On the Avenue

by Antonio Pagliarulo

  “Ms. Hamilton?” Detective Mullen prodded. “You wanna speak up?”

  “It's… well …” Her voice trailed off. She gulped. “It's just that the victim, Zahara Bell, is wearing my dress.” Even as the words rolled off her tongue, Lex couldn't help noticing how ridiculous they sounded. Ridiculous. Stupid. And impossible. But nonetheless true.

  “What? What did you just say?” Detective Mullen looked as if he'd been slammed in his baseballs with a really big bat. “You'd better start explaining that one!”

  Lex gave him the abbreviated version: the Triple Threat fashion line; her own gorgeous designs; original pieces that were all hanging in her private closet back home. No one could have gotten their hands on them. Very few people even knew she was about to launch her own line, and so she had no idea how Zahara Bell had snagged that particular dress. Fair enough?

  Flushing a vibrant and highly unattractive shade of red, Detective Mullen began scribbling a series of notes onto his pad. He wrote and wrote. His fingers moved across the pages furiously. After what felt like five minutes, he trained his eyes on Lex. “Tell me something, Ms. Hamilton … when did you report this theft to the police?”

  “Theft? I never reported any theft because I didn't know the dress was missing until I saw it on the body,” Lex told him.

  “So you never look in your closet at home?”

  “I go into my closet all the time, Detective. But I can't see everything that's in it at one time.” Lex stared at him, exasperated. “My closet at home is about ten times the size of that horrible little coatroom. I wore the dress we're talking about a long time ago and it never occurred to me to look for it in my closet. But that's definitely it.”

  “So then, who do you think broke into your apartment and stole it from your closet?” Mullen asked, an edge of sarcasm in his tone. “Do you think the victim, Ms. Bell, was a thief?”

  Madison sighed loudly. “Why are you asking us police-related questions? It's your job to investigate.”

  “And that's exactly what I'm doing. As it stands now, the victim is clothed in a dress that was hanging in your home. You all happened to find her body. You girls are also hosting this event. And …” Mullen flipped to the last page of his pad without taking his eyes off them. “And one of you has a penchant for jewelry. An interesting mix, if you ask me.”

  Park cleared her throat. “What does my penchant for jewelry have to do with anything?”

  “Oh. Didn't you know?” Mullen asked a little too coyly. “Zahara Bell was wearing the Avenue diamond tonight, and now it's missing. Torn right from her neck, apparently.”

  “The Avenue diamond!” Park shouted, her eyes bulging. “The Avenue diamond?”

  “Holy shit,” Coco whispered.

  “Yes,” Mullen replied. “The Avenue diamond. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Ms. Hamilton?”

  Park bit down on her lip. Instead of launching into a roll call of facts about the miraculous and stupendous Avenue diamond—or its personal connection to the Hamilton family—she said, “We had nothing to do with this murder, Detective. We were all just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “You expect me to believe that?” Mullen's voice rose. “You girls expect me to believe any of this? It's obvious that this isn't a simple coincidence, and I think it's despicable that you would try to use your celebrity to weasel your way out of this. It's also apparent that there's a lot about this crime you're not telling me.”

  Madison gasped. As Detective Mullen's words echoed through the corridor, her jaw dropped, her eyes flashed, and her shoulders stiffened squarely. “How dare you speak to us that way!” she snapped. “My sisters and I are not going to stand here and allow you to try to drag us through the mud because you don't want to do your job and find the man who killed Zahara Bell. That's what's apparent.”

  “Our publicists will tear the whole police department apart when they get wind of this,” Lex added.

  Mullen laughed at that. “Your publicists? Go home and tell your daddy to call some lawyers, not publicists. That's what you girls will need. Good lawyers.”

  “Fine,” Park replied calmly. “Does that mean we're free to go?”

  “For now, yes.” Mullen flipped his notepad shut. “But I'll be speaking to all of you tomorrow.”

