On the Avenue

by Antonio Pagliarulo

  “According to what Zahara Bell was going to publish in her gossip column, Hamilton Holdings is planning a hostile takeover of West International. Is that true?”

  Madison felt her lips go dry. Of course it's true, she thought. But no one's supposed to know about it. She threw her head back and said, “Zahara Bell's informants had their facts jumbled. You can't believe everything you read in gossip columns.”

  “What has your own investigation into the murders revealed?” a reporter screamed from the back of the thickening crowd.

  Park had expected the question from the moment she'd stepped outside. She'd even welcomed it. This was their chance to lure the mysterious killer in, once and for all. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “We have come across—and are in possession of— valuable evidence that we believe will ultimately reveal the identity of the murderer.”

  A flurry of whispers hit the air.

  “Do you think the Avenue diamond will be recovered?” someone shouted.

  Park nodded. “Absolutely. As you all know, the Avenue diamond is inextricably bound to the Hamilton family—especially to our mother, Venturina Baci. I believe the diamond's power will triumph, and that it'll find its way home very soon.”

  “Park, what's the nature of your relationship with actor Jeremy Bleu? He's been questioned by police about the murders. Do you know why?”

  “I consider Jeremy a friend,” Park replied. “I do not know why he has been questioned by police, or whether he has any connection to the crimes.”

  Lex stepped forward. She surveyed the crowd, noting that it had spilled into the street. Through the mass of bodies surrounding her, she caught a glimpse of the traffic; it was backed up for several blocks. She turned her attention back to the cameras and said, “At this time, we ask your cooperation in respecting our privacy and our safety. My sisters and I will be available to answer your questions as this terrible scandal comes to a close—and we haven't any doubts that it will end soon. We look forward to working with all of you as we launch the Triple Threat label.”

  It was Madison who threw a glance over her shoulder and back into the lobby of the building. She was relieved when Clarence stepped through the doors and gave her a nod. He came up behind her, his arms hovering over Park and Lex as well, and together they navigated their way past the reporters and cameras.

  “Stay close,” Park said to Clarence as the flashes went off again.

  He nodded. “I'm right here. I've got ya covered. I'm following your every step.”

  Madison, Park, and Lex cleared the crowd and began walking down Fifth Avenue side by side. They were aware of the several reporters still trailing them, aware that dozens of cars had stopped, passengers staring through windows to get a glimpse of the fashionable spectacle. They were aware of the news chopper that suddenly appeared in the sky, its blades beating the air. They tried not to make eye contact with the pedestrians who lined either side of the street—and by the hundreds, it seemed—because the whole point of this very public appearance was to attract attention, not give attention.

  “It's definitely working,” Park murmured, standing, as usual, in between her sisters.

  “It totally is,” Lex agreed. “But I hate helicopters.”

  Madison nudged Park as they walked. “Both of you, hush,” she said quietly. “If we're asked any more questions about the scandal, just reply by talking about the fashion line. Remember: we have to turn all this front-page news into profit.”

  The trail of publicity followed them as they continued down the avenue. They walked for nearly thirty minutes, purposely prolonging it, striding past Tiffany and Bergdorf 's, Bendel's, and Prada. At Rockefeller Center, directly across the street from Saks, they paused amid a second flurry of activity, then waited for Clarence to join them.

  “I'm here,” he said, his hands on Madison's shoulders. “You girls gotta move fast. The press is closing in again.”

  He led them into the building's main lobby and to the elevators.

  Once indoors, Madison, Park, and Lex were finally able to breathe deeply and regroup. The building's security desk had been alerted to their arrival, and the press were being barred from entering. In the elevators, they stood close to each other, Madison breathing a sigh of relief as Clarence's shadow loomed over them. They rode up to the tenth floor, then emerged into the executive offices of Hamilton Holdings, Inc.

  Decorated in muted tones and dark wood, the offices were mercifully empty on this Sunday afternoon. Clarence stepped out first, doing a quick sweep of the reception area, poking his head under the front desk and down the back corridor that led to the employee kitchen. “Coast is clear,” he assured them.

