On the Avenue

by Antonio Pagliarulo

  The remote landed on ABC, and Jeremy gasped. He was staring at a live aerial shot of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Crowds were gathered at the bottom of the steep steps, and dozens of police cruisers sat motionless along the west side of Fifth Avenue.

  “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Not already.”

  He raised the volume on the flat-screen, and Diane Sawyer's unmistakable voice filled the room.

  “… following a developing story,” she said as the aerial shot zoomed in closer. “Several sources have told ABC News that internationally renowned fashion editor Zahara Bell was found dead inside the Met just over an hour ago. Bell was apparently a guest at a charitable gala at the Met tonight …”

  Jeremy shot to his feet, panic seizing him. “Diane, sweetie, don't do this to me!” he shouted.

  “… and we are now being told,” Diane continued, “that police are treating this as a homicide. You are seeing on your screens now a live shot of the Met, teeming with activity. Tonight's star-studded gala was apparently being sponsored by Hamilton Holdings, Incorporated, and we are being told that the Hamilton triplets—Madison, Park, and Lexington—were in attendance. A number of other celebrities were also in attendance: Gwen Stefani, Lindsay Lohan, and Jeremy Bleu among them. Sources are telling ABC News that all the guests are still inside the museum as police secure the crime scene and begin their investigation into the murder of Zahara Bell.…”

  “No!” Jeremy screamed. “No! No! Fucking no!” He slammed his hand against the remote. The flatscreen blinked out, plunging the suite into semidarkness again. Breathing nervously, he raked both hands through his hair and stomped over to the nearest window. He stared down at the busy stretch of Fifth Avenue. Traffic. Lights. Ordinary cars. No police cruisers. He was about to make his way to the bar for a second martini when the suite's telephone rang. Cautiously, he picked it up.

  “Mr. Bleu?” a female voice said from the other end of the line. “This is the front desk calling. I wanted to let you know …” The woman's voice trailed off as background noise filtered through the receiver.

  “Yes?” Jeremy said impatiently. “What is it?”

  “Well, we thought you should know,” the woman continued. Her voice dropped into a whisper. “There are several reporters in the lobby demanding to speak to you.”

  “Don't you dare let them anywhere near those elevators!” Jeremy screamed. “Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied nervously. “Yes. I—”

  “If even one reporter makes it up here and starts banging on my door, I'll have my publicist tear this place apart. I'll let the whole world know that you can't provide adequate security for your guests. Do you understand me? Do you?”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. I—”

  Jeremy slammed the phone down. He started pacing. The word was obviously out that he had run away from the Met only moments after discovering Zahara Bell's body. And if the press knew it, so did the police. He imagined them storming through the suite like wolves on the prowl, eager to tie his bad-boy image to a really bad situation.

  Why did you flee the crime scene, Mr. Bleu?

  Because I was scared, Jeremy thought now, rehearsing for what would undoubtedly prove to be the most challenging role of his life. I didn't know what else to do. It was fear. I'm still afraid, Officer. There's a killer on the loose.

  And what did you do after you left?

  I came back to my hotel room. The front desk saw me. People saw me.

  Did you know the victim?

  He would give them a slow, mournful nod. Yes.

  And then what? Would it really be that easy? What if the cops started poking into his past and found the shit he didn't want them to find?

  He went to the bedroom and grabbed his pack of Nat Shermans off the nightstand. He lit up. You didn't make any mistakes, he assured himself. No one will ever find out. Just stay calm. He paced the room, puffing hard on the cigarette. When the image of Zahara Bell's twisted body flashed before his eyes again, he started. He shook his head. Then he raked his left hand across his neck and shoulder, wanting to squeeze the tension from his muscles. It was the precise moment his heart nearly exploded in his chest.

  Oh, shit. Please, don't let it be true.

  But it was true. Realizing his error, he stared frantically around the room, wondering what to do next.

  How could I have been so stupid? Why didn't I think before acting?

  He kept telling himself that maybe no one would notice. He hoped to God no one noticed. That was his only chance at escaping this ugly mess. Otherwise, in the morning, he would be totally behind bars.

