On the Avenue

by Antonio Pagliarulo

  The cab came to a stop. Chicky paid and stepped out onto Madison Avenue. Traffic was light for a Saturday morning. He looked down at his legs and checked to make sure the seams of his stockings were straight. Satisfied, he set off on foot, walking at a brisk pace. Only a handful of other pedestrians shot him odd glances. Otherwise, he totally passed for a woman.

  As he approached the building, he stared up at it. Cars zoomed down Fifth Avenue. He turned up Seventy-third Street and walked west. As he reached Fifth, he spotted a news van parked across the way.

  Chicky ambled past the building's front entrance, throwing a hard look inside as he did so. A tall doorman was staring out from behind the doors. That was bad. The guy wasn't at a desk watching TV or reading the paper; instead, he was on alert, eyes wide.

  Damn.

  Chicky continued walking. He went around the block, across Madison, and then up Seventy-third again. This time he stopped when he recognized the building's side-entrance doors. They were shadowed by a small awning. He reached into his purse and retrieved a few of his tools. Quickly, methodically, and with expert hands, he went to work.

  A click.

  A snap.

  A cut.

  A shove.

  Bingo.

  The door budged.

  Laughing to himself, Chicky shook his head. How stupid were these maintenance workers? This big, beautiful, prestigious building was old, and the upkeep was awful. It hadn't taken him more than a minute to get the job done. That was the problem with rich people: they thought they were above everything, even getting robbed and roughed up. Their smug superiority pissed him off. Thinking back on the events of the night, Chicky couldn't contain his rage. How he had fought that group of spoiled kids to get his camera back. How they'd tripped him and sent him flying into the toilet. And how that Hamilton bitch had clocked him over the head and in the gut with her ten-ton purse.

  He hadn't deserved that. He hadn't deserved the humiliation after all his work.

  My camera. My pictures. My money.

  Chicky was glad he had decided to undertake this mission. Next time the Hamilton girls and their haughty friends tried to toss their weight around, they would remember tonight. They would remember the gun against their heads, the tape over their mouths, the fear beating in their chests. Most of all, they'd remember him—Chicky Marsala, paparazzo extraordinaire.

  With a final grunt, he pushed one of the doors open and slipped inside the building. Darkness. A musty smell. He bumped into a cold wall, followed it with his hands for several paces. Then he heard the groan and whine of an elevator overhead and knew he had succeeded in his mission. The rest was gonna be easy. Pinching his fingers around a light switch, he smiled a brilliant smile.

  It was his last one.

  14

  A Killer's Kiss?

  The book's title—Catching Killers: A Journey into the Dark Realm of Homicide Investigations—was scary. The chapter about questioning potential psychos was even scarier. Park read through it with a little tremor in her tummy, chilled by the possibility that she might soon be facing a strangler. She had removed the gold from around her neck. She had also practiced the few kicks and punches she'd learned when kickboxing had been the cardio of the moment. Sitting on the edge of her bed in a ring of lamplight, she tried to memorize the cop techniques as best she could while envisioning a gun at her hip.

  It was a crash course in criminal justice. After slamming her cell phone shut on Jeremy's trembling voice, she had rushed into the library and scoured the volumes; there, on the lowest shelf behind the desk, was Trevor Hamilton's collection of legal literature. Park had grabbed the book hurriedly and flipped through the pages as if her life depended on it. She wasn't an expert, but how hard could it be to get a killer to confess?

  According to the book, a good interrogator always kept her cool and never showed irritation—at least not initially. The beginning stages of interrogation were all about forming a bond with a suspect, softening up his edges so that he'd reveal the truth little by little. As a cop, you weren't supposed to exhibit signs of pity or concern for the perp; good old-fashioned camaraderie worked best. And, of course, you were as good as dead the moment you let your guard down. Criminals had wicked minds: they could see through the slightest bit of weakness and use it to their advantage.