  Madison led the way to Trevor Hamilton's huge corner office, using her key to unlock the door. Large windows soaked up the afternoon sun, but the bright light did little to mitigate the tension in the air.

  “I'm scared,” Lex said suddenly. She was standing beside one of the couches to the right side of the large, L-shaped desk.

  “I am too,” Park replied. “But we're safe here. We're together. And Clarence is standing by the elevators, guarding us.”

  “And there happens to be a lot of work to do,” Madison added, leaning across the desk and booting up the computer. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder. “Have either of you checked our messages? I know Coco's been trying to call. And by now, Mom's probably called too.”

  “It wouldn't surprise me if Mom called Coco to try to get ahold of us,” Park said. “They're both prone to anxiety.”

  “It doesn't matter.” Madison shook her head. “We have to stay focused on what we're doing. We can't talk to anyone but each other just yet.”

  “It's almost like we invited the killer here,” Lex continued, ignoring them both. She cuddled Champagne tightly against her chest, as if seeking warmth from a chill only she could feel. “By making those statements to the press—I mean, what if he's watching? What if he's coming here right now?”

  “That's exactly what we want him to do.” Madison plopped into the big leather chair, inhaling a lingering trace of her father's cologne. “It's either Jeremy or Theo, and the three of us can totally take either one of them down.” She turned her attention to the flashing screen. Recalling the lessons her father had taught her, she used a series of encrypted passwords to gain entrance to one of their joint personal bank accounts. In a few swift clicks, she allocated $25 million to a temporary business account and earmarked it with the words Triple Threat National Start-up Fees. She knew it would take at least that much money to launch the fashion line quickly and successfully.

  Of course, none of those bucks would actually transfer until Trevor Hamilton approved the move, but Madison was certain he would agree with them once he got home. If luck was on their side, they would generate enough hype from the scandal to gain a hefty return on their investment.

  But it was a tricky move.

  Using short-term notoriety to attract long-term publicity had its dangers. Trevor Hamilton would have called it a “calculated risk.” It was like the school slut turning around and deciding to run for student council president after everyone knew she'd screwed half the guys on the football team. It was like the class snitch vying for a place with the in-crowd after he'd ratted out the coed pot party in the girls' bathroom. Oh, now I'm supposed to like you? Sometimes it worked and people followed the media wave. But there were other instances when the smoking gun backfired, and those bullets totally hurt.

  What Madison feared most was that the public at large would react negatively to their announcement of the Triple Threat label while two murder investigations were still ongoing. She knew it was a tasteless move, but there was no other way to shift the spotlight. Besides, it had been done a million times before. Half the world's celebrities had benefited from turning their own dirt into diamonds.

  “I'm not going to break my nails fighting a killer,” Park said. “You can take him down yourself.” She went into the outer office and revved up
another computer. She logged on to the Internet and hit Yahoo!. The appearance and statements she, Madison, and Lex had made little more than a half hour ago were in the top five bulleted headlines. HAMILTON TRIPLETS SPEAK OUT, CLAIM TO HAVE EVIDENCE. On another site: HAMILTON TRIPLETS LAUNCH FASHION LINE IN THE MIDST OF GROWING SCANDAL. And yet another: HAMILTON TRIPLETS LOOKING DROP-DEAD GORGEOUS. She knew from past experience that the headlines would go on for at least twenty-four hours.

  She reached for her purse, unzipped it, and pulled out the digital camera. She hooked it up to the computer. It took all of three minutes to transfer the JPEG files onto the screen in front of her. Staring at the little thumbnail images, she clicked on the two that showcased the dead Zahara Bell. The first was a complete body shot. Park maximized it several times, looking for anything strange or out of the ordinary. Nothing jumped out at her. On the second shot, however—the close-up of Zahara Bell's neck and the scarf that strangled it—Park noticed something odd. Again, she maximized the image to its highest possible degree and saw what hadn't been visible on the camera's small screen.

