“Shit,” he swore, surveying the gray cast to her skin. Her flesh was bloated in most areas, looked as if it might peel away from her bones if he touched her. She had been hanging lifeless for days. Delusional hope had him reaching up to her with two fingers and pressing them just beneath her jaw. No pulse, only death.
Fred grabbed his cell phone and dialed the police. “Get me the coroner,” he said to the dispatcher, “and some uniforms who know the meaning of discretion. No reporters, no cameras.”
He had barely hung up when the housekeeper suddenly lunged for the shower. He intercepted, pulling her away from the body.
“Take her down from there,” Rose said. “Cover her.”
“I can’t tamper with the scene. We need to leave Celia the way we found her.”
“How did this happen?”
“The police will find out.”
“Police,” she spat. “I don’t have faith in them. Motherfucking pigs.” She tensed, then pivoted and rushed to the porcelain sink to retch. After emptying her stomach until there was nothing left but clear mucus, she let Fred turn on the faucet and then she sagged against him.
He guided her out of the bathroom as knocks sounded on the front door.
A few minutes later, a uniformed officer was sitting with Rose as a pair of detectives and a line of EMTs trooped into the house. “Holy fuck,” one of the detectives muttered when they entered the bathroom.
“Fred Hill. What brought you out here?” the other, Carmine Hoffman, asked.
“Celia’s an old friend. She stopped answering calls and texts a week ago. I came out here a few times but no one answered. She gets distracted when she’s working on something, but ignoring the door isn’t like her. I was checking up again and her housekeeper let me in.” Celia had gone cold silent the day news broke about the slayings in front of Opera. He wouldn’t volunteer that information now.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Fred heard the snap of a camera and realization began to sink into him. Celia was dead.
Hoffman tapped an officer on the shoulder with a large dark hand. “Walk Attorney Hill to the living room, all right?”
Fred waited. He could show them patience and establish a rapport. It’d get him answers quicker than presenting antagonism and throwing out demands. A medical examiner would consult. He had contacts in the system—folks who owed him favors—who’d talk to him.
“Fred, let’s take a walk,” Hoffman said. His thick lips were almost hidden under his full salt-and-pepper beard. “Let’s get some air. All the windows are shut, we’re in three-digit temps, and we’ve got a body in the back.”
Rose gaped at the detective but didn’t comment. This must be the woman’s first encounter with a violent death. Bless her.
Trailing the detective to the front porch, he accepted the stick of chewing gum the man offered. “Are we going to stand here chewing some gum and pissing around, or are you going to tell me what you got, Carmine?”
“You and Celia were friends, right?”
“That’s right.”
“You bang her?”
Fred looked directly ahead at the vehicles crowding the front of the house. People gathered on neighbors’ lawns and phones were pointed at Celia’s house. “Once in a while. I haven’t touched her in months. Was she raped?”
“Do you know what she liked?”
“You didn’t answer me.”
“I’m not required to. Work with me on this, Fred.”
“Uh, fuck, she liked the usual stuff.”
“Would you call erotic asphyxiation usual? Did y’all dabble in that?”
“Erotic asphyxiation?”
“Familiar with the term?”
“Yeah. I had a client dabble in that. His ex tried to use it to take custody of his kid.” The man had kept videos around his mansion showing him cutting off a prostitute’s breathing to intensify an orgasm. Simple aids could get the job done—neckties, plastic bags, scarves. Pictures from textbooks and police reports and photos resurfaced in his mind of people hanging from elaborate apparatuses, ceiling fans, staircase banisters.
And the single image that remained in his mind even as he tried to shove it away was of his friend Celia dead in her shower.
“Are you saying someone strangled her during sex?”
“I’m saying, off the record, vaginal secretions were on her fingers and a vibrator was on the floor of her shower. It’s premature to say exactly what killed her, but it looks like your friend tried to take shit into her own hands and made an oops. Bigger picture—” Hoffman took out his wad of gum and stuck it under the porch railing. “—she was working on some case files. We’re taking her computer, paperwork.”
