On the Avenue (18 page)

“I'm a fucking movie star, Park. How much of my life do you really think is private and hidden these days? How much of
your
life is private and hidden?

We both know what it's like. If I were a psycho with a violent past, don't you think it would've hit the tabloids already?”

“Maybe you're a psycho with a violent future?”

He laughed at that. He reached out and stroked her cheek. “Look at me and tell me you think I'm lying,” he whispered. “Tell me you think I'm a coldblooded killer.”

She couldn't. His touch was honest. His eyes were brimming with warmth. She felt it. This stranger standing in front of her was familiar—not just a hot guy she'd met last night, but someone whose life paralleled her own. The cameras. The public. The fame and the pressure. He understood.

And he was waiting for her reply. Her trust.

She looked up into his eyes. The raw emotion must have showed on her face, because he broke out in a bright smile despite her silence. She smoothed a hand over his chest in a gesture of warmth, of unspoken forgiveness. “Do me a favor,” she said. “Wait here. I'll be right back.”

He nodded.

Park turned and left the room, closing the door securely behind her. When she got to the elevator bank, she raked her hands through her hair and expelled a heavy breath. What was she doing? She had never felt so sure about a guy in her life, and yet she couldn't dismiss the fact that he had ditched her at
the scene of a crime—a murder, for God's sake! Was he telling her the truth, or was he merely acting, putting on a performance? It
was
his job, after all. She had succeeded in getting an answer from him about the scarf, and it wasn't necessarily a bogus answer. The more she thought about it, the more she realized how preposterous Jeremy's guilt seemed.

She paced the floor for several minutes. What she needed was support. She reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out her cell phone. She was about to dial Madison when a guttural scream tore through the air.

Park's heart leaped in her chest.

It was Jeremy's voice, thundering out of the antechamber and echoing through the entire lobby.

She turned and ran back toward the closed double doors. As she did so, she caught sight of the doorman, Steven Hillby, dashing in her direction, his eyes wild with worry.

“What's going on?” he shouted.

Park threw open the doors.

Jeremy was standing against the wall, his face contorted by fear. Across the room, a body lay on the floor in front of the open closet door.

“Oh, my God!” Park gasped and instinctively jumped back. She couldn't help but take in the bizarre sight: a fat woman dressed in a maid's uniform, her blond wig hanging off her head to reveal a
polished bald scalp. Only when Park looked more closely at the body did she realize that the bluetinged face was familiar—and it wasn't a woman at all. An image of last night's crazed photographer flashed in her mind. He was lying on his back, his eyes open, a stream of blood trickling from his mouth. A bright pink scarf was wound tightly around his thick neck.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Steven Hillby bellowed. “What the hell is that?”

Her breath coming harshly, Park slowly raised her eyes and stared at Jeremy.

“I—I went to the closet to get my coat from off the hanger,” he stammered nervously. “And … when I opened the door she—he—she …
it
fell out!”

“I'm calling the cops,” Steven said. “Nobody move!”

Park had backed herself into the wall. She couldn't believe her eyes. She couldn't believe it was happening all over again. “Jeremy,” she whispered faintly. “You've got blood on your hands.”

It took the cops a little more than an hour to positively identify the body of thirty-six-year-old Diego Marsala—aka Chicky. The black handbag he'd been sporting contained a driver's license and several other aliases, along with a bogus press badge, a tube of lipstick, and a package of extra-large fishnet stockings.

It was this last detail that made Lex shudder. A French maid's uniform with fishnets? One didn't have to be tacky to be kinky.

She and Madison had rushed down to the lobby upon hearing the ominous cry of sirens. By the time they jumped out of the elevator, the front entrance of the building was sealed off and the street was ablaze with lights. Park had been huddled in one corner of the room, Jeremy in the other. Madison had taken one look at the body and screamed. Lex, her stomach getting stronger with each new murder, had merely stared in shock.

