On the Avenue

by Antonio Pagliarulo

  She turned and stared at the wide expanse of her bedroom. She hadn't noticed anything out of place recently. Nothing else was missing. She faced the closet again and walked to the opposite side of the moving rack. To her left were the cedar shelves that held her shoes. To the right of those were the shelves that held her accessories. The shelf piled high with scarves was messier than the rest, as if it had been rifled through. And it had, Lex realized, remembering the pink scarf tied around Chicky Marsala's neck.

  Damn you, mystery man. When the hell did you do this?

  Exasperated, she dropped to her knees and began crawling around, scraping her hands gently over the carpet in search of clues. She had seen the detectives on the cop shows go about crime-solving this way. According to prime-time TV, criminals always left traces of themselves when doing their business. She didn't have a magnifying glass or one of those feathery fingerprint-finding tools, but there was no time to worry about that now. She wanted answers. She wanted a swift resolution to this messy murder problem.

  She moved her fingers back and forth over the carpet, pinching at the fibers. The immediate area was clean. Refusing to give up, she knotted her hair in a bun, crouched down, and then got onto her stomach. She squirmed into the small space under the clothing carousel, holding her breath as she did so. It was like slithering beneath a very pretty rock. Shadowy and dense, the space smelled of perfume and moisturizer. She navigated it inch by inch, stretching her arms out against the carpet and then moving them up and down. Before she knew it, her thin frame had disappeared completely beneath the carousel. She squirmed some more. She exhaled and drew in another breath. She was about to curse and give up when the fingers of her right hand coursed over something small and hard and very cold.

  A button? A coin? Lex grabbed the thing and then quickly jiggled her way out from under the carousel. Resting on her knees, she stared into the palm of her open hand. The thing was oval-shaped and gold, but otherwise empty. Suddenly she realized that she was looking at the flat backside of a charm; detached from its chain, it had obviously hung from someone's neck. And that someone hadn't realized that it had fallen or been dropped onto the floor of her closet. She didn't recognize the charm. It wasn't hers, nor did it belong to Madison or Park. Whose was it? She turned it over in her palm and saw the three letters etched deeply into the face of the gold.

  T. A. W.

  It took a moment for the letters to compute. But when they did, Lex gasped and angrily closed her fingers over the charm. Holy shit, she thought. This explains everything.

  T. A. W.

  They were initials, and they stood for Theodore Aaron West.

  18

  The D-as-in-Dead List

  Julia Colbert Gantz exited the cab in front of 4 Times Square and thanked the driver with a discernible tremor in her voice. It was past midnight. The wide stretch of Broadway was packed with traffic and tourists, but the customary chaos actually quelled her nerves. There was safety in numbers.

  She wondered if the fear was evident in her eyes or in the quick steps she took toward the building's entrance. It was certainly alive in her blood, churning like waves in a storm. She had never in her life been this scared. Throwing a glance over her shoulder, she pushed through the revolving doors and averted her gaze from the two uniformed men sitting behind the large front desk. At this hour of night, the security guards were usually pretending to be on the job, glancing up from their magazines or books without really looking at who passed them by. Julia hoped that would be the case now. She didn't want to make small talk, but men generally felt the need to speak to her, no matter the time of day or hour of night.

  Tall, toned, and beautiful, Julia's twenty-eight-year-old body still looked seventeen, and she had retained the distinctive sashay of her supermodel days. Strawberry blond hair tumbled past her shoulders in thick tendrils. Her milky complexion was accentuated by the heart-shaped pout of her lips. At Catwalk magazine, she was often referred to as the only fashion expert with real experience in the business. Julia herself knew it was true, but she had never been one for taking sides or making enemies. She was pleased with her job as the executive assistant to the editor in chief. She and the infamous Zahara Bell shared an amicable working relationship, which was a mystery that defied solving.

  Now, of course, there was a much bigger mystery to solve.

  As Julia walked past the desk, she heard one of the guards clear his throat.

  “Ms. Gantz,” he said, a little too loudly.

  Julia paused and turned to face him. “Hello, Ralph. Busy tonight?”