  Park knew what this meant. She was going to have to hide her fears but hold on to her suspicions—not to the point of being downright abrasive, but just enough so that Jeremy would understand her wariness. There was a trick to this, however, and it had everything to do with body language and vocal tone. The book suggested strong posture and an overall dominant demeanor. No twitching. No slouching or yawning. If the perp remained indignant, then an interrogator had to get a little rough with the questioning; this was the “scare tactic,” when every good cop showed her authority and slammed her hands down on the table or jabbed the perp with a sudden accusatory line.

  Setting the book aside, Park got up and began pacing the room. She imagined Jeremy sitting down across from her, his leg bobbing nervously, a line of sweat beading his forehead. So, Jeremy, tell me why you hated Zahara Bell. Jeremy, when did you decide to kill her, and why with that terrible scarf ? She paused before the mirror beside her bureau and practiced her hand gestures. She pointed. She closed her fingers into a fist. She held her palms up and out. Then she added subtle tilts of her head—the left-side serious stare; the chin-pointed-downward look of suspicion. There was a strong chance that the calm and resolved technique wouldn't work on Jeremy, in which case she'd have to pull out the mean method. She practiced it now, whirling around suddenly to face the empty chair at her desk, a cold gleam in her eyes; then she'd stare down at him and scream: You knew you had to kill her, so you did it last night! Isn't that right, punk? Isn't it? Isn't it? She curled her upper lip in a sneer for effect. She was totally good at this.

  As she stood there practicing in the middle of her room, Park got the signal from Clarence—two rings on her cell phone. Time was up. She walked to the door of her bedroom and pressed her ear against it. Silence. Quietly, she stepped into the hall and tiptoed past Madison's room, past the kitchen and dining room. She exited the penthouse as silently as a ghost.

  This was something she had to do on her own, without Madison or Lex hovering nearby, ready to interject their opinions and suspicions. They were excitable by nature and would likely instruct Park simply to call the police and turn Jeremy Bleu in. Wash your hands of it. Sweep the dirt under the flokati rug. The faster the Hamilton name was cleared of this whole pesky murder thing, the better. Park understood that thread of logic perfectly well, but she also knew that getting to the bottom of a crime with such personal ties had to be done … well … personally. The cops would only complicate matters right now. Not involving them meant not involving the press.

  In truth, she didn't want to believe that Jeremy was guilty of anything. She didn't want to believe that her own judgment—sudden though it had been—was flawed and somehow at fault. The first truth: she knew very little about Jeremy. The second truth: it was quite possible that he had a motive for murder. The strongest truth: she was on fire with lust for him. This last realization was the most dangerous one of all.

  Don't let him charm you, she warned herself. Don't melt in his presence. And for God's sake, don't imagine him standing naked in a hot shower.

  She stepped into the elevator and rode it down to the lobby. She checked her reflection in the filmy steel doors, pleased with what she saw. Given the darkness of the last twelve hours, she'd felt compelled to clothe herself in colorful attire. She was dressed in blue J Brand jeans, a bright white Calvin Klein shirt, and her favorite pair of Marc Jacobs ballet flats. A vintage Camerino silk scarf was knotted loosely around her neck, its red and blue tones accentuating her smooth complexion. The outfit was funky and slightly boyish, and she liked that it projected strength and coolness.

  When the elevator opened on the ground floor, she saw Clarence waiting fo
r her. He was still dressed in his black all-purpose uniform. There were deep circles under his eyes, and his face looked sticky and worn.

  Park had given him strict orders to pick Jeremy Bleu up in front of the Pierre. Then Clarence was to personally escort Jeremy into the building and wait for her. Now she was glad to see Clarence. Glad—and a little guilt-ridden. Walking toward him, she smiled and said, “You don't look so good. Are you feeling okay?”

  He shrugged. “A chauffeur's work is never done.” A yawn rose in his jaw, but he clamped it down and shook his head.

  “I'm sorry I had to call you so early,” Park said. “But this was kind of an emergency.”

  “I figured. But is everything okay?”

  “I hope so. So long as the press doesn't get ahold of us yet.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You left here really late last night, and here you are, back again. Go home. Madison and Lex and I are perfectly safe upstairs.”

