On the Avenue (5 page)

Park went to Coco's side. Her hands flew to her mouth in shock. “Oh. My.
God!
”

Madison, standing speechless not three feet away, nearly fainted. She stumbled back and into Jeremy's waiting arms.

“She's totally dead!” Coco said. “Murdered!”

Lex shrieked. She held Champagne against her chest, then forced herself to stare. Her eyes widened in disbelief as they traced over the woman's short black hair, straight nose, and lean body. “It's Zahara Bell!” she screeched. “Oh, my God! Someone's killed Zahara Bell!”

“Jesus, it
is
Zahara!” Jeremy said. He held Madison firmly in his arms and at the same time leaned forward to inspect the corpse.

“Oh, this is so
gross,
” Coco whispered.

“Call the police,” Park ordered. “Open the door and get security in here!”

But before anyone moved, the door burst open and the two security guards rushed inside. They didn't speak. They didn't even breathe. The shock showed on their faces instantly. They both reached for the radios on their belts and began shouting out codes. “All of you kids, get out of here!” one of them bellowed.

“Wait!” Lex said. “Oh, my God! I don't believe it!
Look!
”

“What is it?” Madison asked, her voice quavering.

Lex pointed down at the body of Zahara Bell, indicating her clothing. The dead woman was wearing a black strapless cocktail dress that appeared to have been hastily yanked over her boobs. The lace pattern running down the center was intricate and unique: At close glance, the hand-stitched seams formed a slender champagne flute that looked as though it had been superimposed onto the delicate fabric. Pinned to the dress's left sleeve was a bright orange silk orchid. “That's one of my dresses!” Lex screamed. “It's a Triple Threat original!
And it should be hanging in my closet right now!
”

“What?” Park asked, her tone incredulous. “That's impossible.”

“She's right,” Madison confirmed weakly. “My God, she's
totally
right. Lex wore that dress to the opening of Lotus in Vegas two months ago.”

“That's right! I did!”

“Enough!” the security guard bellowed. “Get out of here now!
Now!
”

“What about the scarf?” Coco asked, ignoring the order. “You didn't design that too, did you? Looks like it's what did her in.”

Lex held a hand to her stomach. “Are you
kidding
? Like I'd make a scarf that ugly.”

“The poor woman,” Park whispered, recoiling and pushing her sisters and Coco toward the door. “Who would want Zahara Bell dead?”

“You know the deceased woman?” the security guard asked.

Lex whirled around. “
Know
her? She's the most brilliant and powerful fashion editor in the world!”

“For God's sake!” Coco sneered, narrowing her eyes at the guard. “Can't you at least
pretend
to know who important people are?”

“Fine. Next time I will.” The guard pointed to the door. “Get out. But don't you girls even
think
about leaving until the cops have spoken to all of you.”

They walked out of the coatroom and into the corridor. A crowd had already gathered at the opposite side of the wing, the din of voices drifting through the air. As the girls hurried across the floor and out of earshot, Madison said, “Hey, wait a minute. Where's Jeremy? And what happened to the psycho photographer?”

Park blinked, confused. She looked around, poking her head out at the crowd and scanning dozens of curious faces. Jeremy had, in fact, vanished. And so had the paparazzo.

“The little dick bounced on us,” Lex snapped. “See what I mean? You can never trust actors.”

“He was holding me up one minute and gone the next,” Madison said. “Where did he go? I didn't see him leave.”

“Maybe …” Park found herself struggling to find the right words. “Maybe he's in the men's room, or maybe he's just hiding out, avoiding the crowd. He knows he can't leave without talking to the police.”

“Well, neither can we.” Madison looked down at her hands. She was still clutching the camera. She gestured for Lex to open up the magic purse and dropped it inside.

“This is ridiculous,” Coco said. “I don't want to stay here. There's a dead body here. There's a
killer
here. Why do we have to stay?”

“Because we found the body,” Lex told her quietly. “And that spells a whole lot of trouble. My God—you heard that security guard. We have to talk to the cops. They probably think we're
guilty
of something.”

Madison nodded. Anxiety showed in her eyes. “You're right. They probably do. And it makes perfect sense. Zahara Bell was wearing one of Lex's dresses: Does that tie us to the crime? We're probably
suspects,
for God's sake!”

