. She put him on speakerphone so she could continue getting dressed.
“OMG! Did you see the video?”
“What video?” She slid her foot into a boot that sported a four-inch heel. She’d bought them in a phase of her life when she’d felt the need to look sexier. She’d worn them twice, then decided that a cast and crutches were less sexy than a safer heel height.
“Of Ginny Bernard!” Marshall gushed. “It’s all over the Internet! Do you live under a rock, Nikki?”
She zipped up the boot. “So what’s Ginny saying now?” Ginny, unlike Melinda, had always been vocal with the press. She enjoyed the attention, at least when it was focused on her and not on her loser stepson.
“Nothing! That’s what’s so crazy. You know Claudio Rune, the guy with the bad toupee who sold those god-awful pics of me to Us Weekly last year?”
Nikki didn’t know Claudio, but she saw no need to slow the conversation with that information. She pulled on the other boot. “Uh huh.”
“Well, he apparently tried to speak to her about Eddie’s murder and how Jorge was an immigrant—”
“But he’s not an immigrant!” Nikki groaned. “And whether he is or isn’t has nothing to do with his guilt.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, babe. How long will my people have to carry the drunken Indian thing around? But that’s not the point of my story,” Marshall insisted. “May I continue?”
“Sorry. Let me jump off my soapbox.” She paused, with a nod. “Please continue.”
“Well,” he went on, obviously not really offended, “as she was leaving Starbucks, the paparazzi approached her, asking questions about Eddie and the family and such. Ginny didn’t want to say anything, so Claudio got pushy. Ginny got in his face. There was a tussle and she grabbed Claudio’s video camera. Elmer Weiss, the short guy with the crooked nose, he got it all on camera. Supposedly, he was working out something with Entertainment Tonight, but then his girlfriend, who he was fighting with, leaked the tape to the Internet.”
Nikki pulled a paint tarp off her freestanding full-length mirror and checked out her outfit: short black skirt, high-heeled boots, and a black tank. She hadn’t been clubbing since the late 80s . . . could she pull it off? “Did anyone get hurt?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Ginny was wearing Jimmy Choos when she attacked him. But Claudio went to the emergency room. Said Ginny had injured his back in the altercation.”
“Right,” Nikki said, walking into the bathroom and flipping on the light.
“Where are you?” he asked. “You sound funny.”
“I’m home. I had to pick up some clothes.”
“At ten thirty on a school night? You’re usually in bed in your jammies at nine.”
She opened a drawer and began to dig through her makeup. She knew she had shiny blue eye shadow somewhere. “It’s best I not answer on the grounds I might incriminate myself.” She pulled out a tray of assorted eye and lip pencils.
“What are you up to?” Marshall demanded. “Does Mother know where you are?”
“I’m forty-one years old, Marshall. I don’t have to tell my mother where I’m going.”
“This is about Jorge, isn’t it? Did you ever find that cousin of his?”
“No, I didn’t find Ree. I’m going to see Jorge during visiting hours on Saturday. Maybe he knows where she could have gone.”
“You’re going to the prison? I wish I could go.”
“Marshall.” She began to darken her eyebrows with a pencil. “You can’t visit someone in prison. You’re a star. There’d be a mob scene.”
“I know. You’re right,” he pouted. “Rob wouldn’t like it, anyway. He likes to protect me from the big, bad world.”
She smiled at the thought. If only everyone had a Rob in their lives. “I gotta go. Have a good day tomorrow.”
“You, too,” he said. “Enjoy movie night and tell Will and Jada I said hi.”
Chapter 20
Nikki walked into The Python Club at eleven-thirty p.m., way past her bedtime. It was all she could do not to cringe as a bouncer let her through the nightclub door and the pulsing music and flashing lights assaulted her senses.
