On the Avenue (6 page)

He hadn't meant to ditch her. It had been an act of sheer, stupid panic. As the commotion in the coatroom heightened, Jeremy had stormed down the hallway and out of the museum's front doors. He had even seen that short fat photographer making a run for it. He couldn't imagine how upset Park must have been when she realized he had left her flat and cold to deal with the whole mess. She and her sisters were probably calling him a dickless asshole right now,
but dammit, that was totally untrue. Running away from danger wasn't Jeremy's style; it never had been. If he had managed to keep his wits in order, he would've gathered Park into his arms and held her until the cops showed up. He would've showed her that he was more than just a famous face. But fear had gotten the best of him. In those terror-filled moments, he had heard his publicist's voice echoing in his head like thunder.

The biggest rule of fame, Jeremy, is to control your publicity. Don't create a scandal unless it will benefit your career.

And as far as he could tell, there was nothing good about being connected to Zahara Bell's murder.

There was, however, something to be said for snagging one of the Hamilton triplets.

Despite the fact that he and Park had only just met, Jeremy knew the connection between them was fierce. Hell, it might even be love at first sight. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Just thinking about her made his heart pound. He had hooked up with more girls than he could count, but Park was different from any of them. She had style and class and grace. She had brains. They had locked eyes across the crowded ballroom, and next thing he knew they had struck up a flirtatious conversation. But even as the air between them had heated up, she hadn't thrown herself at him carelessly. She had
sized him up, stared him down, and reeled him in.
She
had made
him
feel thankful for the gift of her kiss, and it usually didn't work that way. Usually, girls fawned and swooned and clawed their way into Jeremy's jeans. Getting laid had never been a challenge for him. But tonight, under Park's spell, he had felt completely dominated. And he'd enjoyed every second of it.

He exhaled a heavy breath, determined to quell the fire burning in his boxers. What he needed was a cold shower. He settled for a splash of water across his face, then reached for the travel case sitting on the far end of the sink. From it he drew a long silver and blue tube of ZIRH moisturizer. He squeezed a small amount into the palm of his left hand and slathered the cream over his cheeks, forehead, and chin. The red hives started to disappear almost immediately. A good complexion was paramount when going before the cameras, and Jeremy had few doubts that in the morning he would have to make some sort of statement to the press. Thank God for men's cosmetics.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he felt the full force of the martini hitting his blood. He was ever so slightly—and ever so sweetly—light-headed. He settled himself on the plush couch in the center of the suite and stared down at his hands. They were still trembling. A moment later his eyes drifted to
the large mahogany and glass coffee table not two feet away. The remote control stared back at him.

No,
he thought,
don't turn on the TV. Bad idea. Zahara Bell's murder couldn't have made it onto the news so quickly.

He hesitated, but curiosity got the better of him. Slowly, nervously, he stretched out an arm and jabbed a finger at the Power button. The plasma television mounted above the fireplace came to life with a flash. The channel was tuned to MTV: Jessica gyrating to her latest hit. Deciding he didn't need to be aroused further, Jeremy grabbed the remote and began cruising through the channels. One, two, three, four … no mention of the story on any of the local stations. Good. The more time he had to figure things out, the better. He would spend the night plotting his way out of this one if he had to. He would even—

The remote landed on ABC, and Jeremy gasped. He was staring at a live aerial shot of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Crowds were gathered at the bottom of the steep steps, and dozens of police cruisers sat motionless along the west side of Fifth Avenue.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Not already.”

He raised the volume on the flat-screen, and Diane Sawyer's unmistakable voice filled the room.

“… following a developing story,” she said as the aerial shot zoomed in closer. “Several sources have
told ABC News that internationally renowned fashion editor Zahara Bell was found dead inside the Met just over an hour ago. Bell was apparently a guest at a charitable gala at the Met tonight …”

Jeremy shot to his feet, panic seizing him. “Diane, sweetie, don't do this to me!” he shouted.

