On the Avenue (16 page)

Turning her eyes back to the laptop, Park felt overcome by a sense of anger she had never before experienced. She was incredulous. She was outraged. Huffing and puffing, she slammed her hands down on the desktop and let out a little unladylike grunt. It was one of her rare and unexpected forays into the world of negative thinking and loss of control. It happened to her maybe twice a year. She hated it.

We have to find the killer. And we have to find the diamond!

“I
know,
” she murmured, closing her eyes in a sudden rush of emotion.

It was time to up the ante on their investigation. She knew it. She had denied the inevitable for too many hours now. But as Jeremy Bleu's face flashed before her, she felt a hot tingle shoot through her body.

She hadn't meant for it to happen that way. Not
completely
.

Physical attraction was a weird thing: when it hit you and took over, your knees got wobbly and you did things without thinking clearly. Park hadn't had a boyfriend in many months and she didn't necessarily want one now, but she
did
acknowledge the fact that warmth and body contact were good things. She
missed them. At this point, Jeremy wasn't much more than a fling, yet she couldn't dispel him from her mind. There'd been a connection between them, an instant electric current. This, she thought, was what people called
chemistry.

But why
had
he ditched her last night? Did he know that Zahara Bell had some sort of information on him—a little newsworthy nugget about him losing millions of dollars? What was he so afraid of? She and her sisters hadn't run away in those moments of panic. Neither had Coco.
They
had nothing to hide. Did Jeremy really think he was going to disappear and leave them to clean up this mess? The very thought of it enraged Park.

Running out on her had been the wrong move. She felt hurt and belittled, as discarded as the items on a clearance rack.

Why did you run, Jeremy? What are you trying to hide?

She paced the floor. She forced herself to retrace every minute of last night, from the moment she and Madison arrived at the gala to the moment her and Jeremy's eyes met. She pictured him in that split second, freezing the image in her mind's eye. Gorgeous. Hot. A tall Roman god dressed to the nines in a sleek D&G tux. Crisp white shirt and gleaming gold cuff links. The dark scarf draped around his neck—

She blinked. The image vanished. Her heart slammed in her chest.

The scarf.

Jeremy had been wearing a scarf at the gala, a dark silk and wool scarf that blended softly into the charcoal color of his suit. He hadn't been wearing it when they were making out in the ladies' room. She was sure of it. She remembered pushing the suit jacket off his shoulders and sliding it down his arms as their lips met. She remembered kissing a trail to his neck, her face hot against the starched white fabric of the shirt. He hadn't been wearing the scarf. And with a rush of clarity, Park realized why that little detail was making her stomach churn.

She saw that same scarf again several minutes later—around Zahara Bell's neck.

Oh, my God.

Her cheeks flushed. Blood roared in her ears.

It can't be.

But it was.

Taking a deep breath, and determined to maintain her composure, she walked calmly to the nightstand beside the bed and picked up her cell phone. She flipped it open. She retrieved the text message she, Madison, and Lex had received from the anonymous number.

Three minus one is much more fun.

A scare tactic. Cute.

She slammed the phone shut.

It didn't make sense, but the thought that Jeremy could have actually killed Zahara Bell, stolen the
Avenue diamond, and
then
made out with her was too twisted to believe. She wasn't afraid of him. She was too pissed off to be anything but outraged. What he needed was a good shakedown, a proverbial kick in the ass.

She flipped open the phone again and began scrolling through her address book. The Pierre Hotel. He'd told her he was staying in one of the penthouse suites. Park found the number and waited for the line to connect. A laconic-voiced operator answered at the front desk. “Penthouse A,” Park said. “It's an emergency.” Nearly a minute went by before a male voice answered.

“Hellooohh?”
It was Jeremy—in disguise and suddenly sounding very British.

“Cut the bullshit, Bleu,” she barked into the phone. “I know about the scarf. I made the connection. Would you like to explain yourself, or should I just call the cops?”

Silence. And then his breath filling the distance between them. He said, “I can explain, Park. I can explain everything. Please don't doubt me.”