  5

  Killer Couture

  It was all about staying cool. The girls had learned that lesson a long time ago. When scandal erupted and nasty rumors took flight, you had to toss your head back, drop your shoulders, and draw attention to the jewelry sparkling around your neck. Precious gems brightened even the most unflattering light.

  Madison knew this. She stood a few feet away from her sisters and Coco, her body turned purposefully toward the crowd that had gathered at the opposite end of the corridor. The Harry Winston choker glittered on her neck like a disco ball. An intricate web of bright green emeralds and heart-shaped five carat sapphire stones, it was a rare work of art that never failed to attract dozens of admiring glances. Madison lifted her eyes nonchalantly to the ceiling and casually struck a pose. People were staring more than they were whispering, and that was a good thing.

  “I didn't notice how gorgeous that piece is until now,” Park said quietly.

  Coco nodded. “It casts a spell. Look at how quiet the crowd got.”

  “She's always worn jewelry beautifully,” Lex commented of her sister. “I can't wear chokers—they don't call enough attention to my boobs.”

  They stood a few feet away, watching calmly as Madison seized and mastered the moment. She tossed her head back again. She pivoted as if she were standing at the edge of a runway. Then she smiled as three cameras flashed in rapid succession. The cool act worked like a charm. She was representing Hamilton Holdings, Inc., at the gala, so it made perfect sense for her to wow the crowd— especially now, with so many people wondering what the hell was happening.

  It was an ugly scene. There were at least fifteen uniformed police officers standing along the corridor, looking grim. Yellow crime-scene tape sealed off the entrance to the coatroom. And a tall middle-aged man with thinning blond hair and a badge around his neck was standing on the threshold scribbling notes onto a pad. He muttered something to one of the cops and then looked up.

  Park immediately met his stare and locked her eyes with his. As he came toward her in quick strides, she extended her hand.

  The older man seemed taken aback by the gesture. He paused, cracked a nervous smile, and folded his hand in hers. “Detective Charlie Mullen, Homicide,” he said.

  “Park Hamilton,” she replied, making certain to keep her tone calm. “Charmed, I'm sure.”

  “I know who you are, Ms. Hamilton,” Mullen said.

  “Please, call me Park.” She glanced over her shoulder, introducing Lex and Coco. Before the detective could begin asking questions, she said, “This has been a terrible and unfortunate tragedy. We were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “That's putting it mildly.” Mullen cleared his throat. “Would you mind calling your sister over here? I need to speak with all of you.”

  “Madison,” Park said lightly. “Could you join us, please?”

  Turning on her heels, Madison made her way over to them with graceful steps, as though waltzing across the floor. She extended her hand to the older man.

  Mullen took it, and his eyes fell inevitably to the shimmering choker. “Those are some rocks you got around your neck,” he said, impressed.

  “Thank you.” Madison smiled.

  “Are those real emeralds?”

  The question—so innocent and yet so painfully offensive—rattled Madison to the core. She couldn
't believe someone would actually think she was wearing costume jewelry. Fake emeralds? Fake sapphires? The very thought of hastily cut green glass and those ugly blue plastic nuggets made her dizzy. She blinked, speechless, and looked from Park to Lex to Coco. When the silence got tense, she turned back to Detective Mullen and said, with as much strength as she could muster, “Yes. They're real.”

  “Amazing,” Mullen whispered. “I don't think I've ever seen emeralds that big this close up.”

  Park knew a cue when she heard one. She also knew an impressed fan when she met one. Detective Mullen might have been in his forties, but he was obviously in awe of the company surrounding him. She wondered if he had a daughter her age, or if his wife was one of those tabloid magazine junkies who enjoyed reading about the infamous Hamilton sisters. Whatever the case, it wouldn't hurt to make small talk. “Do you know the legend behind real emeralds, Detective?” she asked him sweetly.

  “I don't,” he admitted.