“… and we are now being told,” Diane continued, “that police are treating this as a
homicide
. You are seeing on your screens now a live shot of the Met, teeming with activity. Tonight's star-studded gala was apparently being sponsored by Hamilton Holdings, Incorporated, and we are being told that the Hamilton triplets—Madison, Park, and Lexington—were in attendance. A number of other celebrities were also in attendance: Gwen Stefani, Lindsay Lohan, and Jeremy Bleu among them. Sources are telling ABC News that all the guests are still inside the museum as police secure the crime scene and begin their investigation into the murder of Zahara Bell.…”

“No!” Jeremy screamed. “No! No!
Fucking no!
” He slammed his hand against the remote. The flatscreen blinked out, plunging the suite into semidarkness again. Breathing nervously, he raked both hands through his hair and stomped over to the nearest window. He stared down at the busy stretch of Fifth Avenue. Traffic. Lights. Ordinary cars. No police cruisers. He was about to make his way to the bar
for a second martini when the suite's telephone rang. Cautiously, he picked it up.

“Mr. Bleu?” a female voice said from the other end of the line. “This is the front desk calling. I wanted to let you know …” The woman's voice trailed off as background noise filtered through the receiver.

“Yes?” Jeremy said impatiently. “What is it?”

“Well, we thought you should know,” the woman continued. Her voice dropped into a whisper. “There are several reporters in the lobby demanding to speak to you.”

“Don't you
dare
let them anywhere near those elevators!” Jeremy screamed. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied nervously. “Yes. I—”

“If even
one
reporter makes it up here and starts banging on my door, I'll have my publicist tear this place apart. I'll let the whole world know that you can't provide adequate security for your guests. Do you understand me?
Do you?
”

“Yes, yes. Of course. I—”

Jeremy slammed the phone down. He started pacing. The word was obviously out that he had run away from the Met only moments after discovering Zahara Bell's body. And if the press knew it, so did the police. He imagined them storming through the suite like wolves on the prowl, eager to tie his bad-boy image to a really bad situation.

Why did you flee the crime scene, Mr. Bleu?

Because I was scared,
Jeremy thought now, rehearsing for what would undoubtedly prove to be the most challenging role of his life.
I didn't know what else to do. It was fear. I'm still afraid, Officer. There's a killer on the loose.

And what did you do after you left?

I came back to my hotel room. The front desk saw me. People saw me.

Did you know the victim?

He would give them a slow, mournful nod.
Yes.

And then what? Would it really be that easy? What if the cops started poking into his past and found the shit he didn't want them to find?

He went to the bedroom and grabbed his pack of Nat Shermans off the nightstand. He lit up.
You didn't make any mistakes,
he assured himself.
No one will ever find out. Just stay calm.
He paced the room, puffing hard on the cigarette. When the image of Zahara Bell's twisted body flashed before his eyes again, he started. He shook his head. Then he raked his left hand across his neck and shoulder, wanting to squeeze the tension from his muscles. It was the precise moment his heart nearly exploded in his chest.

Oh, shit. Please, don't let it be true.

But it
was
true. Realizing his error, he stared frantically around the room, wondering what to do next.

How could I have been so stupid? Why didn't I think before acting?

He kept telling himself that maybe no one would notice. He hoped to God no one noticed. That was his only chance at escaping this ugly mess. Otherwise, in the morning, he would be
totally
behind bars.

It was all about staying cool. The girls had learned that lesson a long time ago. When scandal erupted and nasty rumors took flight, you had to toss your head back, drop your shoulders, and draw attention to the jewelry sparkling around your neck. Precious gems brightened even the most unflattering light.

Madison knew this. She stood a few feet away from her sisters and Coco, her body turned purposefully toward the crowd that had gathered at the opposite end of the corridor. The Harry Winston choker
glittered on her neck like a disco ball. An intricate web of bright green emeralds and heart-shaped five carat sapphire stones, it was a rare work of art that never failed to attract dozens of admiring glances. Madison lifted her eyes nonchalantly to the ceiling and casually struck a pose. People were staring more than they were whispering, and that was a good thing.

