On the Avenue (9 page)

Their attendance at monthly board meetings was mandatory. Twice a year, they accompanied him on trips to Hong Kong, Sydney, and Dubai to meet with foreign affiliates and potential real estate investors. They even had their own small offices at Rockefeller Center, where the headquarters for Hamilton Holdings, Inc., was located. It was all part of the master plan. Eventually, Madison, Park, and Lex would take the reins from their father and multiply the company's profits by a few billion bucks. That was still several years away, but even now, at sixteen, they knew the full scope of their duties.

Being a celebrity was all about fame. Being a debutante was all about money. But being a celebutante was about making money—and doing it famously.

Park settled herself deeper into the limo's plush leather seats and said, “Right now, I think it's a bad idea to get our lawyers involved. We haven't been charged with anything. We haven't even been accused. I think the company will be okay so long as we ride the scandal out cleanly without legal ramifications.”

“Nonetheless,” Lex chimed in, “we'll need hourly NASDAQ updates to monitor what's publicly traded. And I hate to say it, but I have to: the West family will be up our asses on this, waiting for the perfect moment to steal our newest investors overseas.”

Clarence, listening intently as he cruised up Broadway, smiled even wider. “So what's the newest
business venture?” he asked, not wanting to be left out of the conversation. “What the hell can those fatass Wests steal?”

Madison hesitated only a moment before replying. “Right now, we're working to secure investors for new cell phone and Internet technology that's coming out of Korea. Amazing stuff that we haven't even seen here yet. It took Daddy almost a year to convince those guys to agree to take a meeting with Hamilton Holdings. It's huge money. A little bit of bad publicity is dangerous, and it gives our competitors ammo to steal the deal right out from under us. That's what the Wests want—to be as powerful as us. They've always wanted it but they haven't managed to get it. That's why they hate us so much.” The last few sentences came out sharply, defiantly, and she turned her head to stare out the window.

“Not
all
the Wests hate us,” Park said, hinting at Madison's former relationship with Theo.

Madison ignored the comment.

“What we're trying to say,” Lex told Clarence, “is that there's a lot at stake. We have to proceed very carefully or we could end up in a lot of trouble.”

“I wouldn't worry about it,” Clarence said reassuringly. “You girls know what you're doing. You're all smart as whips. And right now, the good news is that the coast is clear. No vans following us. No freakin' paparazzi on the prowl.”

“Thank God for that.” Madison shifted in her seat. As she did so, she dropped her purse onto the floor of the limo. Sighing, she leaned over and hastily began chucking the fallen items back in where they belonged. It was dark, but she raked her fingers over the carpet, grabbing at a tube of lipstick, a pack of mints, and, way up against the front seat, a compact. “I hate this damn purse,” she said. “It's always falling open on me.”

“You wouldn't have that problem if you carried one of
my
purses,” Lex commented briskly.

Suddenly, Madison leaned forward, half-hanging over the partition and nearly butting her head against Clarence's face. “Becker, how long were you waiting in front of the Met tonight?”

He shrugged. “Since I dropped Lex off. I didn't move from that spot in front of the Stanhope. Just like always. Why?”

“Did you by any chance see a short fat bald guy running out of the museum looking totally fried and sweaty?”

Clarence laughed. “You're kidding, right? You think I sat there and
stared
at the museum for almost two hours? I read the paper, smoked a cigar. Who's the guy, anyway?”

“Forget it,” Lex said, pulling Madison back into her seat. “It's useless. No one saw that ugly little man leave the building. He's not important anyway.”

“Of course he is!” Madison retorted. “He's the reason we're in this mess. And for all we know, he could be the killer. I think we should go to the police right now and turn the camera in.”

“No,” Park said. “We have too many things that still need figuring out. Let's get home and then we'll decide what to do.”

Clarence slowed the limo down to a crawl as he reached the East Side again, having cut across Central Park at Ninety-seventh Street. The ride had been more stressful than he'd anticipated. His head was buzzing and his shoulders felt tense. Turning around halfway, he eyed the girls and sighed. “Listen to me. Park is right. You take that camera to the cops and it'll only add more fuel to the fire. That's what they want— to use you and exploit you as much as they can because it'll buy them more time to figure out what the hell really happened inside that museum.”