  He frowned. “Safe? You think so? With your father out of town and the shit hitting the fan, what am I supposed to do? Pretend like I shouldn't be workin' overtime? Someone's gotta look after you girls.”

  She studied him closely and felt a guilty knot in her stomach. She knew her father worked Clarence to the bone, but she wasn't about to do the same thing. “Go home now,” she told him firmly. “There's no reason to stay. If we need you, we'll call.”

  “I think I should—”

  “The conversation is not open for discussion, Clarence. I'm relieving you of your duties right now.”

  He nodded. “Okay.” He cocked his head toward the lobby. “Mr. Pretty Boy is waiting in the conference room, fully out of sight.”

  “How was he on the drive over?”

  “Eh, kinda scared. Looks to me like he's ready to shit a solid gold brick. Why'd you ask him over here so early?”

  Park sighed. “I'll tell you later.” She started to turn around, but then stopped and slipped her right hand into the pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a Cuban cigar and handed it to Clarence. “For your troubles, kind sir. Take a couple of good puffs for me.”

  A broad smile creasing his face, Clarence accepted the cigar, sniffed it lovingly, and then dropped it into the lapel of his blazer. “Thanks, honey.” Yawning, he shuffled past her and headed for the doors.

  Park took a deep breath. She walked toward the lobby, then made a sharp right turn down a narrow adjacent corridor. The conference room was really a small but opulently decorated antechamber that granted residents extra privacy. Away from the welllit lobby, she and Jeremy would have a chance to speak without the threat of eavesdroppers or the overly curious doorman, Steven Hillby. Her heart pounding in her chest, Park wrapped her hands around the doors' handles and licked her lips.

  Don't melt. You have a job to do here. Be smart.

  She threw open the doors.

  And melted.

  Jeremy was standing in the far corner of the windowless room. He was dressed in battered blue jeans and a form-fitting black and gray checkered shirt that she instantly recognized as Michael Kors. His biceps bulged through the delicate fabric. A Yankees baseball cap was pulled forward over his head. He stared at her and smiled broadly. “Hey, you.”

  Just his smile got her. She felt as if a ticklish, cold wind had just blown through her body. You're in danger, she thought, unable to tear her eyes from him. I'm gonna throw you down on that floor and ravish you. But instead of jumping his bones, she tossed her head back and forced herself to assume a rigid posture, as she had read about in the book from her father's library. “Hello, Jeremy,” she said coolly. “Thank you for coming. Please have a seat.” She walked toward him and stopped beside the love seat nearest the door. She indicated the one directly across the glass coffee table.

  He smirked. “What's with the formality?”

  Remember the book, remember the techniques. Don't let your guard down. “I just think it's best if we talk, that's all,” she told him. “We have serious business to discuss here. Like, totally serious things. I won't stand for anything but the truth.”

  “I'm prepared to tell you the truth, Park.”

  “Yes, I understand. Now, tell me, when did you first meet Zahara Bell?”

  He sighed. “Listen, all this isn't really important. I know what you're thinking.”

  “Interesting. The first time you met her, did she ask you a lot of questions? Maybe you told her a little more than you wanted to?”

  “Park, I don't get what you're saying.” He looked at her with questioning eyes. “I wanna explain to you how my scarf ended up around Zahara Bell's neck.”

  “Right. Did you strangle her first and then put her in that cocktail dress? You know, there's really no point in trying to talk yourself out of this, Jeremy. Forensics experts always find evidence at a crime scene.” She paused and cleared her throat. She remembered a particular passage from the book and said, “Did you know that eighty-nine percent of homicides in New York City are solved, and the matter of guilt or innocence adjudicated by the courts?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he snapped. “Park, you sound like some robot. I came here because I want to—”

  Her back wasn't to him, so she had to whirl around twice to project the whole scare tactic thing; this gave her an extra second to pull the cold look up into her eyes. “Admit it!” she shouted. “You followed Zahara Bell when she came into the Met and forced her into the coatroom. There was a struggle. You took the scarf off your neck and you—”

  Without a word, Jeremy strode toward her in two steps, hooked his hands around her waist, and locked his lips on hers.