  There, running along the side of Zahara Bell's white face, was a smattering of small black spots— not pimples or blemishes, but obviously some sort of residue. Park remembered clearly the very moment she had set eyes on the body in the coatroom Friday night. The residue had not been on Zahara's skin; her face had been smooth and blue-tinged, and its pallor would have revealed any such residue immediately.

  She flipped on the printer beside the desk and printed out the image. Then she got up and went back into the office, carrying the picture in her hand.

  Madison was busy clacking away at the keyboard.

  “Here,” Park said, tossing the picture onto the desk. “Tell me what you think.”

  As Madison snatched up the pic, Lex came around and studied it as well.

  “I don't know what that is on Zahara Bell's face,” Park told them. “But it wasn't there when we first saw her lying on that floor.”

  “No, it wasn't,” Madison agreed. “It looks like … dirt.”

  “Dirt?” Park wrinkled her nose. “So someone cleaned off her face before we found her, but not before Chicky Marsala took the photo?”

  Lex grabbed the pic and held it close to her face. She turned, examining it in the weak light pouring in through the windows. “This isn't dirt,” she said with certainty. “These little things on Zahara's face … when you look closely, you can see that they're solid, that they're kind of like … long and all different shapes. And they're kind of thick too. This isn't dirt.”

  “Then what is it?” Madison pressed.

  Lex brought the pic as close to her eyes as possible. “It looks like ashes.”

  “Like from a cigarette?” Park asked.

  Lex nodded. She chucked the picture back onto the desk.

  “It does look like ashes,” Madison agreed. “But how come this wasn't on Zahara's face when we found her?”

  “Maybe the little bits of it flew off her face when you threw open the coatroom door,” Lex suggested. “Like maybe the draft cleaned off her face. Or—wait— don't you remember? When you turned on the light in the coatroom, you also turned on the overhead airconditioning vents. I totally felt it. And if that's what happened”—she smiled—“the police wouldn't know about it, because they saw what we saw, and not what Chicky Marsala photographed.”

  Park circled the desk, both hands on her hips. “So the killer is on his knees, leaning over Zahara Bell, choking her, and—what? Maybe there was a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and little flecks of tobacco leaves fell out of his pocket and landed on her face? It's possible. I mean, think about it. Zahara Bell must've been struggling against him, maybe there was sweat on her face, her skin was damp. The ashes—or whatever—would stick.”

  “And you don't think the killer looked down and saw the residue and tried to wipe it all off?” Madison asked.

  “He was working quickly, and he knew he had to hurry up and get the hell out of that coatroom,” Park answered. “He also turned off the light when he left the room, which turned off the air vents.”

  A silence fell. Through it, Madison whispered, “Theo smokes.”

  “So does Jeremy.” Park nodded. She ran both hands through her hair. “This is all starting to make sense to me, especially when you consider the time. It's almost exactly forty-eight hours since Zahara Bell was murdered and the Avenue diamond was stolen. And according to the legend, the diamond will be found forty-eight hours after it's stolen. One of them has that diamond, but he doesn't know that it's flushing him out.”

  “So not true,” Lex said. “We're the ones who're flushing him out. We're the crazy ones who're waiting here for something to happen. I just hope”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“I just hope no one else ends up dead.”

  Madison stood up. She buried her face in her hands, then turned to stare out the window at the city below. It was nearly dusk. Again. She felt as though they were all living in a vacuum, completely disconnected from the world. She had lost her sense of time and distance. She had lost her sense of security. The frustration grated on her nerves and tears welled up in her eyes. She turned around to face Park and Lex. “I just can't bring myself to believe it,” she said. “How could Theo—or even Jeremy Bleu—be capable of this? How could either one of them resort to murder? And how could either one of them actually threaten us with fleece for a damn camera? The truth will get out eventually.”

  “How?” Lex said. “It won't get out unless we turn this camera in to the cops.”