Now she was standing just outside the antechamber, watching the uniformed men tiptoe around the corpse. It was an uglier sight than Zahara Bell on the coatroom floor. Chicky Marsala, the psycho photographer, had not made an attractive plus-sized woman. Lex moved her eyes over the curve of his big belly as it strained against the black dress. She studied the misshapen forms of his stuffed-bra boobs. The whole getup was wrong. Why, she wondered, hadn't he worn a belt? It would have hugged his waist and added some contour to his otherwise square figure. If not for the Triple Threat scarf wrapped around his neck, Chicky Marsala would have gone to fashion hell.

She looked up at the closet across the room. It was fairly large and held several uniforms worn by the doormen and maintenance workers. According to what Jeremy told the cops, the body had fallen out when he'd closed his hand over the knob to retrieve
his jacket. He'd pushed it away, screaming, and gotten some blood on his hands.

“
Excuse
me, Miss Hamilton,” a voice boomed sharply in her ears.

Lex turned around and saw Detective Charlie Mullen standing over her. He was dressed in the same ugly blue pants and black loafers as the night before, and he looked as though he hadn't slept in years. “Oh, hi,” she said offhandedly. “I'm glad you're here. There's something I want to show you.”

His face flushed. He raised his arm and pointed to where Madison and Park were standing, a clear ten feet from Jeremy. “Please go and wait with the rest of your little crew. I have official business to take care of here.”

“I know, Detective, but so do I.” She stepped into the antechamber and walked toward the body. Standing directly over it, she studied the front of Chicky Marsala's French maid's uniform. There was a small rip in the black fabric just above the navel. “You see that?” she said to Mullen, pointing down at the jagged tear. “That's evidence of a struggle. This uniform is three parts rayon, one part Lycra. A very tough fabric combination. It doesn't rip easily.”

“And how do you know what fabric the dress is, Miss Hamilton?” Detective Mullen asked her doubtfully.

“Just by looking at it. If you glance at the label, I'll bet you anything it was also manufactured in Asia.”

He sighed. “And why should I care?”

“Because it proves that Mr. Marsala struggled with whoever attacked him, silly,” Lex said with certainty. “I know you think my sisters and I are guilty of something, but if
we
were responsible for this, don't you think we'd have injuries? Mr. Marsala, as you can see, was a large man. We couldn't have strangled him.”

Mullen crossed his arms over his chest. “According to Park, Mr. Bleu was in this room alone for several minutes before the body appeared. Since you're playing at cop so well, why don't you tell me why
he
isn't guilty?”

“Simple,” Lex replied. “Park was out of this room, but she was still well within earshot. If Jeremy Bleu killed Mr. Marsala, Park would have heard the struggle and come back before Jeremy started screaming. So it's obvious that Mr. Marsala gained entrance to the building through the side service doors, was killed, and then was moved here, into the closet. How else would Marsala have gotten in? The doorman would've spotted him walking in through the front doors, don't you think? It was Jeremy's hard luck that he happened to be the one to open the closet door.”

“And so the mysterious killer vanishes again,” Mullen said with a chuckle. “But not before tying a
pretty little scarf that belongs to
you
around the vic-tim's neck. You're gonna have a hard time explaining yourself to a jury.”

Lex rolled her eyes. The initial shock and horror of seeing a Triple Threat scarf wrapped around Chicky Marsala's neck had subsided. Those first few seconds, she and Madison had been horrified, then angered. Lex couldn't believe how terrible the scarf looked on a person wearing so much polyester-based black. She said to Mullen, “The fact that another article of clothing from my closet is tied to another crime scene only proves that the killer stole more than one thing from my closet.”

“You have all the answers, don't you, Miss Hamilton?” Mullen reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out his notepad. “Now, we've already spoken with the doorman. Who else would have access to this building—other than you and your sisters?”

Lex thought about it. “Our housekeeper, Lupe Ramirez, and our chauffeur, Clarence Becker. But they have nothing to do with this.”

“Why not?”

“I spoke to Clarence early this morning,” Park said, stepping forward. “When I called him and asked him to go and pick up Jeremy and bring him here, Clarence was at home, in his apartment in Queens. He went there last night.”

“And Lupe was with us all night,” Madison said,
also coming forward. “But I guess every tenant of this building has access to it, right? I mean, if that was your question …”

Before Mullen could reply, one of the crime scene technicians stepped between them and held up a small plastic bag; inside were several dark strands— not hair, but something thicker. The tech explained that the strands had been extracted from beneath Chicky Marsala's fingernails.