  Park tried to feign shock and disapproval, giving little squeals of protest, but her attempts proved futile. She was consumed in an instant, swept up in a dizzying haze of desire. She slid her hands along his arms and dug her fingers into his thick shoulders. The kiss exploded on all of her senses, and in the midst of the stars and fireworks, she saw an image of the Avenue diamond sparkling in the morning sky. It was a revelatory experience, for there wasn't another guy in the world whose kiss had the power to induce glorious visions of jewelry.

  She broke away from him with a tremor. She turned her head, wanting to avoid his gaze. There were words to speak, movements to make, but the heat between them was like a vortex, sucking every last drop of energy from the air. She waited for Jeremy to say something. Instead, he grazed his lips against her cheek.

  Don't melt, you moron.

  As the voiced echoed in her head, Park extricated herself from his embrace, pushing him gently away with the palm of her hand. “Stop,” she said breathlessly.

  Jeremy stared at her. “What's wrong?”

  “Everything's wrong.” She closed her eyes and forced the dizziness away. She inhaled deeply. When she at last regained her composure, she looked him squarely in the eyes. “I didn't ask you here to make out. I asked you here because you ditched me last night. Because you didn't even have the decency to show up here. Because—”

  “Show up here?” he interjected with a chuckle. “You kidding? How? There were reporters everywhere. There still are. You know what that's like, Park. You know I couldn't rush over here and play the knight in shining armor.”

  “And why's that?” she snapped. “Because you have to protect your pretty face?”

  “Because I have to protect my career. I want to avoid a scandal as much as you and Madison and Lex do.”

  “Too late for that. It's all over the papers already. You should've stayed with us last night and acted like a man. Why did you disappear?”

  “I told you why.”

  “No, you didn't.”

  “I took off because I got scared.”

  “Because you're a wimp is more like it! How do you think we all felt standing there with the cops and the cameras on us?”

  “Okay, fine. I can say it—I acted like a pussy. There. You happy now?”

  “Ugh.” She splayed a hand over her chest. “So crude you are. So crude. But then, I guess I und
erstand why you were wearing the murder weapon, after all.” A little cheer went up in her stomach. She'd hit him right in his safe-deposit box—and she could tell he was hurting.

  He closed his eyes, looking as though he had just seen something awful. “But I didn't kill Zahara Bell.”

  “And what about the diamond?” Park said quickly, ignoring him. “Where is it? I know you don't make twenty million a movie yet, and I have a certain feeling that you might be in some sort of financial trouble.” She couldn't say I know Zahara Bell was writing something about your lost millions because it would mean admitting that she, Madison, and Lex had broken into the town house.

  Jeremy stared at her blankly. “I don't know what you're talking about. What diamond?”

  “The Avenue diamond. Several cool millions on the black market. Is that why you killed her?”

  Laughing, Jeremy lowered himself into the love seat. He stared up at her, fearlessly amused. “I know what you're doing, Park. You're stalling because you don't know what else to say. You know I didn't kill Zahara Bell or steal some diamond. And why the fuck do you care about some million-dollar rock, Miss One Billion Bucks?”

  “One point seven billion,” she corrected him. “Now tell me how the hell your scarf ended up around her neck.”

  The smile disappeared from Jeremy's face. He looked down at his hands. “Last night, after I gave my speech at the gala, I went outside to use the bathroom. Sometime between leaving the bathroom and going back into the ballroom, the scarf slipped off— which, I might add, happens to people a lot.”

  Park's eyebrows raised. “So then you're telling me that someone else—the killer—picked your scarf up off the floor and used it to kill Zahara Bell.”

  “That's what I'm telling you. I know it sounds like a bullshit excuse, but it's the truth. And when I saw it around Zahara Bell's neck and realized it was mine, I panicked. I full-on freaked. All I could think about was a scandal, a trial, then jail.” He pulled off the baseball cap, releasing his mass of scraggly waves. “I didn't know what else to do.”