It showed Theo West standing next to a very live Zahara Bell, in what looked like the corridor where the coatroom was located. They weren't smiling. In fact, the next picture—taken only seconds after the previous one—was of Theo's red and seemingly enraged face; his lips were pulled back from his teeth, and he was clearly in the process of berating Zahara Bell. The pictures followed in chronological order, five in all of Theo West, Zahara Bell, and their tense standoff. In the final picture, Theo's right hand was closed around Zahara Bell's wrist; she was turned to one side, as if trying to break away. The photographer had obviously captured them in moments of struggle and outright discord. It was plainly evident from the clarity of the pictures that Theo and Zahara had been fighting about something.
Madison stared down at the little screen, unable to believe her eyes.
“And there's the outfit Zahara Bell had been wearing when she first arrived at the Met,” Park said. “Not exactly a Lex Hamilton original.”
“It's actually Dior,” Lex said, leaning over to get a better look at the gorgeous dress in the picture.
“Maybe Theo had the Triple Threat cocktail dress hidden in the coatroom,” Park offered calmly. “He forced her in, strangled her, and then dressed her. And all so that he could draw us into this and try to ruin us. But why would he steal the Avenue diamond? He doesn't need the money.”
“Isn't it obvious?” Lex snapped. “To throw off the police. To confuse everybody. He probably never imagined that Zahara's assistant was going to spill the beans about the gossip column, or that she even knew about it. Taking the diamond makes it look like a total robbery.”
Madison shook her head. “This doesn't prove anything,” she stated firmly. “The pictures, the charm—it's all circumstantial evidence. Theo's not a killer. I know he didn't want our relationship being broadcast, but he would not have killed for it.”
“But he did kill for it!” Lex shouted. “We've solved the damn crime!”
“Stop it!” Madison yelled back. “That's not true. We didn't solve anything.”
“Let me ask you something,” Park said, turning to face Madison. “Think back on your little rendezvous with Theo in Lex's bedroom. At any time, did you leave Theo alone?”
Madison opened her mouth to speak, intending to blurt out an instant and forceful no. But as the question seeped into her brain, she froze. Her breath caught in her throat. She stared guiltily at Lex.
“Well?” Park prodded. “What's the answer?”
“Yes.” Madison closed her eyes. “Afterward, I went into the kitchen to get us both something to drink. It didn't even take me three minutes.”
“Twenty seconds is all you need to grab the dress off the carousel and stuff it in your backpack,” Lex told her. “Did he have his backpack with him?”
“Yes.”
“And did it look bunchy and full?”
“I don't know.” Madison sat down again on the edge of the bed. “I didn't actually see Theo leave. I was standing in the kitchen when he called out to me from the foyer. He said he had to get going. By the time I got there, he was on the other side of the door, and I only saw him from the neck up.”
“Ha!” Lex snapped. “Hellloo? I spy a killer. Somebody get me an electric chair.”
Madison dropped her head into her hands.
“I think we should all get dressed and go to the police station,” Park said evenly. “We have to turn this evidence in to Detective Mullen.”
“Wait!” Madison cried suddenly. She reached out and gripped Park's arm. “I know Theo didn't do this. I know it's all just a misunderstanding. What about the other people Zahara Bell was planning to trash in that column? You can't just forget that Jeremy was at the gala too. That his scarf was around Zahara's neck. That he was in the antechamber when Chicky Marsala was killed. He's just as allegedly guilty as Theo.”
“On the face of it, he is,” Park said gently, slowly. “Everybody is, including us. But when did Jeremy ever get into Lex's room? When would he have had the chance to steal the dress from her closet?”
“He had a key, he could've come in here anytime!” Madison shot back.
With a sigh, Park looked down at the camera in her hands. She pressed the little button, and another picture flashed into clear focus. It was of Jeremy Bleu, his black scarf—the first murder weapon—hanging loosely around his neck. Park clicked again. The next pic popped up. Behind her, Lex gasped in horror. It was a clear shot of Zahara Bell in death, lying on the coatroom floor, the black scarf wound around her neck. Next shot: a close-up of the scarf and the bluetinged pallor of Zahara Bell's skin.