Lex reached out and plucked the plastic bag from the technician's hand before Mullen could take it. She held it up to the light. “Polyester,” she said. “A very poor fabric. But why would it have been …” An instant later, the information spinning through her mind clicked. “Oh! I've got it! This was under Mr. Marsala's fingernails because he fought his attacker. The killer was wearing something made of rayon. I was right—sign of a struggle. So now—”

Detective Mullen snatched the plastic bag from Lex's hand. “That's enough!” he bellowed. “I'm tired of your interference. Wipe that smile off your face, because you haven't proven anything! I'm here on official police business and there's not enough room for the
both
of us in the investigation!”

Lex flashed him an irritated look. “Well, maybe if you lost a couple of pounds, there
would
be.”

Mullen's eyes nearly popped from their sockets. “What did you say?”

Park cleared her throat. “At your age, Detective, you should be getting colonics regularly. I'm sure that's what my sister meant. I could recommend an excellent spa.”

He stared from Madison to Park to Jeremy. Finally, he expelled a breath and shook his head. Then he locked his eyes stiffly on Lex. “Have you even taken stock of your mammoth closet yet, Miss Hamilton?” he asked her. “How many other items are missing? First your dress, and now this scarf. What else?”

“I don't know,” Lex murmured. “I haven't examined my closet. I haven't actually taken a full inventory yet.”

“Why the hell not? Aren't you the least bit curious to see what else is missing?” Mullen pressed.

“Well, of course I am!” Lex crossed her arms over her chest. She knew disappointment and worry finally showed on her face. “But a full inventory of my closet and everything in it—day wear, evening wear, designer couture, ready-to-wear, my own label, plus accessories and shoes—would take
days
. I haven't had the courage to start yet, okay? I'm scared.”

“Well, I suggest you do it
soon.
” Glancing over at the body, Mullen scrawled something in his pad. “Now, why do you think Mr. Marsala came here ? Why do you—”

“He came here to kill us!” Madison shouted.

“Your other police people told us that Marsala had a gun in that ugly purse of his.”

“I'm aware of that,” Mullen said through gritted teeth. “I mean, what reason could he have had to want to kill you? Why would he go through all this trouble? Maybe he thought you girls saw something at the gala that could get him into trouble? Or incriminate him?”

Lex glanced quickly at Madison and Park.
The camera,
she thought suddenly.
He came to get that damn camera back. But we can't turn it in. Not yet.
“I have no idea why Mr. Marsala wanted us dead,” she blurted out. “Maybe
he's
the one who killed Zahara Bell and tried to frame us by using my dress. Did you ever think of that?”

“Yes, but that still leaves
his
murder unsolved,” Mullen replied quickly. “Could Mr. Marsala have had access to your penthouse at some point in the past?”

Lex shook her head. “Totally not. But since we're talking about murder and danger and all, there's something I think I should show you.” She reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out her cell phone, showing Mullen the frightening text message.

His eyes widened. “You were the only one to get this?”

“No.” Park spoke up quietly. “We all got it.”

“I'll need your cell phones,” he told them. “That has to be entered in as evidence.”

Lex and Madison erupted with shocked sounds— cries that might have followed a gunshot or an explosion, cries that signaled complete and utter fear. “Don't
even
think about taking our cell phones!” Lex gasped. “What would you expect us to do without them?”

“Insane,”
Park whispered.

Mullen drew a hand across his face in a gesture of frustration. Then he turned, and his eyes lit on Jeremy. “Mr. Bleu,” he said with mock cheer. “You're certainly very quiet here. You were present last night at the gala. You were there when Zahara Bell's body was found.
And
you were right here in the same room today. Is there anything you'd like to say?”

Lex gulped as she watched the color drain from Jeremy's face. He had moved closer to Park, and right now, Lex couldn't help but see him for what he was: a good-looking guy with a lot of bad luck. Suddenly, inexplicably, her suspicions about Jeremy Bleu dissipated, and she couldn't figure out why. Could he really have pulled off all this?