Trashed

by Alison Gaylin

  Charity rolled her eyes. “Jesus.” She started to get up.

  “Wait,” said Simone. “Please. I know how it sounds. But this isn’t . . . it’s not for publication.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “I know it wasn’t suicide,” she said, “because I saw her tonight. I saw what was done to her.”

  Charity stopped. “Really?”

  She nodded. “I was at that hotel. With the cops, and I saw. It was . . . horrifying.”

  Charity brought a hand to her own neck. “Cut.”

  “Yeah, but there was more.” Simone stared at her. “You don’t want to know.”

  “God,” she whispered. “The poor . . .”

  “I meant what I said. I am worried. I’m worried for whoever is next because—”

  “Next?”

  Simone said, “I’m afraid the same person who killed Destiny killed Emerald Deegan. Nia Lawson, too.”

  Charity half collapsed on the floor and looked up at Simone, her pale skin reflecting the red lights in a way that made her seem bruised. “My God,” she kept saying.

  “My God, my God . . .”

  “I’m just . . . I’m trying to make sense of this. And to do that, I’ve got to know what Destiny was like when she was alive. . . . What she was into.”

  She said, “What do you need to know?”

  “Did she do drugs? I’m wondering if maybe a dealer . . .”

  “No drugs. She said they ruined your looks. She didn’t drink either.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend? Anybody who . . . maybe seemed a little weird?”

  Charity examined her long red nails for a drawn-out moment. “It’s probably because we’re so close to the studios, but we get some VIPs here,” she said. “A lot of them liked Destiny.”

  “Why?”

  She tilted her head to the side, gave Simone an appraising look. “If you were interviewing me for your newspaper, I would tell you it was because she had a sort of light around her—a natural charisma that they were drawn to, like she was one of them.”

  Simone said, “What if I wasn’t interviewing you? If this was all off the record. What would you tell me then?”

  Back to the nails. “I would tell you that VIPs tend to be freaks,” she said softly. “Destiny was willing to . . . do certain things. Plus, she was discreet.”

  Until recently. . . . “Was there anybody in particular? ”

  “There were lots of them. They’d take her out to the hot clubs, parties. Promise her stuff if she did things in return. Golden showers, B and D, light torture . . . Destiny wasn’t into any of that but, you know . . .” Charity’s lips curled into a small, bitter smile. “She called it ‘paying her dues.’ ”

  Simone winced. Say his name. “Have you ever met Keith Furlong?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I know Keith.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  Charity was quiet for so long that Simone almost repeated the question. “Keith Furlong,” she said finally, “is a very important person.”

  After Simone left the back room, she tried her luck with a few other strippers. She didn’t get very far, though. She was clean out of cash, having given it all to Charity—but that probably didn’t matter much anyway. For most of them, Destiny’s name was enough to cut off all conversation before the cost of alone time ever came up. Simone’s eyelids were starting to drift shut. She knew she had to get home or risk falling asleep at the wheel.

  She walked out to her car, taking in the strangeness of this night. Five hours ago, she had thought Emerald’s death was probably a suicide after all. She’d gone to Holly’s out of kindness—guilt, maybe—but her main concern had been Chrylan. Now Chrylan was the last thing on her mind, so overtaken was it with images of three young, dead women.

  Simone heard footsteps behind her. That watched feeling slithered up her back again. And then, on her shoulder, she felt the weight of a hand. Walker. Without bothering to turn around, Simone said, “Are you sure your name isn’t Stalker?”

  “I don’t get it,” said the voice. It wasn’t Walker.

  Simone spun around. The dim lights of the parking lot illuminated the face, the Ping-Pong-table eyes of Keith Furlong. “Looking for a job?” he said.

  “I . . . uh . . .”

  “Because you aren’t quite Pleasures material.”