“Oh, my God,” Lex whispered. “This is why the paparazzo went crazy when we got hold of the camera. He walked into that coatroom and took these disgusting pictures of Zahara Bell. He knew she was dead long before he snapped the pic of you and Jeremy.”
Park nodded. “Chicky Marsala saw something. He saw someone. But he decided to take these pics so he could sell them for a lot of money instead of opening his mouth and saying something. What does he gain from reporting what he saw to the cops? Nothing. No money.” She held the camera up, staring intently at Madison. “It's obvious what these pics are.”
“A chronology of the murder,” Madison stated flatly, her tone grim. “And so you think it all points a finger at Theo. That's what you're saying.” She gulped over the lump in her throat. “You're saying I'm in love with a killer, right? Well—I won't believe that!”
Park stood up. “Look, Madison, facts are facts, and right now the facts paint a very suspicious picture of Theo—and Jeremy. Maybe one of them did snap. Maybe one of them knew Zahara was planning to publish that column and thought killing her was the best way to stop it from being published. I don't know the answer. But I do know that we're going to suffer from this, and so is the company. Whoever killed Zahara Bell wants to take us down with him, and it's poor Lex who's gonna get the brunt of it.”
The anger left Lex's face. A moment later it was replaced with genuine hurt. “I worked so hard to design those clothes,” she said. “And now it's going to be the laughingstock of the whole industry. Of all the dresses in the world, why did Theo—or the killer— have to pick one of mine?”
“It was a smart plan,” Park admitted quietly. “We are, after all, archenemies of the West family. What better way to ruin us than to tie us to two murders? Theo totally knew what he was doing.”
Madison listened. She knew what Park had just implied—that the rendezvous she and Theo had shared three weeks ago had been nothing more than a calculated piece of his plot. By gaining access to her heart, he had inevitably gained entrance to the penthouse. Thinking about it in those terms was painful. Considering it as the truth made her want to crawl under the bed and die. But what if it was true? Maybe she didn't know Theo totally and completely.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the ringing of cell phones—all three of their cell phones, in unison, announcing the simultaneous arrival of text messages. They stared at each other. They reached for their phones. The message typed out on all three screens couldn't have been more direct:
GO TO THE POLICE AND YOU DIE IN FLEECE
“Fleece!” Lex shrieked, slamming the phone closed. “This killer is a sick puppy! Who dresses in fleece, for God's sake? Fleece? Ugh.”
“Relax,” Park said. “None of us is going to die in fleece. I think the killer is just trying to be catchy or something.”
Madison locked eyes with Park. She waved her cell phone in the air, indicating the text message. “Jeremy or Theo? One of them is playing games.”
Park nodded. “I don't know. But we have to find out.”
Madison stood up. She went over to the window and drew back the drapes. She stared down at the empty stretch of Fifth Avenue, at the mob of reporters clogging the front of the building. Her family's name. Her father's respect. Both would crash and burn if she didn't take hold of the reins and tackle the situation. There was too much at stake. There was too much to fear.
She couldn't let emotion guide her.
You know what you have to do. You were raised to handle scandals like this. When the publicity is bad, turn it around and use it to your advantage.
Inwardly, Madison nodded. Yes, she knew what she had to do. What they all had to do. It was basic math, a simple equation in the complicated scheme of their lives. She turned around and stared at her sisters. “You're right—we have to move on this. We'll make a statement to the media declaring our innocence.” Her eyes suddenly hardened into a nononsense gleam. “But let's do it in style. Lex, go to your closet and select Triple Threat outfits for me and Park to wear. And put one on yourself. We're going to hit the Avenue and show the world that we aren't guilty of anything—and that we have nothing to be ashamed about.”
Park folded her arms across her chest. “So we're not going to bring the camera to the cops?”
