On the Avenue

by Antonio Pagliarulo

  Madison nodded. She gave herself a once-over in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that hung to the right of the closet. In the dark, and from a distance, the ugly getup worked: she resembled a fifteen-year-old boy. She turned around and faced her sisters. “You two can't go out looking like yourselves,” she said firmly. “Go and try to make yourselves ugly.”

  Lex ran a hand through her hair and stepped in front of the mirror. She pouted her lips in a mock kiss. “Is that really possible? I mean, look at me.”

  Park rolled her eyes, pulling Lex with her as she strode out of the bedroom and into the corridor. “I'll bring a weapon,” she said calmly over her shoulder. “Just in case someone tries to kill us.”

  As those ominous words swirled around her, Madison felt a nervous tremor rip through her stomach. She tasted the thick, chalky milk-and-champagne mixture at the back of her throat. And when the burp shot past her lips—frighteningly loud, dangerously sharp—she wondered if they would need a weapon after all.

  9

  West Goes South

  Theo was trying hard to keep up with Annabelle. They were fully entangled in Calvin Klein sheets, but his body wasn't responding as swiftly as it usually did. What on earth was the matter with him? Instead of enjoying the moment, he kept glancing around the dimly lit splendor of Annabelle's bedroom, hoping the answer to his problem would pop up on one of the walls.

  “Oh, Theo, you're so hot,” she cooed. “I knew the moment I saw you that we were meant to be together.” Annabelle was pretty in an odd sort of way. Her eyes were intense and exuded emotion, but it was her body that attracted attention from nearly every guy in school.

  Theo smiled. He closed his eyes. He tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Unfortunately, nothing was happening. The electric tingle of arousal was alive and well in his brain, but the lower half of his body simply couldn't respond. Sex was by far his favorite pastime and he had enough testosterone in his blood to fill a football stadium. Why the hell was his equipment stalling?

  “Theo?” Annabelle whispered. She could tell that something was wrong.

  He opened his eyes and forced himself to study every inch of the pure hotness before him, but the moment was as good as dead. Finally, with an irritated sigh, he rolled onto his back.

  Annabelle sat up. A worried expression played on her face. She smoothed a hand over his chest, tracing a playful little circle. “What's wrong?”

  “I don't know,” Theo replied through gritted teeth. “I think maybe I'm just tired. Plus I'm kind of stressed.”

  “It was a crazy night. I don't blame you for feeling out of sorts.”

  In truth, he felt like a failed fireman: Annabelle's flames were burning, but his hose was out of order.

  This was supposed to happen to old guys in their thirties and forties, not to a healthy, virile sixteen-year-old like him. Shit, what if Annabelle mentioned to her girlfriends that he couldn't perform? The word would spread through the halls of St. Cecilia's Prep faster than a fierce winter wind. West is a softie. West can't please the ladies. West went south. It was every guy's worst nightmare.

  He tore his eyes from the vaulted ceiling and stared around the bedroom aimlessly. The walls were creamy white, the moldings pink. Elaborately framed pictures created a chronological display of Annabelle's life, from the day she was born right up to last month, when she won a gold medal in a gymnastics competition. Cute. Traditional. Warm and toasty for a duplex apartment that faced Columbus Avenue and not Central Park West.

  The Christensen family was big money, but not huge money. The Christensen furniture line was sold in various retail outlets all over North America, grossing slightly over one hundred million dollars annually. As far as Theo was concerned, it wasn't an empire by any stretch of the imagination. His family had built an empire. His family warranted international attention. That photographers chased him frequently was no surprise. He wondered what his parents would say if they knew he was courting a Christensen. His mother, Renee, would likely disapprove; she'd smile and nod and run a hand through her perfectly blownout hair before saying something like: Annabelle's darling, isn't she? But don't be fooled by girls from economically challenged families, Theo. She probably sees your fortune and not your beautiful mind.

  He turned and looked at her just as she reached onto the nightstand for her pack of Nat Shermans. “Hey, gimme one of those,” he said. Pinching the thin brown cigarette in his fingers, he lit it, took a long drag, and exhaled. Then he sat up.

