Killer Riff

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “No.”

  “Has he called this morning?”

  “He called last night.”

  My concern ebbed immediately. “Okay, then, he didn’t really stand you up.”

  “He let me wait for forty-five minutes and then called with an excuse so transparent, you could read the newspaper through it. Nice picture, by the way.”

  “So clearly not the issue.”

  “I’m trying to demonstrate I have manners, even in the most difficult circumstances.”

  “What was his excuse?”

  “An emergency with one of his students.”

  “Okay. Why is that transparent?”

  “He’s a physics professor, not an obstetrician. What sort of emergency could there have been? An atom split without permission?”

  “Now, that would’ve made the papers before I did. Maybe he’s really a member of the Justice League and the world needed saving. They keep that stuff pretty quiet.”

  “He’s cheating on me.”

  “Cassady, don’t.”

  “It happens.”

  “Not to you.”

  “Not often. But it’s still possible.”

  “But not probable. Have you talked to him today?”

  “He said he’d call, but he hasn’t.”

  That didn’t sound like Aaron, which didn’t sound good, but I wasn’t about to encourage Cassady to conjure up bitter scenarios. That was my job.

  “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation that might even involve a distressed student. How many times did we go weep on Dean Samson’s shoulder at all hours?” I asked, invoking the calm and benevolent dean of students who had guided us through plenty of undergrad crises. “He might be taking you for granted, but I bet he’s not cheating on you.”

  “I could go for a lesser crime,” she said with a sadness that meant she was much crazier about Aaron than we’d given her credit for. “Have a great breakfast. Don’t let the paparazzi catch you with your mouth full.”

  “They’re not going to be there.”

  “Yeah, right. Call me later,” she said with the beginnings of a lilt, then hung up. She was laughing at my expense, but at least she was laughing, so I’d accomplished something positive. But I couldn’t figure out why she thought it was so funny.

  Until the cab pulled up in front of Le Parker Meridien and the knot of people milling in front revealed themselves not to be patrons waiting for admittance, but half a dozen photographers. It struck me as an amusing coincidence until I got out of the cab and walked toward the front door. Suddenly, the photographers were between me and the door, snapping away.

  I don’t like having my picture taken, mainly because I have a gift for closing my eyes and opening my mouth at the precise moment the shutter closes. So strolling down the red carpet while flashes pulse has never figured in my fantasies, and running this gauntlet was certainly not fun. I thought about striding past them with my gaze fixed, Gwyneth Paltrow—like, on some vaguely forward point and a polite smile on my lips. But after about two steps, the absurdity of the situation overwhelmed me, and I stopped, which had the benefit of surprising my new friends, who all paused at least three seconds before returning to their snapping.

  “This is a mistake,” I said, trying the polite approach for starters. “You don’t want to take my picture.”

  “There’s no need for threats, babe,” one of them, a burly, bearded guy in a khaki jacket who had apparently seen The Year of Living Dangerously at an impressionable age, called out to me.

  “Don’t call me ‘babe,’” I said, struggling to hang on to my polite impulse, “and don’t take my picture. I’m not whoever you must think I am.”

  “You’re Jordan Crowley’s new babe,” he said with deliberate emphasis on the last word.

  “Adam’s,” another photographer, a tall, reedy woman with straight hair hanging down to her belt, corrected him.

  “Wrong on both counts,” I said firmly. “Thank you anyway.”

  As I turned away from them, I enjoyed a full two seconds of congratulating myself on handling the incident with aplomb and decorum before I slammed into the chest of the man who had walked up behind me. The cameras whirred into action again as the man slid his arm gallantly along my shoulders.

  “They’re not bothering you, are they?” Jordan asked.

  “Hey, Jordan!” several of them screamed, clustering around us.

  Jordan held up a hand to stop them. “Could you all give us a little space? The lady’s here to work.”