She’d tried to dress like she belonged there: the shortest black skirt she could find in her closet, the skimpiest top, and the highest heels. She’d flat-ironed her hair and lined her eyes with enough black eye pencil to outline the fine state of California. And as she squinted in the semidarkness of the room, checking out some of the other women, she saw that she fit in just fine. She just didn’t feel it.
There was a live band on the stage playing heavy metal. The place was packed, probably beyond occupancy limits (had anyone given the fire marshal a ring). It had taken some sweet talk and the promise of an autographed picture of Marshall for the bouncer at the door to let her in. She slowly made her way to the bar, excusing herself along the way as she bumped into people. There was a dance floor in front of the stage, filled with young, lithe bodies moving to the pounding music. To the rear of the club, near the bar, were small tables with people seated at them, sometimes two to a chair. It was a popular night spot for young celebrities; Nikki recognized several Hollywood faces.
Trying to stay balanced on her stiletto boot heels, she reached for the support of the bar. There were two bartenders: a young woman with blue-black hair down to her waist and shorts that appeared to be leather, and a fifty-year-old metrosexual guy in a tight black Python Club t-shirt and tighter jeans. He was pretty fit for his age, but he still looked out of place in the nightclub.
“What can I get you?” the guy asked, sliding a cocktail napkin toward her as he eyed her. Metrosexual? Maybe. Heterosexual for sure.
Nikki had to turn sideways to fit between a bar stool with two blond girls perched on it, and some guy’s back on the other side. “Tonic water with a twist.”
He smirked. “AA? Me, too. Two and a half years sober.” He grabbed a glass from under the bar, added ice, and shot tonic water into it from a hose. “Here alone?” he asked as he added a slice of lime to the glass.
“I was supposed to meet my girlfriend, Ellen,” she lied smoothly. She made a show of looking around. “I think I’ve been stood up.”
He took a small towel and began to wipe the bar top in front of her.
“You worked here long?” she asked. She thought it was odd that he worked here at all. A recovering alcoholic tending bar?
“Almost two years.”
“So . . . you probably knew my friend Eddie. Eddie Bernard? He was a regular here.” She knew that from the tabloid news covers. Checkout at the market.
He leaned on the bar. He had a long nose. Victoria would have called it aristocratic. But he was nice looking: full head of salt-and-pepper hair, just a touch of an afternoon shadow. “You were friends with Eddie Bernard?”
She could tell by his tone of voice that he was not a fan.
“Well, childhood friends. We sort of... grew apart.” She looked at him through her mascara-laden lashes. “Eddie was a troubled soul, but I guess you already knew that, if you knew him from here.”
He grimaced. “You can say that, all right.”
She took a sip of her drink. “Was Eddie here last week?”
“Didn’t see him. I heard he was in rehab. Haven’t seen him in about three months.”
“Three months,” she repeated, inching a little closer to him. The music was so loud, she could barely hear him. “So . . . you were here when he got in the fight with Rocko?”
“Rocko St. Clare? Yeah. It was like last November or something. The two of t
hem were talking, and all of a sudden Eddie just throws a punch.” The bartender lifted a fist in the air to demonstrate.
Nikki leaned back.
“Sorry.” He offered his hand. “John Boden. My friends call me Johnny B.”
“Nice to meet you, Johnny B. Nikki.” She shook his hand, then reached for her glass again. “Did someone call the police that night? I know Eddie got arrested over the incident.”
“No, no way. No one here called the police. Got arrested later, after Rocko filed a complaint. Or so I heard.” Johnny B. began to wipe the bar again. “Nothing ever came of it, though. People said Rocko dropped the charge.” He leaned on the bar again and looked both ways before speaking again. As if anyone could possibly have overheard their conversation. “Crazy thing was, Rocko shows up on a brand new Ninja the same week the charge gets dropped.” He raised his brows.
Nikki leaned closer. “So you think Eddie bought Rocko the bike in exchange for him dropping the charge?” It sounded like something Eddie would do. Not with his own money, of course. Abe had to have paid for the motorcycle; Eddie hadn’t had any money of his own.