“Don't say that! I can't even hear it!” Coco covered her ears with her hands.

“What are we gonna do?” Lex said, panic rising in her voice. “How are we going to explain this to people? The press will have a field day. We'll all be tried as murderers. It'll be worse than when …”

Park didn't flinch as all eyes locked upon her. She stared back at her sisters and Coco and then ran a hand through her hair. “There's only one thing we
can
do,” she said calmly. “We'll just have to find the killer first.”

Jeremy was breathless. He had been speed walking for ten solid minutes, and now a film of sweat was beginning to dampen the exquisite fabric of his Dolce & Gabbana tuxedo. He finally slowed his pace as he neared the corner of Fifth Avenue and Sixty-third Street. Traffic was heavy, crowds thick. The city was just starting to boom with nightlife. Under normal circumstances the vibe would have excited him, but he wasn't in a partying mood anymore. His heart was thudding. His palms were slick. And for the first time
in three fame-filled years, he found himself wishing for complete anonymity.

Running a hand through his wavy hair, Jeremy eyed the dozens of occupied cabs streaming past. There was no chance of flagging one down. What would be the damn point, anyway? He was only a few short blocks from the Pierre and the safety of his penthouse suite. It made more sense to continue walking, but the possibility of being spotted and fawned over by ten or twenty fans was all too real— and all too dangerous. Cameras would flash. Word would spread. By morning there would be pictures of him in all the major newspapers looking scared and disheveled and totally spooked. And every reporter in the city would put the pieces together and know that he had fled the crime scene. It wasn't exactly the kind of publicity he wanted. One little connection to a dead body and your movie career was downgraded to daytime television status.

He reached the corner of Sixty-first Street. He scanned the endless stream of cars again. Everything was just too damn bright. Here, on the west side of Fifth Avenue, he stood ensconced in shadows, the trees of Central Park camouflaging him beneath a leafy canopy. One more block and the avenue widened to a concrete jungle. There was no safety in the harsh glare of headlights and glowing skyscrapers. Still, he knew it was only a matter of time
before
someone
with a brain recognized him. He had no choice but to keep moving. Holding his breath, he stared at the flashing crosswalk signal and cut quickly to the opposite side of the avenue. He walked with his head down. Several pedestrians zipped by him, but no one threw a glance his way.

Good. Ignore me. Let me be invisible.

Even as the words echoed through his brain, Jeremy knew that becoming invisible was as impossible as going a week without sex. His face was currently gracing the covers of five national magazines, a billboard in So Ho, and countless promo posters for his upcoming film,
Knight.
Yesterday, while in Los Angeles, he had granted Mary Hart an interview for
Entertainment Tonight.
There was also his appearance on the
Today
show to think about. And just two hours ago, he'd been the main attraction of the Met's fund-raising gala. The whirlwind of publicity was constant. It hadn't stopped in three years, ever since he'd starred in
All Cut Up,
his first blockbuster movie. Jeremy had gone from fifteen-year-old Iowa farm boy to international celebrity overnight, and the world's eyes were locked on him. He liked to think it had everything to do with his acting abilities, but deep down, he knew his good looks were the reason for his fame. He was tall and lean and solidly built, with washboard abs and killer pecs. He couldn't take a bad picture. Women went crazy when
he stepped out of a limousine and strutted down the red carpet. They went even
crazier
when they spotted him doing everyday things—driving to the gym, shopping at the grocery store, playing with his dog on the beach in front of his Malibu mansion. Getting used to the continuous adoration had been easy, but being photographed a dozen times a day was another story. That was the downside of fame: you couldn't scratch your ass without it making the tabloids.

Now he glanced up and saw the Pierre's well-lit entrance a few steps away. Relief flooded him. He feigned a smile as the doorman, a middle-aged man in a blue suit and top hat, perked up with visible admiration.

“Mr. Bleu,” the man said quietly, reaching for the door and holding it open. “Welcome back to the Pierre. Is there anything I can help you with this evening?”

“No, thanks,” Jeremy replied tersely. “I'm fine.” He stepped into the stately lobby but didn't make eye contact with the front-desk staff. He walked straight to the elevators and jumped into the first empty one. As he rode up to the penthouse suite, he felt his anxiety level kick up a few notches. This was a nightmare. A total fucking nightmare. Once the news broke that he had been at the gala, people would start asking questions. How was he going to handle that?
What impact would the impending scandal have on his career?