  “I can't believe what happened to Ms. Bell!” he said breathlessly. “It was like a circus here yesterday and today. So many people. So many cops. It just calmed down a few hours ago.”

  “Yes, I know. I'm still in shock. I just can't believe it.” She pulled a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her Miu Miu trench coat and dabbed at her nose.

  “And then today—that guy killed in the Hamiltons' building. Man!”

  Julia's breath caught in her throat. She didn't want to hear about it because, God knew, she had spent the last twenty-eight hours agonizing about it. Are you going to do something and solve this mess? the little voice in her head kept asking in an outraged tone. You can't hide forever. You can't let the fear get you. Now she squared her shoulders and gave Ralph a terse nod. “I have things to do upstairs. If you'll excuse me …”

  “You need any help? Can I carry anything for you?” He stood up.

  “No, not at all. But thank you.” Julia turned and headed for the elevator bank. The building housed several corporate offices that operated around the clock, so it wasn't too deserted. She stepped into the first empty elevator and rode it to the seventh floor. The executive offices of Catwalk magazine were decorated in hues of white and red, with splashes of earth tones on the reception area carpet and large mahogany frames that held covers of the magazine's previous editions. Now the entire suite was dark and empty. Julia listened to the hum of computers left idle on desks, a clock ticking in the nearby conference room. Swallowing her fear, she walked across the floor and hung a right down the first corridor. She passed her own small cubicle and headed for the office at the very end—the one she had never before entered without permission. She paused when she reached it, breathing heavily.

  Stop being so stupid. There's nothing to be afraid of.

  The voice resounded in her head, but she didn't quite believe it.

  Julia wasn't afraid of her dead boss. She was afraid of the person who had killed her.

  The person who had found out Zahara Bell's secret plan to scandalize and ruin lives.

  The person who was still out there, waiting to make another vicious move.

  A chill snaked up her spine. She knew what she had to do, and she had to do it quickly.

  She turned the knob and threw open the door. She flicked on the light and took in the spacious corner office with its piles of paper and magazines, overflowing out-baskets, and swatches of colorful fabric. There were files on the floor, pens and paper clips scattered across the desktop, drawers left open. The cops had scoured the office thoroughly, looking for clues. In truth, the mess was reminiscent of Zahara Bell, who had not been a slave to organization. She had left those mundane tasks to Julia, along with fetching coffee and managing an active social calendar. But in the past few months, Zahara had let Julia in on a number of highly classified projects aimed at taking Catwalk magazine to a whole new level of distribution. Magazine publishing was a competitive market, and readers wanted more than just articles about clothes, hair, and makeup. They wanted gossip. Hell, they wanted dirt.

  Julia remembered clearly the day she had stumbled across Zahara's notes; the pages comprised several paragraphs of shocking claims and allegations about celebrities and CEOs, actors and rock stars, socialites and celebutantes. In certain places, Zahara had scrawled cryptic messages and codes illegible to the untrained eye. Julia had panicked and opened her mouth.

  Are y
ou crazy, Zahara? This is dangerous stuff. You can't publish this.

  Of course I can. I worked damn hard to dig up that junk.

  So then …it's all true?

  Of course it's true! Airtight sources. It's exactly what the magazine needs—a nice helping of salacious truths.

  I'm trusting you to keep quiet about this, Julia. Play your cards right and you could be promoted to executive editor within the year.

  And so Julia became Zahara's unwilling—but nonetheless curious—confidante. Julia had watched Zahara take the hush-hush phone calls, watched her scribble more dirt onto those crinkled sheets of paper. On and on it went. The list of famous names kept growing. The scandalous secrets got downright filthy. There were times when Julia had literally feared the publication of that first column, imagining a day filled with gun-wielding celebrities eager to open fire right here in the office.

  Now she shuddered. The fact of Zahara's murder hadn't hit her yet. She kept thinking it was a mistake, or a joke, or some idiot's way of trying to create media waves. But the news teams hadn't been wrong. Julia had watched the story unfold from her own television, and she'd known instantly why Zahara had fallen prey to a killer.