  Don’t look afraid. Don’t act afraid. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  Furlong said, “Who do you work for?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t know what you’re talk—”

  He took a step closer to her, bent down, put his face so close to hers that when he spoke she could smell his mouthwash, his thick cologne. It sickened her, the closeness. But she would not move, would not make room for him, she would not . . . “You are a reporter,” he said. “Who do you fucking work for?”

  Don’t back up. Don’t look afraid. Don’t think about Destiny’s face. “Why did Cole lie for you, Keith?”

  “What?”

  “The night Emerald died. Cole told the police you were at Bedrock. Why’d you have him do that?”

  “I didn’t have Cole do anything,” he said between his bleached teeth. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Where were you that night? What were you really doing when Cole said you were at Bed—”

  His hands went around her throat, thumbs pressing against her voice box. He did it lightly, but she felt it in his thick fingers—the potential. “You have any idea how easy it would be?”

  “Get your hands off me.”

  “Who do you work for?” The thumbs pressed a little harder.

  He is just trying to scare you. Don’t let him. Scare him back. . . . “Go ahead and ask Detective Sandiford where I work,” she said. “He knows.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. But the hands dropped away.

  “I’m on my way to meet Ed now,” Simone said. Her voice pitched a little higher, but she kept it steady enough, considering. “Do you want me to have him call you? Because I can.”

  Furlong said nothing. He just stood there, breathing hard, his fake green eyes filled with hate. Very quietly, he said, “I’m watching.”

  As calmly as she could, Simone turned and headed toward her Jeep. But the whole ride home, her heart thumped against her ribs, those two words lingering in her head like a recent nightmare. I’m. Watching.

  SEVENTEEN

  At work on Saturday morning, Simone wrote up two stories: “Was Emerald Murdered?” and “Keith’s Secret Lover Found Dead!” According to the Legal Department in New York, the Asteroid could not point the finger directly at Furlong in either piece, though the Emerald article could include on-the-record quotes from Holly, in which she described Keith as “heartless,” “an egomaniac,” and “only after Emerald for her money.”

  For the “Secret Lover” article, Simone got a quote from Sandiford in which he claimed they were still considering the death a suicide—though she did get him to admit, on the record, that Furlong’s connection to both dead women was “suspicious.”

  Strongest of all was the sidebar, “The Mystery of the Bracelet,” complete with the photographs Simone had taken with Holly’s camera phone. But, while she was allowed to ask in print why Emerald’s bracelet had been thrown in Destiny’s trash on the evening of her death, Sandiford asked her not to dispute Furlong’s alibi for that night. “We don’t have enough on him,” he explained. “If he is guilty, that could make him run.”

  Simone wished she could stick it to Furlong a lot worse than that. Frightened as she was by the previous night’s run-in, she thought she’d be safer from him if he were implicated in print. Under public scrutiny, he would want to lay low, act as innocent as possible. He would want to stay away from the reporter he’d threatened. But this way, with his guilt only hinted at . . .

  I’m watching.

  On the positive side, Emerald’s and Nia’s death investi
gations had been officially reopened, the division detectives turning them over to Robbery-Homicide. This morning, Holly had told Sandiford about the phone calls she had received and about her deep, growing suspicion of Keith Furlong.

  “You want me to call Loverboy for comment?” said Kathy.

  “That would be great.”

  Simone finished the mystery sidebar and stretched. Except for whatever comment Kathy was about to get from Furlong, all three of her articles were done.

  Her cell phone chimed. Walker. Her face flushed a little. She covered up his name on the screen and said between her teeth, “You realize I’m at work right now.”

  “Just wanted to let you know,” said Walker, “I meant what I said last night.”

  “About . . .”

  “Being officially back on your ass. Today.”

  “Oh, now, please.”

  “One hot Chrylan lead, by the end of the day, please,” he said.

  “At least you said please.”

  “Don’t think I’m gonna take it easy on you because of that hug,” he said. “I still have this business card, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  “But—”

  “By the end of the day, please.” Click.

  Simone put her head in her hands, rubbed her eyes. You wouldn’t dare, Neil, would you?