The elevator doors yawned open and Jeremy stepped into the privacy of the penthouse parlor. He fished the key from his blazer pocket. He jammed it into the lock, turned it, and slammed the door behind him. He stood for a moment in the darkness, staring out the large windows that overlooked Central Park and the blazing lights of the West Side. The view was spectacular. It had always managed to calm him in the past, but now he felt edgy and totally freaked. He couldn't look down at the grandeur of Fifth Avenue without imagining cop cars, sirens, and crowds of reporters closing in for the kill.

Peeling off his blazer, he went for the bar in the far corner of the room and reached for the bottle of Grey Goose. He grabbed a martini glass. He poured the vodka almost to the rim and then spiked it with a shot of Midori. Then he downed most of it in a single gulp, wincing as the beverage seared his throat. It had been a long time since he'd had a good, stiff drink. Maybe that was what he needed—a few hours of highflying euphoria to ease his nerves. But even as the first mouthful of alcohol settled on his empty stomach, he knew getting blitzed wasn't going to accomplish anything. In the morning his hangover would be just another obstacle, and he'd still have to face the fact that Zahara Bell was dead.

Not just dead,
he thought.
Murdered.

He closed his eyes against the vision that rose before him, the vision of Zahara's twisted—but very well-clothed—body lying on that coatroom floor, the thick scarf cinched around her neck. It made him want to hurl. He had never in his life been
that close
to an actual crime scene.

Especially not one with personal ties.

He had met Zahara Bell the year before in Milan at the Prada men's show. Jeremy had been escorted to the front row, and ten minutes later Zahara had settled herself in right beside him. She was pretty hot for a woman her age. She'd been dressed immaculately in a tight black miniskirt and leather blazer, and Jeremy had noticed her legs right away: smooth, tanned, and perfectly toned. Her sexy stilettos had sent his equipment into a frenzy. She was in her forties and old enough to be his mother, but that hadn't mattered a bit. For most of the show, Jeremy had watched her from the corner of his eye, making small talk and drinking in the sweet scent of her perfume. A week later, in one of her customarily controversial
Catwalk
magazine interviews, Zahara had referred to Jeremy as “devilishly delicious.” The description pleased him. Since then, he had seen her on several occasions, and they had always flirted with each other from a comfortable distance.

Now the woman was plant fertilizer. Jeremy shook
his head to blot out the image of her slender neck straining against the pressure of the scarf. It was such an ugly memory. On movie sets there were all kinds of gadgets and makeup and camera tricks that mimicked murder with stunning accuracy, but nothing compared to seeing the real thing up close. He still couldn't believe it had actually happened. He had heard hundreds of unflattering stories about Zahara Bell over the past three years, and there was no shortage of people who had reason to want her dead. She had been the quintessential bitch, making and breaking the careers of fashion designers all over the world. As editor in chief of
Catwalk
magazine, she'd published scathing articles and humiliated dozens of high-profile celebrities who had simply rubbed her the wrong way. She had ripped through countless frightened assistants as well. In one particularly shocking tale, Zahara had apparently called a board meeting at
Catwalk
magazine for the sole purpose of embarrassing a number of young female employees who hadn't lived up to her fashionable standards; she had identified them one by one using less than flattering names:
Lard Legs, Pimple Princess, Dandruff Drag Queen,
and
Jiggle-Butt.
Zahara herself had also been branded in the press by her enemies. Depending on who was talking about her, she was often referred to as a “bloodsucking python” or a “venomous scorpion.” A well-liked woman she was not.

Jeremy set the empty martini glass on the windowsill and peeled off his shirt. It was soaked through with sweat. Cursing, he threw it onto the couch and stomped into the bathroom, where he studied his reflection in the mirror. All that damn nervous energy had caused him to break out in hives. There were two bright red dots on his forehead and another just beside his nose. Thankfully, the rest of his upper body looked good. Park Hamilton had been pressed up against his chest a short while ago. He could still feel the heat of her lips and smell the sweetness of her perfume. She was
so
hot. He wished more than anything that they could've finished what they had started. The only evidence of their little rendezvous was the pinkish purple hickey forming on the left side of his neck. He touched it gently and bit down on his lower lip, trying to control the hormones raging through his blood.