Over Her Dead Body (4 page)

take in both community service and ten weeks of anger-management classes rather than jail time. She was free to go.

All of us from the media bolted out of the courtroom in order to secure positions just outside the entrance of the building. That’s where Kimberly and her lawyer would exit, and if we were lucky, they’d not only say a few words but answer questions.

Photographers were already waiting, a few with folding stepladders hung on their shoulders. They were for the most part freelance paparazzi, and
Buzz
would buy photos from one of them. Five minutes later Kimberly emerged, flanked by her lawyer in white and a man who I assumed, by the way he nodded to a couple of the reporters, was her publicist. Somebody must have passed Kimberly a tissue in the hall because she’d managed to remove a lot of the smeared mascara from beneath her eyes.

“Kimberly, Kimberly, over here,” one of the photographers called in order to get a shot of her looking directly at the camera. She smiled wanly in his direction.

“Ms. Stanton,” a reporter yelled to the lawyer, “what do you think of the verdict?”

“There was no verdict,” she corrected with a tight smile. “The case was quickly and favorably resolved and Kimberly has not been convicted of any crime.”

A few of us called out to Kimberly, asking her how she felt, and she smiled cautiously, clearly under instructions to remain subdued.

“I am very grateful about the decision,” she said.

“Where’s Tommy?” yelled some guy from
Access Hollywood.
“Are you guys still dating?”

She took a deep breath and shook her head. “That’s not something I want to discuss,” she said.

“How do you think your arrest will affect your career?” I asked.

“Since Kimberly hasn’t been convicted of anything, it shouldn’t affect her career at all,” the lawyer said, taking over again. She went on to explain the meaning of a conditional discharge. While she spoke, Kimberly’s eyes roamed over the faces of the reporters. She made brief eye contact with me, and I saw her find the press tag around my neck and read my name and affiliation.

Abruptly the lawyer ended the makeshift press conference and led Kimberly away down Centre Street. Somewhere a car must have been waiting, but it was nowhere in sight. A few photographers trailed after them.

Back at my place, I wrote up the arraignment while it was fresh in my mind. I tried the cell phone number Mona had given me, hoping for an exclusive statement from Kimberly, but I heard a message saying that the cell phone customer I was trying to reach was out of range. For the rest of the afternoon, I worked on a story for another magazine and also fit in an hour at the gym. I was due to have dinner with a friend that night, so early in the evening I lay down for a catnap. I woke like a jolt when the phone rang. It was Robby.

“Got a minute?” he asked before I could even squeeze out a hello. It sounded as if he were choking back tears.

“Sure, what’s the matter?” I asked, squinting at the clock on my nightstand. It was just after seven.

“I got canned today.”

“What?”

“Yeah, and she did it herself. She often makes Nash do these things, but she handled my execution personally. Said I just didn’t cut it. I think she actually derived some pleasure out of it.”

“Oh, Robby, that’s awful. When did it happen?”

“At around three. When she called me down to her office, I thought she was going to ream me out for a piece I did, but . . . She didn’t even close the door. And then she told me that I had to leave
that
minute. I took my Rolodex and a few files, and they’re sending everything else over tomorrow. I’d like to strangle that woman.”

“Robby, listen to me. You will totally bounce back from this. There’s plenty of freelance work out there. Besides, it’s probably better for your sanity to be out of there.”

“I know, I know, but it’s the baby,” he said, choking back another sob. “If I don’t have a steady job, it means that our application may go to the back of the line and we’ll have to start the process all over again.”

“Oh God.” I couldn’t really think of anything else to say.

“That’s part of the reason I’m calling,” he said. “I realized after I got home that copies of two of my reference letters for the adoption are still in my desk drawer. I forgot to take them with me. There’s no way I can get back in the building because they took my ID away. Would you be willing to sneak into my office and get them for me? I just don’t want anyone to see them when they’re packing up my stuff tomorrow.”

“Of course. I’ll go in early tomorrow before anyone gets there.”