  A twinge of panic raced through my stomach. “Oh, please don’t—”

  “She’s going to find out who killed Russell Elliott,” Jordan announced, and the cameras whirred even louder in response. “And I’ll tell you now—it’s the same person who killed my dad.”

  6

  I don’t like being left speechless; it makes me feel out of control. I especially don’t like it when it happens in front of a crowd of strangers. But Jordan had blindsided me, and I sputtered a moment before coming up with any sort of response.

  “That’s a new definition of low,” I said belatedly, yanking my arm out of his grasp as soon as we were out of the line of fire. No need to add any more drama.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Jordan said, looking me right in the eye. He held my gaze long enough to prove his sincerity, then told the hostess at Norma’s that we were meeting Olivia. She nodded and led the way deep into the seating area.

  Jordan fell in behind her immediately, leaving me to follow him and to figure out why I was so angry. Patrons glanced up, several of them reacting to Jordan with widening eyes and arching brows, but no one made a scene, which was a nice change of pace.

  I closed the space between us so I could speak quietly. “You speak cavalierly about the deaths of two men you profess to be close to, and don’t understand why that’s repulsive?”

  “I’m being honest. The same person killed them both. Why lie anymore, now that Olivia’s found you to help us prove it?”

  We reached the table and the hostess left quickly, avoiding eye contact and probably dialing somebody’s tip line on the cell in her pocket. Olivia stood to greet us, twisting her napkin fretfully. “Jordan?” She looked at me unhappily, and I shook my head emphatically, so she turned her frown back to him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Mom said you were having breakfast with Molly, and I thought I’d join you. I didn’t get to talk to her last night.” Jordan sat down and picked up a menu, ignoring the fact that Olivia and I were still standing and Olivia was trying to wish him back out the door.

  “She’s here to talk to me, Jordan,” Olivia said, twisting the napkin so hard that it started to kink back on itself.

  “Who tipped the paparazzi? You or your mom?” I asked.

  Jordan didn’t react, but Olivia did, glancing toward the front door, then flushing and sitting heavily in her chair. She gestured that I should sit, too, before she leaned in toward Jordan. “Can’t I do anything without you horning in?”

  “It’s not like that, Ollie,” he assured her, just this side of condescending. “Until now, I thought I was the only one who thought something funky went down with your dad. I’m here to support both of you.”

  “By raising the possibility that someone killed your father as well?” I asked.

  “What?” It came out higher and louder than Olivia intended, and more than one patron looked in our direction. She sank back in her chair and tried to put her kinked-up napkin over her face for a moment in a futile effort to compose herself. Dropping the useless napkin, she snarled at him, “I really hate you sometimes.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said confidently.

  Olivia covered her face with her hands this time, and I was struck by how much younger she seemed when she was around the Crowleys. The “we all turn twelve when we go home for Christmas” effect, I supposed. I was also struck by how different Jordan was from the moody artist I’d met before the show. Much closer to his charming on
stage persona. Maybe it was a function of how he prepared for a show. Or maybe something had happened in the dressing room right before I’d arrived that had dampened his spirits. An argument with Bonnie or Claire? Gray Benedek?

  “Do you genuinely believe your father was murdered, or are you creating a press event?” I asked as politely as I could.

  “I’m all about truth,” he said.

  “Which is a lie,” Olivia said, snapping her napkin back into her lap.

  I tried to remember the old brainteaser about meeting two people, one who speaks only lies and the other who tells only the truth, and having to come up with the one question that will expose which one is which. With the accusations flying thick and fast, I needed to be able to sort fact from nonsense just as quickly. “I have the same question for both of you: Why would someone kill your father?”

  “I’m not going to talk about this in front of him,” Olivia said crisply. The waiter who had been tentatively approaching our table did a discreet fade back out of harm’s way. “In fact, I’d like you to leave, Jordan.”

  “Ollie, come on,” Jordan said with a hint of irritation. “Stop treating me like the enemy. We’re on the same side.”

  “I doubt that very much. I don’t remember the last time we were on the same side for even the simplest thing,” she sniffed.