  Park went over to the desk and logged on to the Internet again.

  Madison wiped the tears from her eyes. “It still doesn't make sense. It's all too crazy to believe.”

  “Crazy or not, we have to consider other alternatives here,” Park said firmly. “There've got to be two hundred headlines online saying that we know who the killer is, that we have evidence, that we're in the middle of our own investigation. It won't be long before Detective Mullen comes looking for us.”

  “I won't turn that camera in!” Madison shouted, angry. “Not until I speak to Theo, face to face. Not until I ask him why he did this, and why he turned on us—on me—so viciously. I want to hear it from his own lips.”

  “What if it's Jeremy we're waiting to hear from?” Lex asked quietly.

  Suddenly, Park gasped. She double-clicked. She pointed to the flashing computer screen. “Latest headline,” she said. “Breaking news.”

  Madison and Lex stared, unable to believe their eyes.

  Celebutante Theo West, wanted by police for questioning in the murders of Zahara Bell and Diego “Chicky” Marsala, was missing.

  22

  Knight in Armor

  Jeremy closed the bedroom door of his penthouse hotel suite, blocking out the noise that had been buzzing around him for hours. In the living room area, his publicist, Felicia Rafferty, was arguing with some hotshot Hollywood attorney named Gavin Kaminsky. They were going on about what to do, talking as if Jeremy were a freaking serial killer haunting the streets with a butcher knife. He couldn't stand listening to them anymore. What he hated most was the fact that they were discussing the whole scandal as if he were truly guilty.

  Assholes, Jeremy thought. Both of you.

  Following the ordeal of the last twenty-four hours, he had come back to the hotel and crashed on the couch. Sleep had not touched him. He had lain awake, trying to piece together what he could about yesterday morning. That was what concerned him most. How had the damn key gotten into his pocket? He wasn't about to go on trial and lose his life for some bullshit psycho who'd framed him.

  First the scarf, then the key. Could it get any worse?

  He had lost the scarf Friday night at the gala. Of that he was certain. But when? And where? More importantly, who had picked it up and used it to kill Zahara Bell?

  He lit a cigarette. He started pacing. He was on the edge of insanity, being locked up in this hotel suite while two people hammered out
the plan he would have to follow for the next several weeks. They hadn't even bothered to listen to him earlier today. What he wanted suddenly didn't matter, because if charges were filed against him, lots of people would lose money. That was what this whole damn scandal was about: cash, fame, other people's lives. Felicia had spent the morning on the phone with the producers of his upcoming movie, Knight, assuring them that no matter what, Jeremy would make his scheduled appearances on The Tonight Show, Oprah, and Access Hollywood. Had any of them even asked if he was feeling well? If maybe he wanted to sit down and talk about what this was doing to his mind? Hell no. It was just the same load of bullshit, over and over again. What he had to say. How he had to look. Whose ass he had to kiss next.

  Well, fuck it.

  He was pissed. He was tired too—tired of everything and everybody. Was this how trained circus monkeys felt? Always having to wait and see if their next step was okay? The realization hit him as he puffed hard on the cigarette and stared around the cold room: he wanted out.

  Not just out of this hotel, but out of the whole world that had swelled up around him.

  So much fame. So much money. So much power.

  And yet so little freedom.

  He felt like a caged animal. Was this what he had spent his whole life dreaming about—being controlled by publicists and lawyers and agents who would forget him the moment he stopped being hot? He thought of his old friends back in Iowa. They were probably partying right now, kicking back beers with their girlfriends, not worried about a damn thing. Maybe that was where he wanted to be—with people who cared. With a girl who'd put her arms around him and make all the uncertainty and angst go away. He knew exactly who that girl was, but he couldn't go near her. He couldn't even pick up his phone and call her because that was forbidden. A bad publicity move, Felicia would say. A potentially incriminating act, Gavin would tell him. It was paramount that Jeremy think about his career, his fans, his ever-increasing pay scale.