  She got up and moved behind Elliot.

  The final sidebar on the spread was historical—the one Elliot had originally prepared for the Emerald suicide story, then called “Look Who Else Cut Their Own Throats!” Interestingly, it now worked. Thanks to the paucity of examples, the sidebar supported the theory that Destiny, Emerald, and even Nia had been murdered. The new title: “It’s the Least Popular Form of Suicide!”

  Simone read over Elliot’s shoulder. Manic-depressive silent movie queen Magda Adair slit her throat with a diamond hat pin after discovering her husband in bed with the housekeeper. Schlock movie producer Reginald King cut his jugular with a hunting knife after gay rumors surfaced in a tell-all book, penned by his wife . . . But other than those two famous cases, suicide by cut throat has been practically unheard of.

  Elliot said, “Not happy campers, huh?”

  Simone nodded.

  Kathy hung up her phone. “Man, Furlong is an asshole.”

  “What did he say?”

  “ ‘No fucking comment, bitch.’ Through his assistant! I wish we could run the quote just like that.”

  Elliot chuckled. “ ‘No fucking comment, bitch,’ said Keith, through a spokesperson.”

  Simone smiled a little. “Where’s Matthew, by the way?” she asked Kathy. “I haven’t seen him all morning.”

  “He and Carl are out choosing china patterns. Nigel gave them the morning off.”

  “Wait. Matthew and Carl?”

  She nodded. “They’re getting married in Massachusetts. ”

  Elliot sighed. “Why didn’t they choose Hawaii?” he said. “Provincetown is going to be freakin’ freezing in the wintertime.”

  “Matthew and Carl?” Simone said again.

  Nigel stood in the doorway. “I need to speak with you.”

  The room went quiet. Simone glanced up from her computer and saw that he was talking to her, the same hard glint in his eyes as had been there days earlier, when he’d nearly fired her over Wayne Deegan. “What’s up?”

  “Please come into my office.”

  Simone got up from her desk, thinking, Please?

  “Sit down,” said Nigel. He closed his office door.

  “What did I—”

  “It has come to my attention,” he said, “that you have been associating with the enemy.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been spotted with Neil Walker, from the Interloper .” He spat out the name. “That is instant grounds for dismissal.”

  Simone’s heart dropped. She started to say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But midsentence, she realized there was no point.

  She thought of the paparazzo shouting, “Hi, Neil!” Of all the police officers she and Walker had passed. Of course someone would have noticed them and told Nigel. Nigel had police sources, he knew all the paparazzi. He had spies everywhere—even at the Interloper. “We were . . . we were both covering Destiny,” Simone said. “We couldn’t really avoid each other.”

  “My source saw you walking across the street together, into the hotel, leaving the building still together. My source said you were publicly intimate.”

  “I was not intimate.”

  Nigel glowered at her. “So you are saying that the rest of it is true.”

  “Okay, yes. We showed up together. He had been trying to blackmail me into sharing leads.”

  “With what information did he blackmail you?”

  “He was at the press conference, Nigel. He saw me with Dylan Leeds. He threatened to tell her I’m with the Asteroid.”

  Nigel’s scowl darkened. “Right,” he said. “Well, in that case I have one question for you.”

  Simone waited.

  “How the fuck did he know you work for the Asteroid ?!”

  She grimaced. “Because . . . I told him.”

  “You—”

  “He kicked me off the Suburban Indiscretions set. I thought he was a security guard, I swear. I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought, but he’s a really good liar, and I’m so, so sorry. I promise it will never happen again.”

  “You’re fired,” Nigel said.

  “But I’m telling you the truth.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that.”

  Simone stared at Nigel, and he stared right back. Slowly, she got up from the chair and left his office.

  Simone opened her desk drawer, removed her microcassette recorder, her pens and steno pads, and collected business cards and matchbooks—souvenirs of less than one week on the job—and shoved them all into her purse.