“Just seemed awfully suspicious,” Johnny B. said.
Nikki nodded, sipping her tonic water as she looked around. A familiar face caught her eye and she did a double take, then looked quickly at her newfound friend. Astro had said Kaiser worked here; she didn’t know why she was surprised to see him. “You know that guy? The one near the door, with the swastika tattooed on his neck?”
Johnny B. didn’t even look up. “Kaiser. He’s one of our bouncers. Another A-hole in a whole barroom of A-holes.” He picked up his bar mop, lowering his gaze. “ ’Scuse my French.”
Nikki snuck another look at Kaiser.
“Owners do the hiring,” Johnny B. explained. “If it were up to me, we wouldn’t have guys like that here.”
“So . . . you don’t care for Kaiser?”
“My mother was Polish. Jewish. She got out of Poland in time, but the rest of her family didn’t.”
She nodded in understanding.
“But even if he didn’t have that tattoo, I wouldn’t hire him. A guy like Eddie, he’s a jerk, but he’s harmless. A guy like Kaiser—he leaned on the bar, looking in Kaiser’s direction—“he’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?” Nikki asked.
Johnny B. scowled and put both elbows on the bar so he could get closer to Nikki. “Drugs,” he whispered. Then he looked at her. “You’re not a party girl, are you? You don’t look like a party girl.”
She picked up her glass as if to toast him. “I’m drinking tonic water in a nightclub.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, you look like too nice a gal to be in a place like this.”
“So . . . he’s bad news, is he? Kaiser?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation back in that direction. She was pretty certain Kaiser had seen her. She kept her back to him.
He gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah, I’d say so. He killed a man. Ended up getting away with it.”
Nikki’s heart felt like it skipped a beat. At the very least, sped up a little. “You’re kidding,” she murmured. “Who?”
“I don’t remember. Another dirt bag. Drug related.”
“So . . . if Kaiser killed this guy, why isn’t he in jail?” Nikki asked. She saw Kaiser move away from the front door.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Our fine criminal justice system at work?”
“But you’re sure it was Kaiser?”
“Absolutely. Apparently, he was a draw at the club for a while, due to his fame.”
“Johnny B., could I get some help over here?” the other bartender called. She was pouring drinks from vodka and gin bottles with both hands. “I’m drowning.” She eyed Nikki.
Nikki smiled at Johnny B. She was done with him anyway. At least, for now. And her head was beginning to pound to the beat of the music. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you. Guess my girlfriend’s not going to show up.” She sighed and looked back at Johnny B. “Really nice to meet you.”
“You, too.” He gave a wave as he reached for a customer’s empty glass. “Stop back another night.”
Not if I can help it, Nikki thought as she spotted Kaiser near the stage and made a beeline for the door.
The next morning, Nikki walked off the elevator into the lobby of Windsor Real Estate to find Wezley Butterfield, of all people, waiting for her. He was sitting in a chair, but popped up as she walked through the door.
“Ms. Harper.” He was wearing a black Dolce & Gabbana suit and Italian loafers. He looked sharp . . . and sober.
She removed her sunglasses and tucked them into their case inside her bag. “Mr. Butterfield.”
“I brought you a latte, skim milk, one Splenda. Carolyn, here”—he smiled at the receptionist at the desk, who smiled back—“told me what you like.”
Nikki glanced at Carolyn and noticed she also had a coffee. “What can I do for you, Mr. Butterfield? Is the church in the market for another property?” The previous night, unable to sleep, Nikki had done some Internet surfing, digging up details on the Church of Earth and Beyond. She had found out the church owned quite a few commercial properties in the Los Angeles area.
Nikki looked at Wezley as she accepted the cup of coffee. Something didn’t feel right here. Maybe it was the about-face from yesterday. Yesterday, he’d never seen her before in his life; today, he’s buying her and her receptionist coffee?