“I’m not following.”
“Getting old on me, Fred?” The comment was spoken in the light tone of camaraderie, but Hoffman’s hooded eyes were flinty. “She had a file of printouts and newspaper clippings and articles—shit like that.”
“As researchers do.”
“The file’s on Jude Bishop. In the file is a shipment slip for injectable lithium, delivered three weeks before his death.” Hoffman hitched his chin at him before he grabbed the door handle. “You handled a little problem for me some years ago, and you never called in what I owe you. We’re going to be square now.”
“Why’s that?”
“The lithium was shipped to Celia but billed to Dante Bishop.”
“Fuck,” he whispered. “You can’t be thinking—”
“That days after a Devil’s Music superstar gets Swiss-cheesed in front of Opera, a psychiatrist in the Bishops’ pocket ends up dead? I’m thinking that. And I’m thinking the Atlanta PD’s got Jude Bishop and Celia Chavez on apparent suicides, but neither case is sitting well with me. Debt’s repaid, Fred. Get ahold of your boy. Lawyer him up.”
Chapter 14
“Welcome back!” Emma tossed a handful of gold confetti at Chelsea when she arrived at the base of Devil’s Music’s main staircase. “Or should I say ‘Welcome home,’ since you spend more time here than you do your own place?”
“Touché.”
Emma’s lighthearted tease hit Chelsea in a vulnerable spot. The estate was her home, wasn’t it? Her personal mail was delivered to a condo in Druid Hills, but over the years she’d formed the habit of haunting this place like a stubborn spirit. She’d almost cried when she entered the foyer and saw her picture on the wall. In retrospect she felt ashamed that she was so emotionally connected to the property, all because she’d been holding on to a need to prove she could defeat it.
With Dante out of the guesthouse and Alexis Lazarus now occupying it, she wouldn’t have him as a reason to hang around here so deep into the night. She could wrap things up at a decent hour and go home—to her real home—every night.
“Need help managing the stairs?” Emma asked, her brow pinched with concern.
The words were barely out of her mouth before a butler appeared at Chelsea’s elbow. He relieved her of her handbag and settled at her right side to avoid bumping her injured wing.
“Y’all can’t hover and treat me like an invalid,” Chelsea said. “I’ll feel ineffective, and if I’m going to feel ineffective, I might as well not be here.”
“Can’t you just say thanks, like a normal person?” Emma waited until the butler delivered Chelsea safely to the top of the landing before she gave her a careful hug. She eyed the sling. “Promise you won’t overdo it, that you won’t skip meals or meds, and that you’ll get a driver to whisk you away from all of this if it gets to be overwhelming.”
“That’s a tall order. Can I mull it over?”
“No. Promise, this second, or I’ll tell everyone to clear your suite of the mimosas we had brought up when security let me know you arrived. So there.”
Chelsea relented with a giggle. When was the last time she’d laughed? The shooting, Moniqua Prenz’s arrest, confronting Dante, attending Clint and Rollo Jermaine’s joint funeral—it had obscured her joy. The
re was devastation and the motivation to return to work. Now it came rolling back to her that she’d lived and life went on. “I promise I’ll take care, Emma. Now, to the mimosas.”
On the executive floor, people greeted her with cheers and whistles.
“You look fierce as hell in that sling,” her assistant praised, yet the pep in her voice sounded forced.
Chelsea was reminded that everyone who cared about her had been affected, too. Since her argument with Dante in the hospital, she’d floated around in a vacuum, feeling as though no one close to her could understand her hell. All of the people who’d been shot on the street during the party had died—except her. It was a burden to carry.
But she wasn’t alone.
“We should pimp this sling, Teagan,” she said. “What do you say?”
“Hell to the yes.”
Everyone else—department heads, other executive assistants, R&D team members—swooped on her then. Some drank straight champagne, while others enjoyed mimosas. Terri from downstairs got Chelsea settled in her office chair with a full drink.