  “What are you doing?” Kathy said.

  Simone couldn’t look at her. She couldn’t speak.

  “Simone?”

  Simone unplugged her phone charger and put it in the bag with everything else. She noticed three new messages on her cell phone and listened to them there, just because she couldn’t bring herself to walk out the door.

  The first was from Holly. “Things went great with Detective Sandiford,” she said. “Thanks so much for everything—I have new respect for the Asteroid.”

  Simone sighed and hit SAVE.

  Elliot said, “What happened with Nigel?”

  The second message was from Greta. “Hi, Monie! I hope things are going great at the Edge. Listen, I don’t know if you got my text message, but I saw you on TV with Dylan Leeds. I’ve been trying to get an exclusive interview with Dylan and I’m wondering . . .”

  Simone hit ERASE.

  Kathy said, “Simone. What is going on?”

  Simone hit END after the next message, a hang up from “restricted.” Strange, but at this point she didn’t care. Tears were beginning to creep into her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry. Not here, not in front of everyone, not over this damn job.

  She thought about Walker. What if that had been his plan all along—getting her fired? What if Destiny’s death hadn’t leveled him the way it had leveled her? What if he’d only hugged her like that so the paparazzi could see them, so they could report back to Nigel?

  That was probably far-fetched, but the fact was, Walker had won. She had lost her job. She was no longer an insider. The staring contest was his.

  “I’m fired,” she said.

  “Oh, my God,” said Kathy.

  Simone’s face was hot. She felt tears welling up again and bit them back, hurried out the door without bothering to check and see if she’d left anything. On the way out, she passed Carl and Matthew walking in together with bags from Neiman Marcus. “Congratulations,” she said.

  “Where are you going?” said Matthew.

  “What’s wrong?” said Carl.

  But she was already in the elevator. Already going down.
>
  Emerald sat next to Holly on her jade green couch, bracelets clinking as she raised a glass of champagne. “This, my dear, is cause for celebration!” she said.

  “Do you mean the Asteroid article?” Holly said. “Or the police investigation?”

  “Neither.” Emerald clinked Holly’s glass. “What I mean is,” she said, “you’re finally sleeping.”

  Holly’s eyes opened. She was in bed. After she returned from Detective Sandiford’s office and put in a call to Simone, Holly had changed into a big T-shirt, gotten under her covers, and, for the first time since Emerald’s death, she had slept without the aid of pills, and she had dreamed. Yet another thing to thank Simone for.

  She stretched, looked at her clock. Two in the afternoon. She’d only slept for four hours, but to Holly it felt like days. Normally she hated napping; it made her feel groggy and lazy, but now she was energized. She needed to call Wayne Deegan. Emerald’s body had been cremated; there would be no funeral. But she and Wayne needed to plan a memorial service. She’d already received calls from Emerald’s Suburban Indiscretions cast-mates asking about that. And she hadn’t known what to tell them—hadn’t been able to return their calls. Now she could. Now she could do anything.

  Holly got out of bed and walked into her living room. She sat on her couch, reached for her phone, and started to tap in Wayne’s phone number, fingering the emerald pendant that hung from her neck. But she stopped when she noticed a manila envelope on the floor, her name written across it in neat block letters. Someone had slipped it under her door.

  She walked across the room, picked up the envelope, and opened it. There was a piece of spiral notebook paper inside, and when she turned it over, when she saw what was on it, she collapsed onto the floor, the blood thrumming in her neck, her face.

  And then she started to cry.

  It was a cartoon drawing of a naked Emerald, ribs protruding, eyes huge and pleading, mouth wrenched open in a silent scream. Scars were drawn on the cartoon Emerald’s abdomen and wrists, and blood spurted out of its neck. Above the head hovered a thought bubble, the sentence inside it written in the same block letters: SHUT UP, HOLLY!

  At the bottom of the page in smaller letters were the words “I am watching.”

  All the shags had been carefully removed.