“Not yet,” Madison answered. “Don't you see? This has turned into a game. Our little killer is desperate. He doesn't know what to do next. He got rid of Zahara Bell, and that didn't work. He got rid of Chicky Marsala, but we have what Chicky wanted. If we turn the camera in, we can't shake him down—and I want to shake him down. But I still think there's something else— something we have or know that the killer wants.”
“Like what? He's bound to make another big mistake soon,” Park said. “The killer has the Avenue diamond, and the diamond's curse is starting to take hold. We have to get that diamond back.”
“Yes, we do.” Madison bit down on her lip. “That would brighten our reputations again. That would put us back on the right track. We need to control the publicity now so that it'll work in our favor. And if we turn that camera in to the cops, it'll look worse for us.”
Park was half smiling, half shrugging. “So you want to hit the Avenue in Triple Threat clothing. The same clothing that Zahara Bell was found dead in. The same clothing that's being splashed all over the newspapers. Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?”
Madison nodded firmly. “Yes. We're going to announce the start of a new company today, a new division of Hamilton Holdings, Inc. We're going to launch the Lex Hamilton/Triple Threat fashion line for the world to see. And we're going to do it now— while we can take advantage of the publicity. Someone's trying to bring us down, and this is the best way to make sure we stay on top.”
“My own label!” Lex shouted, smiling from ear to ear. “You've finally come to your senses!”
“I guess I have,” Madison whispered. She turned and stared out the window again. A huge plan was unfolding in her head. She saw a well-lit runway, beautiful clothes, hundreds of glowing headlines eclipsing the negative ones of today. Triple Threat Fashion—A Global Enterprise. What better way to turn bad press into profit? Trevor Hamilton had taught them well; he wouldn't expect anything less than a smart, bold plan right now—a plan that would ultimately bear his very name.
Madison felt a sudden surge of energy shoot through her blood. If she, Park, and Lex played the game correctly—if they navigated the media storm exactly as they had been raised to—the Hamilton name would be more powerful than ever in just a few days.
Together, they were a force not even a killer could stop.
21
On the Avenue
The media frenzy erupted the moment Madison, Park, and Lex stepped out of the lobby and onto Fifth Avenue. Scores of reporters began shouting their names. Photographers zoomed in from behind blue police barricades. Across the way, television cameras started rolling as newspeople dropped their coffee cups and grabbed their microphones.
“Madison!”
“Park!”
“Lexington!”
They stood a few feet from the building's main entrance, calmly soaking up every last ounce of the chaos. A full minute passed. The shouts got louder. It was all part of the plan, and Madison, at the head of the line, cocked her head slightly to one side and winked at the closest photographer. She wasn't surprised when the flashes moved downward, enveloping their Triple Threat outfits. Neither was Park. And Lex, of course, hadn't expected anything less than the whirlwind of adoration. That was the main point, and it was working beautifully.
Madison, glamorous and sleek in Triple Threat, wore an off-the-shoulder chocolate suede dress that hugged her waist and accentuated her cleavage. Stunning Manolo Blahniks and a matching Jimmy Choo hobo completed the look. The dress fell to her ankles in a straight line. Anything but plain, it was an eye-grabber that drew prolonged stares and several direct camera kisses. She had chosen the dress herself, seduced by its lustrous form and subtle sexiness.
Park inched forward slowly. Hands on her hips, eyes hidden behind Chanel sunglasses, she was the epitome of cool. She was wearing a Triple Threat pantsuit that hugged her body like a glove. Black silk, the blazer had only one large button, and it had been cut to accommodate peeks of flesh: the front lower half rose up to form a sharp triangle that exposed her navel. A top hat gave the outfit an androgynous edge.