“I didn't notice how gorgeous that piece is until now,” Park said quietly.

Coco nodded. “It casts a spell. Look at how quiet the crowd got.”

“She's
always
worn jewelry beautifully,” Lex commented of her sister. “I can't wear chokers—they don't call enough attention to my boobs.”

They stood a few feet away, watching calmly as Madison seized and mastered the moment. She tossed her head back again. She pivoted as if she were standing at the edge of a runway. Then she smiled as three cameras flashed in rapid succession. The cool act worked like a charm. She was representing Hamilton Holdings, Inc., at the gala, so it made perfect sense for her to wow the crowd— especially now, with so many people wondering what the hell was happening.

It was an ugly scene. There were at least fifteen uniformed police officers standing along the corridor, looking grim. Yellow crime-scene tape sealed off the entrance to the coatroom. And a tall middle-aged
man with thinning blond hair and a badge around his neck was standing on the threshold scribbling notes onto a pad. He muttered something to one of the cops and then looked up.

Park immediately met his stare and locked her eyes with his. As he came toward her in quick strides, she extended her hand.

The older man seemed taken aback by the gesture. He paused, cracked a nervous smile, and folded his hand in hers. “Detective Charlie Mullen, Homicide,” he said.

“Park Hamilton,” she replied, making certain to keep her tone calm. “Charmed, I'm sure.”

“I know who you are, Ms. Hamilton,” Mullen said.

“Please, call me Park.” She glanced over her shoulder, introducing Lex and Coco. Before the detective could begin asking questions, she said, “This has been a terrible and unfortunate tragedy. We were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That's putting it mildly.” Mullen cleared his throat. “Would you mind calling your sister over here? I need to speak with all of you.”

“Madison,” Park said lightly. “Could you join us, please?”

Turning on her heels, Madison made her way over to them with graceful steps, as though waltzing across the floor. She extended her hand to the older man.

Mullen took it, and his eyes fell inevitably to the
shimmering choker. “Those are some rocks you got around your neck,” he said, impressed.

“Thank you.” Madison smiled.

“Are those real emeralds?”

The question—so innocent and yet so painfully offensive—rattled Madison to the core. She couldn't believe someone would actually think she was wearing
costume jewelry.
Fake emeralds? Fake sapphires? The very thought of hastily cut green glass and those ugly blue plastic nuggets made her dizzy. She blinked, speechless, and looked from Park to Lex to Coco. When the silence got tense, she turned back to Detective Mullen and said, with as much strength as she could muster, “Yes. They're real.”

“Amazing,” Mullen whispered. “I don't think I've ever seen emeralds that big this close up.”

Park knew a cue when she heard one. She also knew an impressed fan when she met one. Detective Mullen might have been in his forties, but he was obviously in awe of the company surrounding him. She wondered if he had a daughter her age, or if his wife was one of those tabloid magazine junkies who enjoyed reading about the infamous Hamilton sisters. Whatever the case, it wouldn't hurt to make small talk. “Do you know the legend behind real emeralds, Detective?” she asked him sweetly.

“I don't,” he admitted.

“Well,” Park began, “emeralds are among the
earliest gemstones known to man. In ancient times, they were dedicated to the goddess Venus for love, and also because they were believed to improve intelligence. But they were mainly used for love. They say that if you give someone an emerald, she'll be a faithful lover for the rest of her life. They also say that once you own an emerald, you can never lose it. Emeralds always find their way home.”

Mullen smirked. “That's interesting. Never heard that before. You some kind of expert?”

“You could say that.” Inwardly, Park smiled. She was more than an expert when it came to precious gems and stones. Jewels had been one of her ruling passions ever since she was a little girl, and over the years she had devoted countless hours to studying everything from diamonds and pearls to the rarest sapphires. Her knowledge of the subject was huge. Her personal jewelry collection was even bigger. “Your wife would probably love an emerald for your anniversary this year,” she said.