On the Avenue (20 page)

But if Jeremy hadn't murdered Zahara Bell, who had? Lex reviewed the facts in her head, listing them one by one. The killer was
definitely
a man. The killer was someone who had been at the gala last night. The killer had broken into this penthouse and raided her closet at some point in the recent past. And the killer had struck again this morning, because the crimes were obviously connected.

So what does that explain?

Well, nothing. No one would understand a single thing until they all knew
why
Zahara Bell had been killed. Robbery? That didn't make sense. Why go to the trouble of using the Triple Threat cocktail dress just to steal the diamond?

Sighing, Lex turned around and brightened the track lights in the bedroom. She pulled the blinds closed, protecting herself from helicopters with telephoto-lens cameras. The last thing she wanted was her private sanctuary revealed to the world. The bedroom was, of course, her favorite part of the penthouse. She had designed it herself, the light pink walls accentuating the sky blue color of the ceiling. Her canopy bed was fluffed with snow white pillows. The marble bureau held several of her favorite photographs: Lex with John Galliano, Lex with Betsey Johnson, Lex with Alexander McQueen, Lex with Sarah Jessica, Lex with Angelina, Lex with Princes William and Harry. She would have a lot of explaining to do next month at the various fall fashion shows. She couldn't imagine what people would be saying. One of her best pieces and it had to go and end up on a dead woman. Thinking back on it now, Lex was comforted slightly by the fact that Zahara Bell's thin body had, in fact, looked good on the floor of the coatroom. The cocktail dress should have been hiked up a little higher for cleavage purposes, but Zahara's poor boobs would never bounce again.

Lex walked into the very center of the room and faced her closet doors. They were closed. She
always
left them closed. She hadn't wanted to face them last night or this morning. But now it was absolutely necessary. For the first time, she regretted not
getting a lock and key for them as Park had suggested several months ago. Maybe that would have stopped whoever had broken in from actually stealing the dress. She tried to imagine just how it had happened. In her mind's eye she pictured a masked figure slipping in through the front while they were all out, tiptoeing into her room, and quietly opening the closet doors. She saw gloved hands reaching past the hangers that held her everyday designer clothes. She saw long fingers curling around the black garment bag emblazoned with the Triple Threat emblem. And then the getaway: the swift padding of feet across the carpeted floor as the thief rushed out. At the very least, she hoped the bastard hadn't come in here wearing poorly fitting leather gloves, an acrylic ski mask, and sneakers.

Eww.

She gritted her teeth, utterly perturbed. She glanced at the small circular desk at the far end of the room, where her personal datebook sat open on its spine. She didn't have to flip through it to know that the past few weeks had been inordinately busy. In addition to classes and the usual social engagements, she had visited the Badescu salon several times for facials and body wraps. She'd flown to Milan last month to select fabrics for several evening gowns she had designed. And then there'd been the impromptu trip to Los Angeles when Hamilton Holdings completed its
hostile takeover of that silly global real estate company. The penthouse had been practically empty for weeks. And with Lupe coming and going whenever she pleased, the thief could've even uncorked a bottle of champagne and taken a dunk in her very own Jacuzzi, for God's sake!

She tried to remember the last time she'd actually seen that particular cocktail dress, but her memories were fuzzy. On her daily trips to and from her closet, she didn't stop and count the articles of clothing hanging everywhere.
That
would take at least three hours—
with
a personal assistant.

She mustered all her strength and marched toward the closet. She threw open the double doors. The light, a sensor, flicked on automatically. It was like illuminating an opulently furnished warehouse: the walls were floor-to-ceiling cedar shelving filled top to bottom with shoes and accessories; the floor was carpeted, and tall full-length mirrors with built-in track bulbs comprised all four corners. In the center of the closet was a three-level brass mechanism that came alive at the push of a button. Lex called it the clothing carousel. It held hundreds of occupied hangers and was organized to accommodate the demands of a busy social life. The bottom level was for daily, funky wardrobe, especially designer jeans: True Religion, 7 for all mankind, Sergio Valente, Habitual, Citizens of Humanity, Chloe, Blue Cult. There were rows of shirts
as well, from Morphine Generation and C&C, Heatherette and Itsus. The second level comprised designer pieces suitable for business meetings, power brunches, or evening galas; there were sleek and sophisticated suits by Giorgio Armani, Donatella Versace, agnès b., Roberto Cavalli, Marc Jacobs, Stella McCartney; absolutely gorgeous—and brilliantly outrageous—gowns by John Galliano and Jean Paul Gaultier; Vera Wang evening wear; blazers and coats by Vivienne Westwood; her favorite Issey Miyake Pleats Please skirts.