  As Mullen turned to go, Madison, Park, Lex, and Coco watched two uniformed officers emerge from the coatroom, rolling the stretcher that held Zahara Bell's body neatly zipped in a body bag. Gasps echoed through the corridor. The chatter of voices filled the air.

  “Gross,” Coco said, cupping a hand over her mouth.

  They all turned their eyes toward the crowd. Suddenly, a figure began moving through it, pushing his way to the front. It was Theo West. And despite the chaos of the moment—his wavy hair was scraggly, his face was sweaty—he looked hot.

  Madison froze as he came striding in her direction.

  “I just heard what happened,” he said quietly, standing very close to her. “I just can't believe it.”

  Madison nodded dumbly. She caught a whiff of his cologne and felt as though her knees would buckle. But instead of melting at his feet, she threw her head back and bravely met his eyes. “Neither can we,” she answered. “It's tragic.”

  “Are you okay? You weren't hurt or anything, were you?” His right hand came up and landed softly on her shoulder.

  The motion, Madison realized, was involuntary. She felt his fingers hot against the side of her neck, and his thumb swished along her skin in a gesture that was unconsciously tender. She lost herself in the moment. She lost herself in his eyes. Everything around her disappeared and suddenly there was only the two of them. There was the memory of their last, secret kiss and the electric tingle of his touch.

  “Mads?” he whispered. “You okay?”

  “I'm fine.” She tore her eyes away from him and shrugged.

  “We're all fine,” Lex chimed in, butting her head in between them. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Jesus, Lex, you don't have to be so cold.” Theo stared at her. “I was just about to ask if you were all okay.”

  “I'm totally sure you were.” Lex rolled her eyes.

  “Hey,” Park said, stepping in between them. “Theo, you knew Zahara Bell personally, didn't you? I mean, wasn't she at a magazine owned by the publishing division of your father's company a few years ago?”

  The silence that fell between them was palpable.

  Theo's cheeks grew red. “I never met her,” he said with a sneer. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get going.” And with that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving the girls in a tense group.

  “Listen,” Coco said nervously, “I'm gonna bounce. I have to get home and call my folks.”

  “Go,” Lex told her. “We'll call you later.”

  Madison and Park were already facing the crowd. Lex joined them, all too aware that they would have to walk through it with their heads held high. Side by side they went forward, into the storm, and a dozen cameras started flashing. Against the glare of the white lights, people eyed them curiously and began to whisper.

  The Hamilton triplets. A murder. Front-page news.

  It was official: the biggest scandal of their lives had broken wide open.

  6

  Bust It Like Becker

  Exhaling the last smooth, smoky stream of his Cuban cigar, Clarence Becker leaned up against the driver's-side door of the Mercedes limousine and stared across Fifth Avenue. The Met was always lit up at night, but right now it looked like a runway strip at the airport. Police cruisers lined the west side of the street. News vans waited in the shadows of Central Park. The scene was chaotic, and little packs of reporters kept popping out of cabs and news vans to cover the big story unfolding inside the museum.

  Clarence had heard something about it on the radio an hour ago—a fashion lady found dead. Big fucking deal. She was probably one of those bitchy types with a stick of dynamite up her ass. Media was making
it into headline news just because she had a couple of bucks. Hell, where he came from, crimes were really violent. Clarence had been born and raised in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, the only non-Italian kid in a neighborhood of mobsters. He was seven the first time he heard gunshots booming in the night. Nine the first time he saw a body. He remembered it like it was yesterday: old man Randazzo sprawled on the pavement in front of DeCicco's Restaurant, riddled with bullets and practically floating in blood. Lots of wiseguys had ended up on the meat rack back in the neighborhood, and more than half of them never even made the papers, let alone the television.