  “Well,” Park began, “emeralds are among the earliest gemstones known to man. In ancient times, they were dedicated to the goddess Venus for love, and also because they were believed to improve intelligence. But they were mainly used for love. They say that if you give someone an emerald, she'll be a faithful lover for the rest of her life. They also say that once you own an emerald, you can never lose it. Emeralds always find their way home.”

  Mullen smirked. “That's interesting. Never heard that before. You some kind of expert?”

  “You could say that.” Inwardly, Park smiled. She was more than an expert when it came to precious gems and stones. Jewels had been one of her ruling passions ever since she was a little girl, and over the years she had devoted countless hours to studying everything from diamonds and pearls to the rarest sapphires. Her knowledge of the subject was huge. Her personal jewelry collection was even bigger. “Your wife would probably love an emerald for your anniversary this year,” she said.

  Mullen made a sour face. “I'm divorced.”

  “A good-looking guy like you?” It was Lex's voice this time. She was standing directly behind Park, and now she feigned a ditzy smile as Detective Mullen blushed. “I find that so hard to believe.”

  “So do I,” Coco said with mock seriousness, a hand to her chest.

  “Well, you know, this is all very flattering, ladies, but I do have a few questions to ask you,” Detective Mullen told them sternly. He flipped open his notepad and began riffling through the pages. “Now, I was told by the security guards that right before the body was discovered, you all ran into the coatroom and then closed the door. Why was that?”

  “We were trying to outrun a psychotic paparazzo,” Madison said. “We were very lucky. I thought he was going to kill us.”

  “Uh-huh. And had you ever seen this …paparazzo before tonight? I mean, since you girls are used to being photographed all the time.”

  “Never,” Lex said. “He was short and fat and bald. And he tore my dress.”

  “Right,” Mullen mumbled as he wrote. “So it was you four girls being chased by this man. And you didn't see where he disappeared to?”

  “No, we didn't.” Park bit down on her lip. “It wasn't actually us four. I had a … guest … with me.”

  Mullen glanced up at her. “Yes, I know. Jeremy Bleu. I guess you have no idea where he is right now, huh?”

  “I don't know,” Park admitted. “Everything got so crazy after we … saw the body … and, well, when we came out here, he was gone.”

  “He ditched us,” Lex chimed in.

  “He did not,” Park cut in sharply. She stared at Detective Mullen. “I'm sure Jeremy has a positively good reason for not being here. Like I said, this was all just a misunderstanding.”

  “Jeremy Bleu not being here is the same thing as Jeremy Bleu fleeing a crime scene, Ms. Hamilton,” Detective Mullen snapped. “How well do you know Mr. Bleu? Is this characteristic of him?”

  A silence fell as Park considered her response. Was she supposed to tell Detective Mullen the truth? We met each other tonight, Detective. The attraction between us was intense and I just wanted to jump his bones. Totally not! The truth sounded way too slutty. She sighed and said, “I haven't known him for very long. But I do know that he's smart and polite and very thoughtful.” And completely gorgeous. Don't forget completely gorgeous.

  “At what point this evening did you first see the victim?”

  The girls glanced at each other. Lex, still cradling Champagne to her chest, shook her head. “We first saw Zahara Bell in the coatroom. She was absolutely dead by the time we got there.”

  Mullen kept writing in his notepad. “Think back now. When you first started running down this corridor, did you see anyone else standing here, or even close by?”

  “I was the first one to run down the corridor,” Madison answered. “I didn't see anybody.”

  “What made you run down this particular corridor? Big museum here. You could've gone down any corridor.”

  The edge of suspicion in Detective Mullen's voice was very slight, but it angered Madison. “We were being chased, for God's sake,” she told him sharply. “When a crazy person is chasing you, the most common reaction is to run away. Don't they teach you that when you become a cop?”

  Detective Mullen dealt her a cold stare. “We're not talking about me here, Ms. Hamilton. We're talking about you—all of you. Where's this paparazzo you're talking about? Where's Jeremy Bleu? A murder has been committed, and I'm not getting very convincing answers from any of you.”

  “We're telling you all we know,” Park said firmly.

  “And how well did you know the victim, Zahara Bell?”