The third level was reserved for her own designs. To date, the Triple Threat label included gowns, cocktail dresses, assorted minis, blazers and coats, and various accessories. Her designs had been created using only the finest fabrics. The silks: chiffon and china, crepe de chine, charmeuse, jacquard, noil, douppioni, tussah, fuji, georgette. The wools: superfine merino, medium merino, Border Leicester, Corriedale, cashmere. The leathers: vegetable tanned, chrome tanned, buckskin, suede. Her choice of exquisite fabrics was matched only by the versatility of her designs. There were bright flashy gowns with leopard-print trains and strategically placed handembroidering; elegant but provocative suits with plunging necklines; blazers that revealed just a glimpse of skin beneath the navel; waist-hugging purple and black jeans that flared dramatically at the ankles;
several pieces of lingerie that accentuated a young woman's sweet parts; thick leather belts studded with wisps of pink down, and various other accessories. Daring. Unique. Seductive. It was not fashion for the faint of heart.

She tapped the little beige button on the wall to her right, and the intricate system of spiral-shaped poles came to life. Hundreds of hangers shook in their places. A beep sounded. Then the dozens and dozens of clothes moved down the track and back around, much like a carousel. She only had to press the button to stop the spinning, which brought a selected item right to her fingertips. But she didn't stop it. She stood rooted to the spot, eyeing her collection of clothes, paying special attention to the uppermost level.

And then she saw it—a space right in the middle of the perfectly organized rows; it wasn't more than six inches wide, but it revealed a big part of the mystery swirling in her head. That was the spot where the Triple Threat cocktail dress had hung. Someone had taken it right off the damn track.

But who?

Images flashed in her mind. She had countless friends, both at St. Cecilia's Prep and outside of the school. Girls, guys, slightly older college boys. They had all hung out right here in this very room over the past few months, sporadic little get-togethers
that usually ended with drinks and cognac-dipped cigars. Had one of them planned this? Had one of them—or two of them?—stolen the dress when she was in the bathroom, or the kitchen, or rummaging through the forbidden bar in the library? It seemed preposterous. But then again, everything that had happened in the last several hours seemed impossible to believe, and yet the ugly events had unfolded before her very eyes.

She turned and stared at the wide expanse of her bedroom. She hadn't noticed anything out of place recently. Nothing else was missing. She faced the closet again and walked to the opposite side of the moving rack. To her left were the cedar shelves that held her shoes. To the right of those were the shelves that held her accessories. The shelf piled high with scarves was messier than the rest, as if it had been rifled through. And it
had,
Lex realized, remembering the pink scarf tied around Chicky Marsala's neck.

Damn you, mystery man. When the hell did you do this?

Exasperated, she dropped to her knees and began crawling around, scraping her hands gently over the carpet in search of clues. She had seen the detectives on the cop shows go about crime-solving this way. According to prime-time TV, criminals always left traces of themselves when doing their business. She didn't have a magnifying glass or one of those feathery
fingerprint-finding tools, but there was no time to worry about that now. She wanted answers. She wanted a swift resolution to this messy murder problem.

She moved her fingers back and forth over the carpet, pinching at the fibers. The immediate area was clean. Refusing to give up, she knotted her hair in a bun, crouched down, and then got onto her stomach. She squirmed into the small space under the clothing carousel, holding her breath as she did so. It was like slithering beneath a very pretty rock. Shadowy and dense, the space smelled of perfume and moisturizer. She navigated it inch by inch, stretching her arms out against the carpet and then moving them up and down. Before she knew it, her thin frame had disappeared completely beneath the carousel. She squirmed some more. She exhaled and drew in another breath. She was about to curse and give up when the fingers of her right hand coursed over something small and hard and very cold.