“I guess so,” Lex said quietly. She reached into the magic purse and pulled out her cell phone. As she turned it on, Madison and Park did the same with theirs.

Almost in unison, all three phones fired up and beeped, announcing messages.

“That's weird,” Madison said, studying the screen of her flip phone. “Mine's a text message.”

“So is mine,” Park and Lex blurted out simultaneously.

An ominous silence fell. Clarence stared at the girls through the rearview mirror.

“My message is from a restricted number,” Lex said.

Madison and Park nodded. And then they all read their messages and let out little high-pitched squeals.

Clarence slammed his foot on the brake, threw the car into park, and turned around.

“Look,” Madison said, her voice shaking. She held her cell phone out to him.

Clarence stared down at the phone's neon screen. His eyes almost popped out of his head. The message was cold and clear:

THREE MINUS ONE IS MUCH MORE FUN
.

“Oh! My!
God!
” Lex shrieked. “Do you know what this means? Someone just threatened our lives. Or
one
of our lives!
One of us is the target of a killer!
”

The cab sped up First Avenue in typical New York fashion. Diego Marsala—aka Chicky—sat in the backseat with his head pressed against the dirty window. He barely noticed the crowds on the sidewalks, the cluster of cars at the Ninety-sixth Street entrance to the FDR Drive, or the stream of police cruisers heading west. He was too engrossed in worry to think about anything but his own stupid mistakes. And he had made a lot of them tonight.

“Hey,
papi,
step on it, will you?” he snapped at the driver.

The driver, a quiet, skinny man of obviously foreign origin, nodded, but the cab didn't gain speed.

Hopeless,
Chicky thought. He turned around in the seat and looked through the window. There were no cars following him. The cops were probably still too busy responding to the crime scene at the Met, and that was perfectly fine. But he knew it was only a matter of time before they'd come looking for him. He had been through the legal system repeatedly in the last twenty years, and one way or another, the law always seemed to sink its teeth into his ass. That was the unfortunate result of a lifetime of petty crimes.

Chicky had turned thirty-six back in January, but he looked at least ten years older. He was short, fat, and bald. He had stubby cream-filled fingers. And his small eyes too often flashed hate and anger. Not at all the kind of guy who looked good in pictures. But, ironically enough, he was quite good at taking them. So good, in fact, that he had managed to make a respectable living snapping celebrity shots for several national tabloid magazines. It was tough, sketchy work that required more guts than skill. A paparazzo wasn't merely a photographer; a paparazzo was a photographer with a
mission
. These days, the security that surrounded celebrities was thicker than the pack of brides at a Vera Wang sample sale. You had to maneuver your way through a series of nearly invisible holes to get close enough to click a good shot. And only the good shots got you cash. To date, he had scaled the
sides of private mansions, slept on rooftops in the freezing cold, and hid in more bushes than he could count. All for the perfect pics. It wasn't easy, but it was amazing what the tabloids paid for relatively simple shots of famous people picking their noses, peeing on parkways, or just sunning themselves butt naked in the supposed privacy of their own opulent backyards.

Two years ago, when he'd decided that being a “celebrity photographer” was his true calling, Chicky had surpassed dozens of veteran celebritychasers by way of sheer guile. His years in prison had paid off. He knew how to create fake identification badges and press passes. He knew which security guards to bribe. He knew which paparazzi to lock in closets and bathrooms, and how to get close enough to screw up their shots with a simple nudge of his finger. They weren't major crimes, but they were as good as he would ever get.

Chicky had been branded with the feathery nickname while in the slammer, after his fellow inmates found out that he'd been convicted of robbing a poultry factory in upstate New York and holding a frightened farmer—and several fowl—hostage. But in all this time, and despite all his dirty tricks, Chicky had managed to stay somewhat beneath the radar, thanks to his ever-changing disguises. He had dressed up as a priest, a nun, a forklift operator, a waiter, a surgical technician, and a telephone repairman.
In the process, he had taken tremendously scandalous pictures and banked a lot of sweet cash. But not enough cash to get him a good lawyer.