  Clarence shook his head. It was all about dollar signs in this world. You could buy anything if you flashed the greens. Being a chauffeur for the Hamilton family these past few years had proven that much. Clarence had seen Trevor Hamilton slide his way out of a hundred sticky situations by simply reaching into his wallet. Same for the girls, although Lex was more prone to use money to get her way than Madison or Park. Thinking of them now, Clarence smirked. They were a handful, but they could also be a sweet and cute little trio. They had never uttered a nasty word to him or acted like bitches. They had never made him feel like the poor schlep he was. In fact, they seemed to actually respect him in a fatherly sort of way. It was shockingly pleasant. As far as he was concerned, Madison, Park, and Lex were more than just his bosses. They were more than just celebutantes too. In that hidden and totally unmacho corner of his heart, Clarence felt a certain fondness for them. Playing the role of bodyguard wasn't in his job description, but he couldn't help being overly protective of the girls. He looked out for them. He kept their secrets. And he knew every one of their crazy antics.

  He scanned the front steps of the museum again. He was parked across the street, directly in front of the Stanhope, and had a bird's-eye view of the activity. What the hell was going on in there? He didn't like the idea of the girls being in the middle of all this chaos. Lots of crazy people walking around. If the girls didn't come out soon, he was going to have to push his way inside and kick some serious ass. He knew they weren't in any imminent danger, but a few more minutes and one of these nosy reporters would figure out who he was and start badgering him. It always happened that way. Got a question about someone famous? Ask the chauffeur! Clarence scowled at the very thought of a microphone being shoved in his face. Any of those pencil pushers so much as approached him, they'd have his fist for dinner.

  He was about to get back into the limo when something caught his eye. There was activity up near the entrance of the museum. One set of wide doors yawned open, and out came several uniformed cops. They strolled down the front steps into waiting cruisers without so much as glancing up at the reporters screaming after them. Other people came streaming out the doors too, well-dressed people who were being ushered down the south side stairs to waiting cabs. Damn reporters were calling out questions and flashing pictures.

  And then Madison appeared way up at the top of the stairs, followed by Lex and Park.

  The reporters began shouting in a frenzy.

  From where he was standing across the street, Clarence could just make out Madison's gown. He squinted and watched as they began descending the stairs. They looked confused, exchanging glances as they navigated their way out of the museum. Whistling, Clarence went and stood directly in front of the limo. He waved his hands in the air. But it was no good. The commotion had reached a fever pitch, and his signals disappeared behind a wave of flashes. One more minute and the girls would be swarmed by the media vultures.

  Whirling around, Clarence jumped into the limo, gunned the engine, and skidded across the avenue in a diagonal line. He jumped out onto the street and motioned for the girls.

  It was Lex who saw him. Her face lit up and she grabbed Park, who in turn latched on to Madison. They flew down the steps in a sloppy, stumbling chain. But just before they hit the sidewalk, four reporters cut a path in front of them and started belting out questions.

  “Shit,” Clarence muttered, instantly angered.

  “Lexington!” one of the reporters screamed. “Did you see the body?”

  “Did you see Zahara Bell before she was killed?”

  “Madison, what do you have to say about the gala?”

  “Lex, is it true that Zahara was found dead in a dress you designed?”

  “Park, did you and Jeremy Bleu come to the gala together? Are you a couple?”

  On and on the questions came, circling on the air like a bad smell. Just hearing them made Clarence's blood boil. He stomped onto the sidewalk and, in one swift motion, shoved the first two reporters out of the way. “Watch it!” he growled. “Move your asses!” He grabbed ahold of Lex and pulled her forward, elbowing another reporter in the ribs as he did so. He popped the back door of the limo and ushered the girls inside as cameras flashed in his face. Then he ran around to the driver's side, climbed in, and slammed the door shut.

  It was silent inside the limo. Clarence took a deep breath. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He turned around slowly.

  The girls were staring back at him, breathless and stunned.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked.

  The reporters had pushed up against the tinted windows, their voices muffled but determined.

  Madison sat up, her eyes wide. “Becker!” she cried. “Bust it out of here!”

  “Yes, ma'am!” Throwing the limo into gear, Clarence slammed his foot on the gas and shot into traffic. He kept his eyes trained on the busy stretch of Fifth Avenue that lay ahead. Too many cars. Too many red lights. The paparazzi were probably already trailing the limo in one of their vans.