A button? A coin? Lex grabbed the thing and then quickly jiggled her way out from under the carousel. Resting on her knees, she stared into the palm of her open hand. The thing was oval-shaped and gold, but otherwise empty. Suddenly she realized that she was looking at the flat backside of a charm; detached from its chain, it had obviously hung from someone's neck. And that
someone
hadn't realized that it had fallen or been dropped onto the floor of her closet.
She didn't recognize the charm. It wasn't hers, nor did it belong to Madison or Park. Whose was it? She turned it over in her palm and saw the three letters etched deeply into the face of the gold.

T. A. W.

It took a moment for the letters to compute. But when they did, Lex gasped and angrily closed her fingers over the charm.
Holy shit,
she thought.
This explains everything.

T. A. W.

They were initials, and they stood for
Theodore Aaron West
.

Julia Colbert Gantz exited the cab in front of 4 Times Square and thanked the driver with a discernible tremor in her voice. It was past midnight. The wide stretch of Broadway was packed with traffic and tourists, but the customary chaos actually quelled her nerves. There was safety in numbers.

She wondered if the fear was evident in her eyes or in the quick steps she took toward the building's entrance. It was certainly alive in her blood, churning like waves in a storm. She had never in her life
been this scared. Throwing a glance over her shoulder, she pushed through the revolving doors and averted her gaze from the two uniformed men sitting behind the large front desk. At this hour of night, the security guards were usually pretending to be on the job, glancing up from their magazines or books without really
looking
at who passed them by. Julia hoped that would be the case now. She didn't want to make small talk, but men generally felt the need to speak to her, no matter the time of day or hour of night.

Tall, toned, and beautiful, Julia's twenty-eight-year-old body still looked seventeen, and she had retained the distinctive sashay of her supermodel days. Strawberry blond hair tumbled past her shoulders in thick tendrils. Her milky complexion was accentuated by the heart-shaped pout of her lips. At
Catwalk
magazine, she was often referred to as the only fashion expert with
real
experience in the business. Julia herself knew it was true, but she had never been one for taking sides or making enemies. She was pleased with her job as the executive assistant to the editor in chief. She and the infamous Zahara Bell shared an amicable working relationship, which was a mystery that defied solving.

Now, of course, there was a much bigger mystery to solve.

As Julia walked past the desk, she heard one of the guards clear his throat.

“Ms. Gantz,” he said, a little too loudly.

Julia paused and turned to face him. “Hello, Ralph. Busy tonight?”

“I can't believe what happened to Ms. Bell!” he said breathlessly. “It was like a circus here yesterday and today. So many people. So many cops. It just calmed down a few hours ago.”

“Yes, I know. I'm still in shock. I just can't believe it.” She pulled a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her Miu Miu trench coat and dabbed at her nose.

“And then today—that guy killed in the Hamiltons' building. Man!”

Julia's breath caught in her throat. She didn't want to hear about it because, God knew, she had spent the last twenty-eight hours agonizing about it.
Are you going to do something and solve this mess?
the little voice in her head kept asking in an outraged tone.
You can't hide forever. You can't let the fear get you.
Now she squared her shoulders and gave Ralph a terse nod. “I have things to do upstairs. If you'll excuse me …”

“You need any help? Can I carry anything for you?” He stood up.

“No, not at all. But thank you.” Julia turned and headed for the elevator bank. The building housed several corporate offices that operated around the clock, so it wasn't too deserted. She stepped into the first empty elevator and rode it to the seventh floor. The executive offices of
Catwalk
magazine were
decorated in hues of white and red, with splashes of earth tones on the reception area carpet and large mahogany frames that held covers of the magazine's previous editions. Now the entire suite was dark and empty. Julia listened to the hum of computers left idle on desks, a clock ticking in the nearby conference room. Swallowing her fear, she walked across the floor and hung a right down the first corridor. She passed her own small cubicle and headed for the office at the very end—the one she had never before entered without permission. She paused when she reached it, breathing heavily.