  Annabelle wrapped her arm around his shoulders, pressing her naked body against his. “Tell me what's wrong, Theo. I know you're out of it.”

  He nodded slowly. The cigarette was menthol, and the hint of mint reminded him of the cloves he used to smoke back when he was a freshman. “I'm pretty freaked about what happened tonight,” he said. “Just to think that we were standing in the same building where a murder took place …it freaks me out.”

  “Me too. I always wanted to meet Zahara Bell. I totally worshipped her style. Tell me about her, Theo.”

  He cut Annabelle a short stare. “I never really knew her.”

  “But … you told me you did on our first date,” Annabelle said with certainty. “I asked you about her because I knew your father's company published the first magazine she worked for—Women's Style. Right? I asked what Zahara Bell was like and you said she was pretty cool. Don't you remember?”

  Theo remembered. He remembered and at the same time cursed his big mouth. Why had he told Annabelle that? Well, duh. To impress her. To get into her red lace Agent Provocateur panties. It had worked. He took another long puff of the cigarette and said, “Zahara Bell wasn't really that cool. In fact, she was a royal bitch. There're probably a lot of people secretly applauding the guy who killed her.”

  “Theo!” Annabelle shouted, drawing away from him. “That's pretty sick. The woman was killed, for God's sake.”

  “Sick or not, it happens to be true.”

  Annabelle was silent, the cigarette smoldering between her fingers. She stubbed it out in the ashtray hidden behind her lamp. “What did Zahara Bell ever do to you?”

  As the words circled him, Theo recalled the numerous occasions in which he'd had the distinct misfortune of being in Zahara's presence. Back in February, he had attended the Hugo Boss menswear fashion show with his father, Richard West, president and CEO of West International, LLC. As Theo and Richard went to take their seats in the front row, they'd spotted Zahara coming toward them. Richard had stood there, thinking she was going to kiss his cheek in front of the press and make one of those superficial displays of affection that always ended up in the Sunday Style section of the New York Times. But instead of fussing over them, Zahara paused, lowered her sunglasses just enough to peer over the rims, and said to Theo and Richard, “Those seats you're sitting in are taken by my guests. I think you should try the second row.” Then she turned around and started gabbing on her cell phone. Theo and Richard, utterly humiliated and shocked, had crept into the second row to watch the show. But the worst part was that queen gossip columnist Cindy Adams had witnessed the entire exchange, and wrote it up the next day in the New York Post. Theo had despised Zahara Bell ever since.

  Now he looked at Annabelle. “She did plenty to disrespect my family,” he said. “And she was on her way to disrespecting it more. She's better off dead.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Shit, Theo thought. My big fucking mouth. “Eh, what difference does it make now? She's gone. It's just a shame that it all happened tonight, at the gala. Poor Madison Hamilton did a lot of work to make that event a success.”

  Annabelle gasped. “Poor Madison? Since when do you care if shit hits her fan? Are you the only one who doesn't know that your family and her family hate each other?”

  Theo sighed. He ran a hand over his face and wished he had a bottle of Stoli at his fingertips.

  “What I meant is that it's a shame all her work was ruined. She doesn't deserve that. No one does.”
/>   “Since when do you care about her so much?”

  “Since always.” The words slipped out. Now he bit down on his tongue.

  With a violent jerk of her hand, Annabelle pulled the bedsheet off Theo and wrapped it around her body, leaving him entirely exposed to the elements.

  Theo dropped the cigarette into the glass of water on the nightstand beside him, then reached down and scooped his silk Dior Homme boxers from the floor. He slipped them on. He didn't want to face Annabelle because he knew her mouth would be set in an unattractive angry scowl. But after several moments of strained silence, he turned his head toward her.

  “You like her, don't you?” Annabelle spat.

  “Who?”

  “Madison Hamilton. I saw the way you kept checking her out tonight, looking at her like she's some sort of goddess. The whole time we were dancing, you kept sneaking peeks in her direction.”

  Theo didn't respond. He couldn't respond. Annabelle's stinging words rang hopelessly true.

  “Answer me!” she demanded. “Do you like her?”