“This is the first alcoholic beverage I’ve had in too long,” she said to the room. “Not counting the vodka I drank last night before I changed my bandages.”
The quip was an icebreaker, and the tension in the room began to crack. Thank God. She didn’t want to walk through the halls to a chorus of concerned whispers or a landscape of sympathetic stares.
After most of the crowd had left, she still had Emma, Joshua, and a host of flowers and balloons as company. Her friends took the pair of chairs in front of her desk.
“As you already know, Moniqua’s defense team is pushing forward with trying to get her off as wrongfully accused,” Emma said. “Social media is on fire about gun control, the dangerous message hip-hop music sends, crime in Atlanta, black-on-black violence. As expected. The press is also painting this thing as escalated aggression in an ongoing beef between Moniqua and our label.”
“Her supporters shrank back to their corner,” Joshua said. He was sitting statue-still. Only the hand on his Versace watch moved.
“The day she was arrested, Shatter Records released a statement commenting that this was a time for hip-hop creators and facilitators to come together and that the company isn’t pursuing a partnership with her,” Emma added. “They dropped her. So did Lo Grizz. He tweeted a denial that he was mentoring her.”
Chelsea set her mimosa on the desk. “The public and her industry allies are turning on her?”
“Seems that way. Public opinion is fickle, though. But Chelsea…Um, I still can’t wrap my head around this. The finance department called a meeting. ‘Nasties’ is overperforming.”
“Overperforming?”
“Topping US and international charts. The downloads and merchandise sales are phenomenal. A late-night show host was dragged for this comment…Hang on.” Emma manipulated her cell phone and handed it to Chelsea. “Read that.”
The best thing Clint Jermaine did for Vitalz was die.
Chelsea’s stomach knotted. “That was classless as hell.”
“All of us sitting in this room know it’s unfortunately true. ‘Nasties’ had excellent early reception, but Vitalz’s audience grew exponentially once word of Clint’s death was released. We’ve been in the business long enough to recognize the pattern.” Emma glanced at her husband, offering him a window to add to the conversation, but he remained mute. “Being that you also were shot, Chelsea, your popularity has soared, too. Teagan showed me the analytics of your social media accounts. The spike isn’t limited to Vitalz and you. Our entire client roster has received a boost. It’s amazing in the best and worst possible ways.”
“It’s competition and a need to be onstage,” Joshua said, breaking his silence. “People get off on displaying their grief. They want points for showing that they give a damn. So they’ll wear Tshirts, buy albums, tweet all the right hashtags. Like you said, Emma, we should recognize the pattern. This is entertainment and it ain’t nothing new.”
Chelsea returned Emma’s phone to her and slid her gaze to Joshua. Lost in his thoughts again, he didn’t even notice her studying him.
Gut her. Eliminate her cushion, starting with Shatter. Kill her resources. She’ll hit the fucking ground when we cut her loose.
Those had been Joshua’s words, and they rang through her like an obnoxious bell.
Had he done this? Was he willing to sacrifice lives—including Chelsea’s—for the sake of Devil’s Music?
“I’m heading down to the studios,” Emma announced. “Alexis is laying down ‘Turned Out Dirty’ this morning, then I’ve got a lunch meeting. Should be back in a couple of hours.”
“Take security,” Chelsea blurted. The others looked at her with alarm, and she buckled under the weight of their stares. She started to cry. “Can’t be too careful. That’s all I meant.”
That was a lie. What she’d meant was, Don’t trust anyone—not even your husband.
Allies became enemies in a blink. Loyalty was fragile. Lies and infidelity were commonplace.
Emma left and Joshua came behind Chelsea’s desk. “That cunt is going to answer for what she did to you. Swear to God on that.”
“And if it wasn’t Moniqua?” she challenged. “When something like this happens, investigators look at who stands to profit. Our company is profiting, with three individuals at the top.”
“Four. Don’t forget Delilah Bishop.”
