On the Avenue (25 page)

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.

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.

Up until a few hours ago, that
was
what he cared about, but the loneliness and chaos of this whole experience had totally zapped his brain. Now all he felt was empty. He felt disconnected from everything.

And he wasn't going to stand for it.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open and Felicia appeared on the threshold. “Splendid news!” she shouted. “Theo West has run away—disappeared. He's trying to avoid the police because they want to question him about the murders.”

Jeremy folded his arms over his chest. “And why the hell is that good news?” he snapped.

“Well, darling …it's basically an admission of guilt.” She smiled. “It's all over the news. Theo West killed Zahara Bell because he thought it would silence her from publishing that story about him and Madison Hamilton. And before long, the police will tie him to yesterday's murder too.”

“What about Park?” he asked her quickly.

Felicia's face registered confusion. “What about her?”

“If Theo West is a killer, and he's crazed and running on empty, how do you know he isn't on his way to hurt the Hamilton triplets right now?”

“I don't know. But I'm sure those girls have good security around them. Now, Jeremy, we need to discuss your next statement, and what you're going to say about this whole ordeal on
Late Night.
I think—”

“I
don't
wanna talk about it.” Turning around, Jeremy grabbed his coat from where it hung off one side of the bed. He shoved into it, his heart beating fast. What if his hunch was right? What if Park really
was
in danger? He couldn't think about it without feeling sick.

As he stormed past Felicia, Gavin Kaminsky appeared on the threshold. He wasn't a big man, but he had strength. He shoved Jeremy back into the bedroom. “Easy does it, kiddo. Easy does it.”

“Let me go!” Jeremy shouted. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Jeremy!” Felicia said. “You can't go outside!”

“I can do whatever I want!” he bellowed back. But Gavin had shoved him onto the bed, and now he and Felcia were darting for the door. They ran out, closing it behind them. Jeremy heard a
click
and knew that he was locked in.

Breathing heavily, he stood up and looked frantically around the bedroom.

“It's for your own good,” Felicia said from the living room. “You can't be seen in public yet!”

Dropping his head into his hands, Jeremy heaved a sigh. He felt like crying. He felt as if the
world were about to end. How was he going to get out of here? He had to get to Park. He had to tell her that he needed her, that he had never meant for any of this to happen, that he thought he was already in love with her….

By nightfall, the media crowds had thinned considerably, but the news was all about Theo West and his apparent flight from the police. The television broadcasts were airing small biographical pieces about him, as if his life were already over. Where had he fled? What was he hiding? Why hadn't the West family made a statement yet? The manhunt was officially under way.

Madison, Park, and Lex sat in the spacious entertainment room of the penthouse, watching the story unfold. At Park's insistence, they had closed up the
executive offices and come home. There was no point in staying, she'd said, and the familiar confines of the apartment building would provide them with more safety. Now the television flashed from channel to channel, spewing out the same headlines.