  “Come on, Annabelle. Let's not do this. You're to tally overreacting.”

  She hopped off the bed and onto her feet. Her cheeks were red with rage. “Mads. That's what you called her tonight. I heard it. Is that some sort of endearing nickname? A little secret between the two of you?”

  “No, of course not. There's nothing between us,” Theo lied. He half-kneeled on the edge of the bed, one hand splayed over his chest, his head cocked to one side. It was the sexy pose that had always managed to drive Annabelle wild with lust. But this time out, he was losing the battle.

  “I guess the rumors are true!” she ranted. “The ones about you and Madison and your little forbidden fling!”

  Theo started as though he'd been slapped. His heart was hammering in his chest. “Where did you hear a stupid thing like that?”

  “Kelly Peabody told Rebecca Plexer and Stephanie Gilston that she saw you and Madison kissing in the empty gymnasium at school. Then Stephanie told Marcia Killian, who told Aidan Cryer, and Aidan told me.” She tightened the sheet around her body in a gesture of satisfied defiance.

  “Oh, please!” Theo said. “Aidan is gayer than Broadway. He gets off on any gossip about me. He gets off just thinking about me.”

  “Ha!” Annabelle scoffed. “Don't kid yourself. Aidan happens to be dating Marcus Kinney right now, and Marcus is way hotter than you.”

  Theo's jaw clenched. He grabbed his slate-gray Armani tuxedo pants and still pristine white shirt from the floor and pulled them on sloppily. “I'm not gonna stick around if you're just gonna insult me,” he said with a sneer.

  Annabelle's eyes glassed over with tears. “Is that where you went tonight when you left me alone at the gala for ten whole minutes?” she asked him. “Did you go outside the ballroom and talk to Madison?”

  “What?” Theo said sharply. And he knew, an instant after the word escaped his lips, that he'd spoken it too quickly, and too nervously. How the hell had Annabelle even noticed he was gone? He had left her carefully and strategically, while she'd been immersed in conversation with Kelly Peabody and Rebecca Plexer at the President's Table. He had slipped out of the ballroom just as Jeremy Bleu took the stage; the guests were staring up at the young superstar, their eyes definitely not on Theo as he'd made his exit.

  But Annabelle had noticed. She knew he'd been gone for ten minutes.

  Shit.

  “Annabelle,” he said calmly, “I …I didn't leave the room. I just went to the bar to get myself a drink.”

  “Liar!” she screamed. “I saw you leave the room, Theo. I might've been talking to Kelly and Rebecca, but I saw you leave. Ten whole minutes. Was that enough time to talk with poor Madison?”

  “I didn't talk to her,” he blurted out. “Please—stop saying I left the room. You can't say that.”

  Annabelle stared at him, silent and tense. Her eyes, though brimming with tears, lit up reflectively.

  Please don't say it, Theo thought. Please don't let that steel trap of a mind of yours kick in.

  “You're right,” she finally whispered. “You couldn't have been talking to Madison because Madison was standing next to Jeremy Bleu as he made his little speech.”

  Crap. Theo licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. He didn't know what to say. He could spew out some silly lie, but he knew Annabelle would see right through it. That was the bad thing about dating an incredibly smart and observant girl: you were screwed even when you weren't getting screwed.

  Annabelle took a deep, slow breath. The sheet had gone loose around her chest, and she hiked it up slowly, never taking her eyes from Theo's face. “What did you mean when you said Zahara Bell was better off dead?”

  “Oh, Jesus, Annabelle,” Theo snapped. “You're not seriously asking me that. You're not seriously thinking anything stupid, are you?”

  “Tell me what you were doing for ten minutes. If it's not a secret, you shouldn't have anything to worry about.”

  “You wanna know?” Theo said, throwing up his hands. “Okay then. Fine. Great. I'll tell you. Here's the big mystery—I went to the bathroom. That mysterious enough for you?”

  Annabelle didn't move. “Who did you see on your way out, or even inside the bathroom? Or better yet, who saw you? There had to have been someone, Theo. And don't tell me I wouldn't know the person, because we know all the same people.”