  The list. The column. Too many dangerous secrets revealed.

  She walked over to the desk and kneeled down behind it. Carefully, quietly, she opened the thin uppermost drawer that held pens, Post-its, paper clips, and rubber bands. She slid it out as far as possible. When it caught and froze, she wrapped her fingers around the edges and gave it a hard tug. It popped out, nearly emptying itself over Julia's chest. At the very back of the drawer was a small manila envelope that almost blended into the brownish color of the wood. Julia snatched it off and held it. Then she cautiously maneuvered the drawer back into place.

  Rising to her feet, she opened the envelope and pulled out the folded sheets of paper. She flipped the edges up, instantly recognizing the scrawl, the odd little symbols, the unmistakable codes beside the names of celebrities and their soon-to-be-printed secrets. The pages were carbon copies. Julia didn't know where the originals were. She had gone looking for them last night, neatly ransacking Zahara's town house. She'd managed to find a few of the proofs, but nothing substantial. She had spent almost an hour going through the big spacious rooms. Leaving the town house with an armful of papers and photocopies had been a risk. Thankfully, she hadn't been caught.

  Now she glanced down at the pages in her hands. She skimmed the first few paragraphs, fully aware that they contained the contents of the inaugural gossip column, which would have been published in next month's issue of Catwalk. The targeted names made her stomach shake.

  Madison, Park, and Lexington Hamilton.

  Actors Jeremy Bleu, Rebecca Lintz, and Sharon Donavitch.

  Theo West and the West family.

  Dangerous dirt.

  Julia extricated the first page from the others and held it in her hand. Then she returned the other pages to the envelope and slipped it into the pocket of her blazer. She wondered who among those names had found out about Zahara's plans to run the column. It was hard to imagine any of them resorting to murder, but that was what had happened. Julia knew it. There was simply no other motive.

  She took a deep breath. Her job—for now, at least—was done. She had succeeded in getting Zahara's information before the police, and she was sure the police would show up here and ransack the office again tomorrow. Julia couldn't let them have the list. Not yet. It was the equivalent of several million dollars, and it belonged to Catwalk magazine. One day soon, when she was promoted to editor, Julia would carry out the column on her own. And, just like Zahara Bell, she would know power and fame.

  She flicked the light off and made her way quietly down the corridor. As she rounded the corner, she heard the ding of the elevator and froze. The doors opened, and several men exited. One was tall and older, the other three were in uniform. Cops.

  Shit, Julia thought. Am I busted? What should I tell them?

  The older man smirked and took two steps toward her. “Ms. Gantz, I presume? The security guards at the front desk said I might find you here.” He opened his wallet and flashed his shield. “Detective Charlie Mullen, NYPD.”

  Julia nodded. Her heart was pounding. “Yes. Hello. I came back to the office because I forgot some work here. I usually never work on Saturday nights,” she said, hoping her reply sounded authentic.

  “Technically, it's Sunday morning,” Mullen told her. “Almost one a. m. We left you two messages—one late Friday night and one this morning. We even came looking for you at your apartment.”

  “Yes, I apologize.” Julia fought to keep her tone steady. “I was running around a lot today.”

  Detective Mullen smirked at her again. “Uh-huh. What have you got there in your hand?”

  “Nothing,” Julia replied, but her voice sounded strained. Don't give in. Don't drop the bomb. There's too much info you can still use.

  Detective Mullen nodded perceptively. “Come with me, Ms. Gantz. Let's have us a little chat.”

  19

  Motive for Movie Star?

  “Jeremy!”

  In the wee hours of the morning, he was released from police custody. It felt like an eternity since he'd inhaled fresh air, since he'd felt the spring breeze on his face. He could barely keep his focus steady. As the door to the precinct opened and he stepped outside, cameras flashed wildly.

  “Mr. Bleu! Did you kill Zahara Bell?”

  “Did you kill Chicky Marsala?”

  “Jeremy!”

  He didn't know what to say or how to react. Exhaustion seeped into his blood like anesthesia. If it hadn't been for the woman beside him, her arms linked firmly inside his, he would have likely passed out right here on the pavement.