  “We knew of her, and of her stature as the world's greatest fashion editor,” Lex replied. “But none of us had ever met her personally.”

  Detective Mullen flipped through to the front of his notepad. “From what I was told a few minutes ago, your father's company sponsored this gala here tonight. You mean to tell me you invited guests you've never met?”

  Madison sighed. What was the point of trying to explain philanthropy to a cop? It was blue blood versus blue-collar, and the two simply didn't mix. “That's exactly right,” she said. “In our world, Detective Mullen, people can know each other without ever meeting each other.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “That doesn't make sense.”

  “Sure it does,” Madison told him. “You knew my sisters and me before meeting us a few minutes ago, didn't you? That's because we live in the public eye. Same thing with Zahara Bell. I had hoped to meet her tonight, but …”

  “But what?” Detective Mullen asked.

  “But she didn't make it, obviously.” Madison had to shut her eyes against the memory of Zahara Bell's body. She felt even worse when she remembered that the body was still behind that closed coatroom door, with that heinous scarf as its last accessory.

  “So then, I guess you haven't found him yet,” Coco said, breaking the momentary silence.

  “Found who?”

  Coco rolled her eyes. “The killer. Helllooo?”

  Detective Mullen glared down at her. “What makes you so sure the killer is a he?”

  “Oh, come on. Get real.” Coco chuckled.

  “It's totally obvious,” Lex said under her breath.

  Park and Madison nodded firmly.

  “Is that what you girls think?” Detective Mullen said. “You think only men are killers and criminals because of the statistics you've read in some magazine? Well, lemme give you girls a quick lesson—”

  “It has nothing to do with statistics.” Madison cut him off. “It has to do with obvious common sense. And glaring evidence. Zahara Bell's killer was a man. There's no doubt about it.”

  “Of course there isn't,” Park said. “I can't even believe we're discussing this.”

  Detective Mullen crossed his arms over his chest. “What evidence? What the hell are you girls talking about?”

  “Didn't you see the body, Detective?” Lex asked him, her
tone incredulous. “There's an ugly black scarf around Zahara Bell's neck. It doesn't even remotely go with the dress she's wearing. It's not even the right season. It's a mismatch. Only a man could have killed her that way and not noticed how bad it looks. A woman wouldn't have anything like that still out of fall storage.”

  “A hetero man,” Coco chimed in. “I mean, that's important, since we're building a profile of the killer.”

  “Oh, totally,” Madison agreed. “A heterosexual man with no sense of style. The kind of man who wears black loafers with navy blue pants. Or boot-cut jeans with white sneakers. Hideous.”

  Detective Mullen, standing there in black loafers and navy blue pants, didn't say a word.

  “Let me tell you,” Lex said excitedly, “if the killer had been a woman, all the signs—the evidence— would have been a lot sleeker. A scarf like the one around Zahara Bell's neck would not have even entered the picture.”

  “Not one that looks like alpaca,” Coco offered. “Something like raw silk, maybe, or maybe even cashmere.”

  “I would never ruin a cashmere scarf,” Park said. “Especially not if it meant leaving it around some-one's neck. Though I guess if it was completely, noticeably last season …”

  “True, but you get my point.” Lex looked at Detective Mullen. “So you see, it's obvious that we're looking for a male killer. The scarf around Zahara Bell's neck was absolutely not a part of her outfit.”

  Detective Mullen sighed. “And how do you know that for sure, Ms. Hamilton?”

  “Because that dress is my—” Lex bit down hard on her tongue, and the nick of pain made her fingers clench. Champagne barked and squirmed against her chest.

  “That dress is your what?” Detective Mullen asked, taking a step toward her. “Finish your statement, Ms. Hamilton. Do you know something about the dress the victim is wearing? Or about the way in which she was killed?”

  Lex didn't speak. She glanced nervously at Madison, then at Park. Both of them looked pensive. As the silence hung on the air, Lex felt her heartbeat kick up several notches. Shit. Shit. Shit. It was still so damn confusing—her own one-of-a-kind dress on a dead woman's body. She didn't understand it, so how the hell was she supposed to explain it?