Lex had decided on one of her flashier designs. She was wearing a white satin dress with lace trim that stopped well above her knees; thin straps tapered to a plunging neckline. A white mink scarf wrapped her neck several times and trailed down her middle. White boots—leather, of course—rose up past her knees. She called it her “last-day virgin” look. She had blown her hair out, and now it fell over her shoulders in bright blond masses. The constant flashes made her blink repeatedly. Nestled in the crook of her left arm was Champagne; a smooth white doggie-coat sheathed his furry little body, and he yipped as the commotion intensified.
As if on cue, one voice suddenly rose above the rest; it was that of a female reporter, and she posed her question without a hint of irony: “Who are you wearing, Madison?”
As microphones crowded around her, Madison smiled. “We're all wearing Triple Threat originals,” she said brightly. “My sister, Lexington, happens to be an accomplished designer—as you can all see.”
“Are you planning on launching this new label?” a second reporter shouted. “And if so, is there any specific reason you're launching it at this particular time?”
“The line will be unveiled in a private fashion show later this week,” Park replied coolly. “It has long been our intention to launch the Triple Threat brand, and our decision to do so at this time—instead of at Fashion Week—is not motivated by anything other than excitement, and a belief that our product will be universally loved.”
“Lex, how did you come up with the label's… interesting name?” yet another reporter called out.
Lex took the question for all it was worth. Madison's publicity mantra—the less affected by the scandal we appear, the more power we commandeer— resounded in her head. She didn't flinch as a dozen microphones flew in her direction. “The Triple Threat label is designed with young women in mind, and so all of my clothes naturally evoke sexiness and freedom. My clothes are about the body, its beauty and its primal demands. I was inspired by my sisters and our three very different identities. Sophistication. Sexiness. Intelligence. When you wear a Triple Threat design, you feel empowered and ready to take on whatever the world throws at you.”
The cameras exploded in a stream of flashes.
“Madison, how do you respond to allegations that you and your sisters played a role in two murders?”
Lex gave a start as Champagne suddenly lurched forward in her arms with a ferocious snarl. He clamped his little jaws down on a bobbing microphone and gave it a hearty yank.
There was a startled “Oh!” of protest from the middle-aged man holding the microphone. He jerked his head back quickly, causing his sandycolored toupee to shift and slip down the left side of his face. A bright red bald spot came into view.
Lex bit down on her tongue to stifle her laughter. She wanted to tell the man that he desperately needed a few ounces of Badescu buttermilk moisturizer, but instead of opening her mouth, she pulled Champagne into a tighter hold and cleared her throat.
Madison picked up the
cue. “My sisters and I are not in any way connected to the murders of Zahara Bell and Diego Marsala,” she stated firmly. “In fact, our own investigation is ongoing, and we believe that a heartless killer is using our name and our public to mask his own dark motives.”
“Madison, is it true that you and Theo West—heir to the West family empire—were involved in an ongoing romantic relationship?”
She didn't hesitate before replying. “At this time, for matters that relate directly to my personal safety, I will say only that Theo West and I have known each other our entire lives, and that I am always wishing him well.”
The crooked-toupee reporter stepped forward again and thrust his microphone into Madison's face. “Wouldn't an affair between the two of you compromise Hamilton Holdings' corporate assets?” he asked, a bit too aggressively.
Champagne went on the attack again, jutting out from Lex's arms and unleashing a flurry of barks that sent several reporters stepping back.
Madison gritted her teeth in annoyance. Being upstaged by a dog was totally embarrassing and completely unacceptable. What was this—a canine press conference? She turned her head toward Champagne, cut him her coldest stare, and emitted a low growl from the very back of her throat. It sounded guttural and raw, like a wolf 's predatory warning.
Quivering, Champagne sank into the crook of Lex's arms.
The momentary silence was tense, but Madison quickly gained control of it. She squared her shoulders and swept her eyes over the cameras. “None of our corporate assets has been compromised,” she said firmly. “Proof of Hamilton Holdings' corporate strength is evidenced by the imminent launch of the Triple Threat label, which will likely become a global brand. Hamilton Holdings, Incorporated, is—and will remain—the most powerful media empire in the world.”
On the Avenue Page 18