  “We’re victims of the same evil,” Jordan insisted, and Olivia frowned suspiciously.

  “Let’s not be too grand,” I warned, sensing the approach of some overblown, metaphorical statement about fame, popular culture, and the artist’s sacrifice.

  Jordan took Olivia’s hand gently in his. “Claire killed both our fathers.”

  I’m not sure who had the sharper reaction—me, who nearly dropped my water goblet, or Olivia, who gave a sharp, tight giggle of delight. “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “Claire Crowley killed my father, and now she’s killed Russell, too,” Jordan said patiently, as though it were abundantly clear to everyone in Manhattan except me.

  Olivia beamed at Jordan as though he had just presented her with roses and champagne. “I had no idea!”

  “You already told me you thought Claire killed your dad,” I said, feeling a little dizzy.

  “Of course, but I didn’t know Jordan felt the same way,” she said, squeezing Jordan’s hands.

  Who would’ve imagined a shared suspicion of murder could be a bonding opportunity? While Olivia and Jordan seemed quite happy, I was a little queasy. Something about Jordan’s demeanor wasn’t ringing true. Particularly the adoration he was offering Olivia after being so dismissive of her the night before. That had felt painfully real, and this felt like another performance, but whether it was for Olivia’s benefit or mine, I couldn’t be sure. So I had to ask, “Jordan, what are you up to?”

  “You’re a very suspicious woman,” Jordan said, leaving his hand in Olivia’s as he turned to me.

  “Kinda comes with the job,” I explained. “But then, things do happen that make me even more suspicious than usual. Like you announcing, years after the fact, that you think your father was murdered. And doing it in front of those barracudas out front. You realize it’s probably already posted on half a dozen Web sites. More by lunchtime,” I said, hoping I would not be in any of the pictures.

  “We should check Gawker,” Olivia blurted, though she had the decency to look embarrassed as soon as it was out of her mouth. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  There are moments when your professional life flashes before your eyes and you just have to wave good-bye. I pushed back from the table. “I’m sure the two of you can find a magazine that’s willing to play along with whatever game you’ve cooked up, but Zeitgeist isn’t it,” I said, picking up my purse and immediately beginning to work out how I was going to explain this to Henry.

  Jordan stood with me, leaning in so the people at other tables couldn’t hear, hard as they might try. “My father was going to leave Claire, and that’s why she killed him. And Russell, God rest his soul, made the same mistake.”

  I didn’t sit down immediately, because I sensed that was the reaction he was looking for, but I had to lock my knees to stay upright. But before I could say anything in response, Olivia was on her feet, too, and she wasn’t giving any thought at all to what the people at other tables were hearing, thinking, or texting to their friends as she hissed, “You’re disgusting.”

  Jordan kept his face turned to me, as though her rage would dissipate if he didn’t look at her. “Olivia didn’t approve of her father’s affair with Claire,” he said calmly.

  “They didn’t have one! Why do you have to make everything worse than it actually is?”

  “You’re the therapist, sweetie, you tell me.”

  Olivia snatched her purse off the table and gestured for me. “I’ll go with you.”

  As I looked at her flushed face, the ending of the brainteaser popped into my head: Both the liar and the truth teller will give you the same answer, and you should do the opposite. “Wait, please,” I said as gently as possible.

  Olivia zipped around to stand between me and Jordan, her back pointedly to him. “I forgot to warn you that most of what he says is self-serving crap.”

  “Except when he agrees with you,” I said.

  She hesitated a split second before nodding in agreement. “That’s how you can be sure what I’m saying is the truth. Even Jordan agrees with me.”

  “Yet you seem a bit at odds on the question of motive,” I pointed out, glancing up at Jordan to check his reaction. He was staring intently at the back of her head, perhaps willing her to turn around, perhaps sending her telepathic messages to shut up. Otherwise, his face was blank. Beautiful, but blank.