  “Don't take us back home!” Lex said. “They'll all be waiting for us there!”

  “I know,” Clarence shouted back at her, keeping his hands on the wheel. “Girls, fasten those seat belts! Looks like we've got company.” He shot a glance in the rearview mirror and spotted two vans cutting crazily through the traffic.

  “Here we go,” Park said with a sigh.

  “Becker, you have to lose them!” Madison yelled. “We can't answer any more questions or appear in any more pictures. This is insane!”

  Clarence nodded. Just ahead, a bus was pulling away from its stop, veering quickly into the middle lane. He floored the accelerator.

  The limo shook.

  The girls screamed.

  Champagne barked and yipped in Lex's arms.

  Gripping the wheel tightly, Clarence shot past the bus, narrowly missing its bumper. In the rearview mirror he saw one of the vans skid to a stop. “Ha!” he said. “We lost one of 'em. One more to go!”

  “I'm gonna be sick,” Lex mumbled. “I hate highspeed chases.”

  Clarence watched in the mirror as the second van, still two blocks behind, cut into the left lane and gained speed. He kept his foot heavy on the metal. He weaved through the traffic smoothly, dodging cabs and cars and a horse-drawn carriage. At the corner of Sixty-eighth Street, he swung a right and sped across Central Park. The narrow lane cutting across to the West Side was mercifully clear. Clarence checked the rearview mirror again and smiled when he didn't see the gleam of the van's headlights. Goddamn photographers. Little shits would sell their own grandmothers for a snap of the lens. He continued driving way above the speed limit, not slowing down until he reached the West Side and the busy intersection at Broadway. He turned right and eased into the traffic. Then he cleared his throat and said, “You girls mind telling me what the hell's going on?”

  “To give you the abbreviated version, we're suspects in a murder investigation,” Park told him calmly.

  Clarence gasped and nearly lost control of the limo. “What? Are you shittin' me?”

  “Only about fifty percent,” Madison said. “But it's obvious the cops are going to try and pin some of this on us.” She gave a quick rundown, telling him about Lex's dress, the scarf around Zahara Bell's neck, and the psycho photographer.

  “Wait a minute,” Clarence cut in, panic rising in his voice. “You mean som
eone broke into the penthouse and went into Lex's closet? That's impossible!”

  “Apparently it isn't,” Lex replied. “I never leave my pieces anywhere but my bedroom closet. How the hell it got on Zahara Bell's body is anybody's guess.”

  “Do any of you even care that the Avenue diamond is missing?” Park nearly wailed. She threw her arms up in a gesture of desperation, then sighed dramatically.

  Glancing in the rearview, Clarence saw that her eyes had gone glassy. God knew, he had heard the story of the Avenue diamond and its almost mythical connection to the Hamilton family a dozen times. He wished there were something reassuring he could say, but words eluded him.

  “Of course we care,” Madison said softly. “But the diamond isn't really our biggest concern here.”

  “The hell it isn't!” Park shot back. “Do you know what'll happen to this city if the diamond isn't found? Do you know what might happen to us? It's the reason the three of us even exist, let me remind you.”

  Lex rolled her eyes. “We don't need reminding, thanks.”

  There wasn't a single person on earth who needed reminding. Everyone knew the story of Venturina Baci and the Avenue diamond. The night she'd worn it in public—one of the few celebrities ever allowed to do so— was the very night she and Trevor Hamilton had conceived their daughters. While pregnant, Venturina spoke publicly about the diamond's unimaginable beauty—and its mystical powers. It was no ordinary rock. The legend, she told reporters, was absolutely true. Just before her twentieth birthday, doctors had told Venturina that she would never be able to have children because of a rare genetic defect, but then she wore the diamond to a premiere and got a little frisky with her husband and bam: babies on the way. Coincidence? She thought not. And in honor of the triple blessing the Avenue diamond had bestowed upon her, Venturina promised to name her daughters accordingly.