She tightened her grip on the cell phone. “There'll be a limo outside your hotel in exactly one hour. My chauffeur's name is Clarence. We can talk, but we're doing it on
my
turf. Got it?”

“Yes. I'll be there. I can explain, Park. Please let me explain.”

“Fine. See you soon. Oh, and Jeremy?”

“Yeah?”

She stared across the room at the picture of the Avenue diamond gleaming on her laptop. It inspired her. “Don't fuck with me. It'll cost you
big-time.
”

Clad in a black and white French maid's uniform, a blond wig covering his bald head, Chicky Marsala studied his reflection in the smoky mirror that hung on the door of the overcrowded closet. By his own account, he looked
hot.
Several layers of drugstorepurchased Maybelline foundation had transformed his blotchy skin into a smooth and radiant complexion. There was no trace of stubble on his chin, and the short hairs that usually peeked out of his nostrils were all but gone. The only problem was the bra hooked behind his
back: the rolls of clean underwear stuffed into the D-sized cups kept shifting, which made one boob droop and the other bounce. Maybe no one would notice. It was early, and from a distance he was the epitome of a big sexy chick with lots of junk in the trunk.

Turning sideways, Chicky gave his profile a onceover. The wig was an expensive model that he had purchased in a high-end retail costume shop on Broadway; the blond tendrils tumbled down to his shoulders but didn't hide the big silver hoops hanging from his ears. The uniform was good quality too. It was polyester and Lycra, and it rose up nearly to his neck. His lips, naturally thick, were painted a bright shade of red. Now he faced the mirror one last time and pouted seductively. He blew himself a kiss and smiled. He was ready to complete his mission.

My camera,
he thought.
My pictures and my money.

He flicked off the lights in the studio apartment and reached for the black purse by the door. He opened it carefully, checking to make sure he had packed all the necessary tools. He had pliers, string, duct tape, three old credit cards taped together to form a thick lock buster, and a pair of leather gloves. At the very bottom of the purse was his most prized possession: a handgun. He had enough rounds to take out a small army, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that. He really didn't want to kill anybody today, especially not those Hamilton girls.

Outside, Chicky hailed a cab and instructed the driver to head south. Scrunched in the backseat, he reviewed the plan in his mind several times. Get into the building, preferably through the front entrance. If that proved fruitless, he'd hit the hidden side doors. Having weaseled his way into countless luxury high-rises in the past, Chicky knew all the secrets. Those side doors usually weren't alarmed because the housekeepers and maintenance crews came and went at all hours. It cost millions of dollars to live in Fifth Avenue digs, but all those ritzy residents didn't know squat about what went on way down on the ground floor. After getting in, he'd ride the elevator up to the penthouse—everybody in New York knew the Hamiltons lived in the penthouse—and then he'd start scratching on the door. He wouldn't knock. He'd
scratch
. Always worked like a charm. People wouldn't open their doors if they thought a human being was on the other side, but they'd pop the locks in case a little kitty or puppy was hungry. When someone answered, he'd shove his way into the penthouse and hold the gun up. Then he'd
force
those girls to hand over his camera.

Sure, they'd probably recognize him. But in between pissing their pretty panties and grabbing each other for support, they'd turn the goods over. Then he'd bind their hands together with the string. A few quick slaps of tape across their lips and they'd have
no choice but to shut up. Then it was back down to the lobby and out through the way he came in. Hop into a cab, get home, chuck the clothes, put on jeans and a jacket, and hop the subway to Penn Station. He'd catch a bus upstate and be in the woods by the time the cops sorted through his aliases and positively identified him. He knew exactly whom to call after that. The underground picture market people weren't interested in turning him in. They were only interested in getting their hands on lurid images they could print and sell all over the world.

“Did you say the corner of Madison and Eightieth, ma'am?” the cab driver asked.

Chicky smiled. The guy had called him ma'am. “Uh, yes,” he replied in a low, squeaky voice. “Thank you.” He stared straight into the rearview mirror and gave a girly giggle.

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.

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.