Delilah had been at Opera that night, too, but accounted for at a Vine City bar at the time of the shooting. Nevertheless, she was seeing an immediate return on her 28 percent investment in Devil’s Music.
“If the circle continues to tighten,” she said, “I’ll run out of people to trust.”
“I’m protecting Emma. I’ll protect you, too.” Joshua kissed her on the cheek. “If you need something, call me.”
She watched him leave, and when the door shut behind him, she immediately hated the quiet. The quiet allowed her rattling thoughts to amplify. Was Joshua—or even Emma—willing to hurt her to benefit the company’s bottom line? Was she irrational to doubt a friend when evidence pointed firmly at Moniqua Prenz?
Irrational or not, she did doubt Joshua—and everyone here.
—
“There’s a Coke in here with your name on it.” Alexis stood in the doorway to the studio that had earlier been crowded with bodies—folks making deals and smoking weed while she sang and rapped in the booth. Now only she and a pair of Coca-Cola bottles remained. They’d been waiting for Dante. “I was starting to think you’d stood me up.”
She watched the corners of his mouth pull downward. Damn, she was going to miss this man’s smile. But she supposed he’d run out of reasons to smile. Chelsea had been shot and was avoiding him. Cops were on him like gravy on potatoes.
They had it in their heads that he was a murderer. He might be.
She was going to share a Coke with a man suspected of killing his father.
“Security wasn’t all that welcoming,” she watched his lips say. “You might be the only person who wants me on this estate.”
“Then that’d make me the only person around here with any fucking sense.” She led him into the studio. “It took hours to lay down this goddamn track, but it’s…Well, you listen and decide for yourself.”
Dante didn’t take either a seat or the Coke that had been glacier-cold when she’d invited him here to listen to “Turned Out Dirty” but was now room temperature.
He was staring at her.
Judging her…and the blunt she’d picked up from a tray and had nudged between her lips.
“You smoke marijuana, Alexis?”
“Lex.” That’s who she was now. Lex Lazarus rapped, dressed like a Hamptons whore, and rolled her own blunts. “Want a hit? This is quality shit. Relaxing.”
“No.”
“You answered too quickly.” She held the blunt between her lips and slid her hands up his chest to his shoulders. “Sit down an
d smoke with me.”
Dante lowered to a chair. “What happened to you?”
“I went shopping.” She rotated, swinging her ass, rolling her hips. The white pantsuit was tight, the jacket unzipped far enough to practically offer her breasts.
“I’m not talking about the clothes.”
“I’m unwinding.” She wiggled the blunt.
“Not that, either.” He leaned forward. “You’re not the person you were in Louisiana or when we worked together. I’m asking again. What happened to you?”
Coming here had caged her at the same time that it freed her. Security was tighter than it’d been before the shooting at Opera. She wasn’t permitted to leave headquarters without protection. She was a prisoner in this beautiful world of luxury and lies.
“The same thing that happens to everyone who gets taken under by this company. People think you murdered your father. Moniqua Prenz is in jail for shooting a group of people in Midtown—including your woman—and I’m the one you’re concerned about?” She handed him the blunt, and when he took two puffs and passed it back, she smiled. “I’ll open your Coke.”
She noticed that he didn’t take the opportunity to dispel the suspicion against him.
Was Dante Bishop capable of murder?
Of course he was.
Alexis said no more on the subject. They drank Coke, shared weed, and listened to “Turned Out Dirty.”
When the track ended on a crisp note of bow hair on strings, Dante stood and pulled her into a hug. She felt the vibration of his voice and laughed.
“I can’t fucking hear you, remember?”
He leaned back and grinned. Well, how about that? She’d given him something to smile about.
“I said that was goddamn perfect.”
“You don’t mind the change?” She’d demanded a violinist and had altered the bridge, transforming Dante’s lyrics into a full rap.
“Hell, no.”
“It’s hot, isn’t it?”
“Hell, yeah.”
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