And right now, he was sure he needed a good lawyer.

He stared out the front windows of the cab. The silent driver wasn't half bad. The guy had gotten him to the outskirts of Harlem in under seven minutes. “Right here,” Chicky called out, already opening the back door. He pulled a ten-dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it over the partition. Then he stepped out onto the dark stretch of Third Avenue, his feet breaking into a run. Every extra pound of his stocky frame jiggled as he trotted up to the small, dilapidated apartment building at the next corner. It was one of those gritty almost-a-tenement structures, with barred windows and broken concrete steps. Rats the size of cats skittered up the flanking alleyways. The cockroaches in the stairwell looked big enough to wear sombreros. But it was a cheap and forgotten place, and Chicky needed as much cover as possible.

Inside his second-floor studio apartment, Chicky tore off his tux and chucked it onto the floor. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the top of the battered dresser and lit one up.
Stupid,
he thought.
I'm just stupid.
Pacing the narrow room, he cursed himself for hanging around at the gala longer than was necessary. If he'd listened to his instinct, he would have left ten minutes after sneaking in. One of the
security guards had eyed his doctored press badge suspiciously, but hadn't said anything. That was when Chicky had known he had to take some good pics and split. But he'd made the mistake of loitering just outside the Great Hall, enjoying the view. All those swanky rich people, with their amazing clothes and pampered faces. Snapshot of a drunk well-known socialite picking the wedgie out of her ass. Excellent close-up of two snotty teens getting filthy with each other on the dance floor. He'd wandered around, snagged a drink from the bar, and then decided to take a little walk. It was a walk that led straight to hell.

Chicky hadn't meant to catch a distant glimpse of the guy hurriedly leaving the coatroom. He hadn't meant to peek inside the coatroom either. But he had. And he'd gotten the shock of his life. Initially, the sight of the woman's body had spooked him. He'd recognized Zahara Bell. In fact, he'd photographed her ten minutes earlier, alive and well. He'd gasped. He'd stifled a cry. And then he'd seen dollar signs floating in front of him, as big and bright as beacons. The camera had flown up to his eyes.

Focus, steady,
click:
the first shot was lengthwise, capturing the fashionable fatality clearly.

Focus, zoom,
click:
the second shot was of the thick, ugly scarf cinched around the woman's neck, wound so tight that he'd wanted to barf.

They were priceless pictures. In the underground
market, he could've gotten
big
money for them. Those were the deals he liked best—all cash, no paper trail, and no questions asked. A pocket-the-dough-and-fly-down-to-Mexico payment. Standing there, looking down at the body, Chicky had felt a surge of excitement. Hot luck! Kill-pics were a paparazzo's dream. Running out and calling the police would've been the right thing to do, but in his world there was no difference between right and wrong. There was only survival. He'd stepped out of the coatroom as if nothing had happened and walked down the corridor. The male figure he'd seen only a minute earlier— the assailant, of course—had been nowhere in sight. Not that it mattered to Chicky: he was happy with his beloved camera and the lurid pics he'd snapped. But then he'd gone into the men's room to take a leak, and when he'd come out …

Disaster. The big mistake.

Damn those Hamilton girls! And damn that buff airheaded movie star! If only they hadn't stolen his camera. Chicky had tried like hell to get it back, but skinny rich kids ran very fast.

His camera. The six-figure pics he'd snapped.

All of it gone.

Chicky took a long last drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out. Had the Hamilton girls turned the camera over to the cops? If so, the law would be knocking at his door in just a couple of hours. They'd
know that he had seen Zahara Bell's body and not reported it. They'd probably even suspect him of killing her. Chicky couldn't have that. Another conviction and he'd go back to the slammer for life. And oh, how the other inmates would love teasing him.

Itsy-bitsy Chicky, cluck cluck cluck!

Hey, who likes their chicky fried?

The thought made his blood boil.

Running away wasn't an option either. That would be an admission of guilt, and besides, how far could he possibly get?