  “Are you and Park Hamilton a couple? Why were you at the Hamilton building?”

  “Jeremy!”

  “Jeremy!”

  He blinked as the white light from six different cameras assaulted him. The reporters were an aggressive little bunch, crowding the sidewalk like rabid fans. He saw everything in quick spurts: microphones shaking, hands reaching out to him, lips moving as they formed new questions. It took loads of willpower not to lash out and slug every last person there. But that, of course, was what they wanted, and Jeremy wasn't about to create more negative publicity for himself. He had enough sense to at least keep his cool.

  Now he leaned into the woman whose strong hands were holding him up. As usual, she was navigating the crowd with expert ease.

  Felicia Rafferty was slim and elegant, her face pulled tighter than a trampoline. She had been Jeremy's publicist for two years, although his name was only one of a dozen on her client list of Hollywood superstars. Felicia liked to call herself a “mistress of media mayhem.” All the important high-powered people knew her. More significant, however, was the fact that she knew a whole lot about those high-powered people's messy private lives, which worked beautifully when a little professional blackmail was needed. She had one of those scalpelhappy West Coast faces that looked forty and sixty in the same glance.

  “Out of the way, please!” she shouted. As they neared the waiting limousine, her right hand flew up and landed directly on a paparazzo's wide-angle lens.

  Jeremy kept his expression stony as Felicia popped the back door of the limo and ushered him inside. As his butt hit plush leather, the noise finally dissipated. For the first time in several hours, he let his whole body go loose. A strangled sigh escaped him. Please, he prayed, let this nightmare be over.

  Felicia jumped inside and slammed the door closed. She was dressed in a tight black suit that showed none of the wear and tear of a red-eye flight. She had flown in from L. A. upon learning of Jeremy's alleged involvement in the murders of Zahara Bell and Chicky Marsala.

  The limo sped away from the precinct. Jeremy uncapped the bottle of water sitting in the bar before him. He drank in long gulps, letting the drops spill out of the corners of his mouth and dribble along the sid
es of his neck. At long last, his nerves were beginning to stabilize. Just sitting close to Felicia made him feel calmer. He was her youngest client and sometimes felt downright unworthy of all the time and effort she invested in his career. His was certainly a household name, but Felicia also dealt with several legendary luminaries: Robert, Al, Tom, Brad, both Jennifers, Halle, and Ms. O. Jeremy knew that without her he'd end up buying a house on Shit-faced Lane.

  Now he leaned deeper into the seat and sighed. “Be honest,” he said quietly. “Tell me how bad it is. Am I over? Am I finished?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped. She flipped open her cell phone and tapped off a text message to someone. “The good news is that official murder charges weren't filed against you, and that's because the evidence the cops have is all circumstantial.”

  It was. Throughout the long hours, Detective Mullen and several other ill-dressed men had pressed Jeremy as he'd sat in that stinky interrogation room, circling him like fat wolves narrowing in for the kill. Did you pay someone off to get that key to the Hamilton penthouse? Did you break and enter the last time you were in New York? Jeremy had remained steadfast in his denial. He had answered their questions, but he hadn't volunteered any information. Smart celebrities never did.

  “Anyway, that's not our biggest worry right now,” Felicia said. She stared at him intently as the limo hit a pothole and hung a left down Fifth Avenue. She reached into her large white leather bag, retrieving from it three folded newspapers. She chucked them onto Jeremy's lap. “Copies of today's papers,” she told him. “But they haven't hit the newsstands yet. The real scandal is about to bust open.”

  Jeremy picked up the New York Post. His eyes widening, he glanced at the Daily News and the Times as well. The front-page headlines were all variants of the first: ZAHARA'S BOMBSHELL; SLAIN EDITOR'S NOTES REVEAL MORE THAN JUST MOTIVE. There were grainy snapshots of Madison, Park, and Lex leaving the Met Friday night, and one small picture of him on the bottom right corner of the Post; the shot was an old one, but he looked good in it.