  “No one, Annabelle. No one saw me. My bad luck.” He shook his head. He felt his cheeks burning. “So what are you saying? That you think I left the gala, killed Zahara Bell, and then came back and danced with you? Is that what you're saying?”

  “I didn't say it. You did. And you also said that Zahara Bell had disrespected your family, and that she's better off dead. Why don't you explain yourself?”

  Theo turned around and shoved his feet into his shoes. “I didn't think I had to explain myself,” he said quietly. “I was under the impression that you cared enough about me to trust me. And what the hell difference does it matter if Madison Hamilton and I ever had a fling? Even if it's true—and I'm not saying it is—it's in the past.”

  “Well, dammit, Theo. I just don't believe you.” She wiped a tear from her eye but continued staring at him. “And you still won't answer my question. Where were you for those ten minutes? Why did you hate Zahara Bell so much? Is there something about her and her connection to your family that you're not telling me?”

  Theo couldn't contain the rage that fired his eyes.

  “Don't ever say stupid things like that—especially not in public,” he seethed. “And don't go around telling people that you think I disappeared for ten minutes while we were at the gala, because no one will believe you. It's your family name against mine, and there's no room for competition between us.”

  Annabelle took a big step back, bunching the sheet up around her entire body as though seeking warmth from a sudden, stinging chill. “You're lucky my parents aren't home, or my father would kick your arrogant ass. Maybe I should just tell the police I know who the killer is. How about that?”

  He was silent, his head aching.

  “Get out!” Annabelle finally screamed.

  “Fine!” Theo whirled around and stormed out of the bedroom and out of the apartment. His heart was whacking against his ribs. He was trembling like a virgin on prom night.

  Outside, he walked up Columbus Avenue, feeling cold and exposed. With a sigh of frustration, he realized that he'd left his tux jacket in Annabelle's bedroom. Fine. Let her keep it. He was too disgusted—and too frightened—to care.

  A cab skidded to a stop at the next corner. Theo climbed in and cursed his big mouth and his bad luck. As he cradled his head in his hands, it occurred to him that losing Annabelle also meant losing his only alibi.

  10

  The Hunt

  Headlights were the enemy.

  Lex stood at the corner of Third Avenue and Seventy-sixth Street, nervously eyeing the traffic. She tensed every time a car slowed
down. She feared being spotted as the bright beams cut through the night and momentarily illuminated the sidewalk. Would anyone recognize the famous face hidden beneath the outrageous getup?

  It was past midnight. The streets were bustling. People were walking east and west and police sirens sounded in the distance. She felt strange in the purple Betsey Johnson ankle-length skirt and white Donna Karan tank top; she felt even stranger with the black silk scarf draped over her head and across the front of her face. Nothing matched. Nothing accentuated the curves of her body. Silver rings lined her fingers, and several gold chains clinked at her neck whenever she moved. The look was ghetto-gypsy.

  She had worked fast to create the new identity, running around her closet, pulling clothes off hangers, checking and rechecking her appearance in the mirror. Then she and Madison and Park had convened in the living room, mapped out their plan, and taken the elevator down to the lobby. They had rushed toward the building's side entrance at breakneck speed and avoided the front doors. Reporters were parked on Fifth Avenue and embedded in Central Park. No easy way out. They had decided on timing their respective escapes at exactly seven minutes apart. The corner of Third Avenue and Seventysixth Street was the designated meeting spot.

  In the beginning, Lex had managed to keep her cool. Now she was totally scared. Standing out here in the so-not-her-style outfit, she felt vulnerable and exposed to danger. She kept thinking of the text message—three minus one is much more fun—and wondering if a killer was hanging out nearby. It wasn't such a silly thought, considering the fact that Zahara Bell had been murdered in a museum filled with people. She hated seeing that violent image flash before her eyes. And she hated knowing that she was somehow connected to the murder. Once the story hit the papers, the whole world would associate her clothing line with a corpse. Not the best way to launch a new brand.

  So maybe it was a good idea to grab the shoes by the heels and bust into Zahara Bell's town house. Lex hadn't agreed with it an hour ago, but now she was beginning to understand Park's point. They couldn't just sit in the penthouse and let the fire rage around them.