“Could we . . . ,” he lowered his voice, “go somewhere more private? Your office, maybe?”
Nikki took a sip of her latte; it was perfect. She cut her eyes at Carolyn. “The conference room?”
“Open,” Carolyn sang. She was still smiling at Wezley.
Nikki also noticed Carolyn had a small brown bag from the coffee shop on her desk. The kind of bag where one hid a high-calorie pastry.
Wezley smiled. This guy wanted something.
“This way, Mr. Butterfield.” Nikki slung her handbag on her shoulder so she could balance her soft-sided leather briefcase and the coffee cup. She led him down the hall and into the conference room where the Monday Morning Meetings were held. She set her bags on the end of the table. “What can I do for you, Mr. Butterfield?”
“Please.” He indicated a chair. “Let’s sit. You should enjoy your coffee while it’s hot.”
Nikki tried not to let her suspicion show as she took the chair and reached for her coffee. She let him begin the conversation, figuring she was in the catbird seat now that he obviously wanted something from her.
“I wanted to apologize . . . for yesterday.” He folded his hands on the conference table. “I don’t know what happened. I—”
“Mr. Butterfield—”
“Wezley. Please. I insist.”
The guy was smooth. Which made it all the more interesting to her that he and Eddie could have been friends. Eddie had none of the social refinements of this guy.
“Wezley,” she agreed. “There’s no need for an apology. I completely understand how you could have forgotten we’d spoken. Saturday morning was crazy—”
“That was exactly what I was going to say.” He touched his forehead. He saw a manicurist; his nails were perfectly square and buffed. “I was so upset that morning. Disoriented, I think. By the terrible shock.”
Maybe still drunk or high? Nikki wanted to ask. But the guy had brought her a latte. To not bring up his addiction before nine a.m. was the least she could do.
“It wasn’t until later that I remembered speaking to you in the alley. Nikki Harper. How could I not have remembered Nikki Harper?” He was smiling again. “I loved the piece you wrote for Architectural Digest on Paul Williams. The photos of your mother’s home were stunning.” He tented his fingers. “It was the July issue, wasn’t it?”
So he had Googled her, as well. “It was July. Thank you. I didn’t take the photos, of course.” She sipped her latte, still not exactly sure why he was here, but trying to figure out how to use it to her advantage. Sur
ely this wasn’t just about an apology. He could have phoned for that.
“I just felt so awful after you left yesterday.” He looked her right in the eyes. “There’s no excuse for my behavior. But I’ve been so upset since Eddie’s death. I haven’t been myself. We were good friends, you know.”
“I heard that.” Nikki scooted closer to the table . . . closer to him. Now they were getting somewhere. “Which made me sort of wonder why you weren’t at the funeral.”
He exhaled and looked away. “I’m not sure how much I should say.”
“About the funeral?” she asked.
“About Eddie.” He looked at her again. “You know the police have questioned me.”
“About . . . Eddie?”
He grew somber. “About what went on that night.”
She noticed that he didn’t answer her question as to why he hadn’t attended the funeral. “Detective Dombrowski questioned you?” she clarified. When he hesitated, she said, “Because, you know, he questioned me, too.”
“He seems very thorough.” Wezley’s gaze darted toward her again. “What . . . what kind of things did he ask you?”
“About finding Eddie’s body. About the party the night before and my mother’s gardener’s involvement.”
“The fight was pretty frightening.”
“So you were there?” She didn’t remember seeing him, but there were so many people there that evening and, of course, she hadn’t known what would transpire later. She couldn’t have known that she’d later wish she could recall all the people she had seen.
“I was there. I tried to talk to Eddie afterwards.” He shook his head. “I told him the party was a bad idea from the beginning. I told him to kick them all out. Those people weren’t his friends. They didn’t care about him.”
“But it was Melinda Bernard who actually kicked them all out, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “It . . . it was. How did . . . how did you know that?” He seemed genuinely surprised.