“I hate to do this to you, Bailey, but is there any chance you could go in there
tonight
? I can’t bear the idea of anyone knowing my business. Troy, that guy who’s in the office next to mine, told me he was coming in early. I’m afraid he’d see you. But there’ll be no one there tonight. It’s Tuesday.”

“Umm, sure. The only problem is that I have a friend coming downtown to have dinner with me tonight and I just want to be sure she hasn’t left her apartment yet. We’re not supposed to meet for over an hour, but she’d said something about heading down this way to shop first. I’ll try her right now and see if I can catch her.”

“What if you can’t?”

“Robby, don’t worry. I’ll get off the phone right now and call her and then call you back. Try to relax, okay?”

“I feel so wrung out and exhausted. Brock is away, and I haven’t even been able to reach him. I just took an Excedrin PM and I’m going to try to crash soon.”

I signed off and tried my friend. The line was busy. She was one of those people who rarely used a cell phone and didn’t believe in call waiting. At least she hadn’t left for the Village yet. After getting the busy signal constantly over the next ten minutes, I decided to take my shower but make it quick. As I was toweling off I rang her again, and this time I got an answer. I explained that I had an emergency and asked if she’d be willing to meet later than planned. She told me she was PMS-ing and was happy to just reschedule.

I called Robby back, but to my surprise I got only his answering machine. I waited ten minutes and tried again. Still the machine. Maybe the Excedrin PM had knocked him out cold. I left a message for him to call me when he woke up. Then I threw on a jean skirt, a white tank top, and a pair of sandals and hurried out into the hot Manhattan night. The subway arrived practically the moment I stepped onto the platform, and I was in midtown fifteen minutes later.

Times Square was teeming with summer tourists, fanning themselves with whatever they had in their hands. As I approached the building that housed Thomas Dicker’s ever expanding media empire, I noticed limos and town cars double-parked outside, as well as a dozen or so paparazzi lined up behind blue police barricades. It was only then that I remembered something about
Track
hosting a party tonight for Eva Anderson, the singer/actress/style icon. Half Mexican, half Danish, she had a face that was both exotic and girl next door. She had become a megastar over the past two years, and her name appeared in
Buzz
as frequently as the phrase
on the rocks.

Problem: There was a good chance that some
Buzz
staffers would be at the party, or, despite the fact that it was the night after closing, there might be people still lingering in their offices before they headed over to the other side of the floor. It wouldn’t seem odd to anyone that I was stopping by; I’d just have to be careful not to be spotted going through Robby’s desk. What fun for me—I’d get to play James Bond without the tux.

I flashed my ID at the security guard in the lobby, where a separate table had been set up to check people into the party, and then I rode the elevator alone up to the sixteenth floor. Two other security guards were standing in front of the doorway that led into the
Track
side of the floor. Emanating from behind them were the throbbing sounds of the party. I’d barely stepped off the elevator when a guy strode out of the party with a woman behind him. It took me a second to realize that he was Brandon Cott, Eva Anderson’s husband. I had no idea who the woman was. She was blond and extremely tanned, at least ten years older than him. She put her hand on his arm, as if she were trying to restrain him. Curious, I paused, lowered my head, and pretended to rifle through my bag for something.

“Where’ve you been all night, anyway?” the woman demanded in just above a whisper.

“You’re one to talk,” he told her. “Every time I looked for you, you were missing in action.”

“I was doing my job.”

“Well, why don’t you go back and keep doing it. I’m going to split.”

“Brandon, please, no.” Her voice was all sugary now. “If you leave now, everyone will say you bolted and it will be bad for her.” She was obviously some kind of handler for Eva.

“What about what’s good for me?”

“Please, stay. I’ll owe you one.”

With my head lowered, I stole another glance at the two of them. He was hunky in a brooding Johnny Depp kind of way, though he was shorter than I would have guessed, and his large head seemed disproportionate to the rest of his body—kind of like Mr. Potato Head. Maybe that worked well for TV. He’d been the star of a successful series that had eventually succumbed to ratings malaise. After two years of career doldrums, he had landed a series on TNT or USA about the FBI, and it had become a surprise hit. Which was lucky for him because Eva apparently didn’t love losers.