  Whirling on Jordan, Olivia defiantly cocked her chin—which came up to his collarbone—and said with shimmering anger, “It’s all about the tapes and you know it.”

  I expected another glib and inappropriate response from Jordan, but instead, this time his face flushed. “Shut up, Olivia.”

  “Not this time,” she said with a weight that spoke of years of capitulating to him.

  “There are no tapes and you know it,” he said, his voice dropping in register and volume.

  “I’ve seen them, and I’ve heard them,” Olivia insisted. “They’re real, Jordan. And Claire wants to release them and take all the money for herself.”

  Jordan looked at her for a long, silent moment, debating a difficult question. I couldn’t figure out why Olivia’s assertion that the murder had been about money was more troubling than about love and/or sex. Then he spoke with an emotion-clogged voice. “I want to hear them.”

  Now I understood. He was reacting to the existence of the tapes and the possibility of hearing his father, not to Olivia’s hypothesis. With all the albums, concert footage, and TV interviews of Micah, there still had to be a bittersweet thrill for his son to realize there was another piece of his father out there, a piece the world hadn’t shared yet. That was the surprising rawness in his voice, as though he were holding back tears, even though his expression stayed cool.

  What surprised me even more was Olivia’s pause before answering. What could she be debating? Of course he should hear the tapes. It was very odd that he hadn’t heard them, hadn’t even believed they existed, and I looked at her sharply, waiting for her to explain. “I guess that would be okay,” she said with a frown.

  Before I could offer my opinion, Jordan asked, “Has Adam heard them?”

  Olivia shifted away from him slightly, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer. “I think so.”

  Jordan’s smile was ice cold. “Then I better damn well hear them. Now.”

  “How about this evening?” Olivia suggested. “I have clients to see, and I have to get them and—”

  “Where are they?” Jordan interrupted.

  Olivia shook her head, looking confident for the first time. “You think I’m going to tell you?”

  Jordan’s cool smile tightened. “
When and where?”

  “Meet me at Dad’s apartment at six o’clock. You come, too,” she told me.

  I accepted before Jordan had a chance to voice an objection and hurried Olivia out, leaving Jordan behind us to brood. The paparazzi had dispersed to spread Jordan’s new proclamation all over town, so I was able to stand with Olivia while she hailed a cab and ask, “Who else knows you have the tapes?”

  “No one,” she said, not looking me in the eye.

  “Who else suspects you have the tapes?” I pressed.

  “Claire. Bonnie. I thought Gray did when he came to the show last night, but he was just back on his old thing about getting Claire to license one of the band’s songs for a commercial. If he thought I had songs that hadn’t even been released, he’d be all over me.” She smiled quite brightly, enjoying the thought of that kind of power. “But you cannot tell anyone until I decide what I’m going to do with the tapes.”

  “Did your father leave instructions for you?”

  “I know what he wanted done,” she replied as a cab slid up to the curb for her. “Thank you so much for being here. I’m sorry about Jordan.”

  “It’s fine.” I shrugged.

  “No, it’s not,” she said, getting into the cab, “but he does it anyway. See you tonight.”

  Which meant, as I stood in Eileen’s office, that I had six and a half hours to do some research before I saw Olivia again. And to reassure my editor that I was still in control of my senses and my story. My first line of defense was proving I could meet a deadline and presenting her with my screening letter:

  Dear Molly,

  Is control really an illusion? Or is it something that only women respect, so whenever men sense it forming, they’re compelled to destroy it? Every time I think I’m gaining momentum in my life, a man steps into my path and I have to brake and swerve. Am I driving the wrong road, or should I just keep my foot on the gas?

  Signed,

  Balancing Act

  Eileen looked up from the printed letter to squint at me suspiciously. “I like this.” She was sitting behind her desk, her delicate feet balanced on the edge and encased in Bottega Veneta boots with a lethal heel. I wanted to keep an eye on the heels in case I said anything to upset her and she came across the desk in some Emma Peel—ish effort to impale me.