“I can’t stand it one more fucking second,” Brandon said. “Tell people I have jet lag. Or better yet, tell them I have that West Nile virus. Don’t they have that in New York?”

Before they focused on my presence, I slid my ID into the slot and pushed open the main door to
Buzz.

“You’re making a mistake,” the woman said as the
Buzz
door began to close behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brandon stride toward the elevator.

Though I’d expected there might still be a few people hanging around, the
Buzz
office appeared empty. Most of the lights had been turned off, which meant that the cleaning personnel had already been through.

Robby’s office was right off the reception area. I stepped in quietly and switched on his desk lamp. After checking once over my shoulder, I pulled open his desk drawer. There was a scattering of take-out menus, a tube of hand cream, and some
Buzz
envelopes all jammed in the front of the drawer. But no reference letters. Below the drawer was a file drawer, and I pulled it open, casting a brief look at the Pendaflex file tabs. There was nothing there that appeared to hold the letters. Clearly his desk hadn’t been emptied yet, so Robby was mistaken about having left the letters behind. I yanked my cell phone from my purse and hit his number. His answering machine picked up once again. I sighed, mildly annoyed.

I wasn’t planning on coming into the office tomorrow, so as long as I was on the premises, I decided to pick up anything that had accumulated in my in-box during the day.

As I turned the corner to head down the aisle toward the pod, I caught my breath. The lights were still on in Mona’s office, the blinds drawn. That would have been rich, I thought—Mona working late and discovering me rifling through Robby’s desk. But I reminded myself that Mona never worked late on Tuesday. Maybe the cleaning lady was still doing her thing down there. Sure enough, as I walked toward my desk, I noticed a cleaning cart parked outside the glassed-in vestibule in front of Mona’s office, where her assistants had their desks.

I reached my desk, and without even turning on the desk light, I grabbed all the material from my in-box. As I stuffed the papers into my bag, I heard a sound—a moan. I froze in place, my eyes searching. I was pretty sure the noise had come from the direction of Mona’s office, but I couldn’t imagine what it might be. Had some guests from the party snuck over to have a quick shag? I checked my watch: 8:28.

I listened a few seconds longer but didn’t hear anything else. I decided the smartest thing was to just get the hell out of there. As I stepped away, I heard the moaning again. But it was clear this time that it wasn’t someone in the delirious throes of a desktop quickie—it was someone in distress. My heart began to pick up speed. I needed to find out what was going on.

Cautiously I inched my way down the aisle, along the outside of the pod and then the art department. The desks of Mona’s assistants inside the vestibule blocked the lower half of the glass wall, but I could see the upper half and no one was in sight. The moaning must have come from Mona’s office. The door was open only a few feet.

I took a deep breath and kept walking. I reached the cleaning cart, which was really just a huge rubber trash can on wheels, with bottles of cleaning solution and black trash bags dangling from the front and one of those big feather dusters stuck on the side. The cleaning person was nowhere in sight.

“Anyone here?” I called out haltingly. I was greeted by the honk of a horn sixteen floors below—and then another moan.

Quickly I stepped around the cart and into the vestibule. A blond-haired cleaning lady dressed in blue pants, a blue smock, and big rubber yellow gloves was on her knees next to Mona’s office door, facing in my direction and rocking back and forth with her hands on her forehead.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, rushing toward her.

She lowered her hands and stared at me. She looked dizzy, unfocused.

“Did you fall?” I asked. She said nothing, but her right hand instinctively went to the back of her head and dabbed at her skull by her hair bun. I squatted down and scrutinized the spot. Through the yellow rubber fingers of her gloves, I could see that there was blood oozing from the area. I straightened up, eager to find a cloth or paper towel for the blood. As I did, I heard an odd thumping sound through Mona’s partially open door. I edged closer to the office and peered inside. One of the chairs to her small conference table had been overturned.

I glanced nervously behind me through the glass of the vestibule, out toward the darkened bullpen. There was no one else in sight.