The Celebutantes (12 page)

9

The Deceptive Code

M
idnight. Madison tossed and turned, her eyes cutting through the shadows in her bedroom and landing on the closed window, the paper-strewn desk, the Picasso hanging just to the right of the door. She was wide awake. Every muscle in her body was tense, every hair on the back of her neck sticking up. Not even two glasses of her favorite champagne-and-chocolate-milk concoction had managed to soothe her anxiety, nor had a twenty-minute dunk in the Jacuzzi.

Someone close to you will reveal himself as a liar.

She threw back the sheet roughly. Poppy van Lulu's voice—her dire little prediction—grated against Madison's nerves like a razor-sharp knife. It shouldn't have, because she didn't believe in psychics or premonitions or any of that crap. But for some strange reason, it did.

No,
she told herself sternly,
not a strange reason. I know the reason.

She hadn't heard from Theo at all today. Not a phone call or a text message or an e-mail. Nothing. Madison had left him two voice mails, and now she was beginning to wonder and worry. She was beginning to doubt herself
and
Theo. What if he was lying? What if he was frolicking on a beach right now with some other girl? The very thought of it sent a rush of heat through her blood. She had been honest with him about everything from the moment they decided to make their relationship official—and public. In typical Madisonesque fashion, she had given one hundred percent of herself to the cause, believing he had changed, telling herself again and again that he had outgrown his playboy ways.

She had given and worked and
believed.
Now she wasn't sure she believed anymore.

Someone close to you will reveal himself as a liar.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered, climbing out of bed and storming across the bedroom. That was when another thought occurred to her. What if Poppy had been referring to Coco? Was it Coco who was lying? Was that it? What if her gut feeling about Coco's innocence was somehow…wrong?

She pulled open the door. The hallway was quiet and dark, and she padded into the kitchen as softly as possible. Opening the fridge, she stared straight past the champagne and spotted the small glass bowl covered in plastic wrap. Inside were several slices of the expensive organic cucumbers Lupe used when whipping up one of her famous salads. Madison reached for the bowl, tore off the plastic, and took a slice out. She pressed it to the center of her forehead. The cool moisture seeped into her skin, making her sigh. She hadn't any doubts that the stress of the day had wreaked havoc on her skin. The little cucumber slices were like dermatological miracles. Even better was the fact that they relaxed her completely. The only problem was that they were generally off-limits: Lupe positively hated it when Madison used food to give herself impromptu spa treatments.

She carried the bowl into the living room, her head tilted back as the lone slice dripped water over her temples. She moved as if she were walking on a tightrope. But she stopped dead in her tracks when she caught the jagged slats of light cutting across the hardwood floor. She stared straight ahead and saw that the double doors to the terrace were wide open. Her heart slammed in her chest.

What the hell?

She quickly set the bowl on the coffee table and was about to turn around and start screaming when she spotted Park's hair blowing in the breeze. Then she saw Park's thin silhouette in the moonlight.

“Hey!” Madison called to her sister. “What the hell are you doing out there?”

Park whirled around and came forward into the room. She was dressed in shorts and a tank top, her feet bare. “I hope I didn't wake you,” she answered. “I was trying to be really quiet.”

“You didn't wake me, but you scared the hell out of me.” Madison picked up the bowl and grabbed another cucumber slice. She tilted her head back again, then applied the slice to her chin. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to reenact the crime,” Park stated flatly. “I figured I'd try it from our terrace, since we can't get into the suite at the Waldorf.”

Madison shook her head in response. The two slices flew off her face. She sighed and replaced them, rubbing a new one across her cheeks. “What's to reenact? You give somebody a shove and they just fall over. And then
wham.
”

“Maybe, but it's not exactly that simple.”

“It's not?”

Park shook her head. “Come on out here.”

“You know I hate it out there,” Madison said. “If I look down, I'll hurl my dinner onto Fifth Avenue. And I'll be dropping pieces of cucumber all over the place.”

“And now that you brought it up,
why
are you using those slices?” Park narrowed her eyes. “You
know
how crazy Lupe gets when you use her produce to help your skin.”

Madison shrugged. “Well…I'm stressed! And my skin's been through hell today. I
need
these cucumber slices to help reduce the swelling around my eyes.”

“You could just as easily use moisturizer.”

“Moisturizer reminds me of that handprint we saw on Elijah's shirt!”

“Put the bowl down,” Park said simply. “You've already wasted like five slices. And from the looks of them, they've already been marinated in olive oil.”

“Of course they have,” Madison replied. “That's even better for the skin.” She took another slice and placed it over her left eye, tilting her head back. “Ahhh. That feels so good.”

Park muffled the urge to laugh. Madison was standing with one arm stretched out and several slices of cucumber plastered to her face. Despite the humorous picture, it
did
look relaxing. “If Lupe wakes up, she'll freak out. She'll threaten to make us salads from frozen vegetables.”

“This is an extenuating circumstance, Park. How are we going to concentrate on solving a crime if our faces are tight and swollen?”

Park considered the point. She didn't want to end up looking like every overworked cop in New York City, so she grabbed two slices from the bowl, put her head back, and covered her eyes. The instant cooling sensation made her sigh with pleasure.

“I told you,” Madison whispered.

“This has to be extra-virgin olive oil,” Park said quietly, balancing herself beside Madison. “I can literally feel it seeping in. It's almost as good as pressing a cold gem to your skin.”

Madison stretched her arms out. “Hold your head back all the way. Makes it feel like you're floating, and that helps the blood get back under your eyes.”

Park tilted her head back farther. “Maybe we should talk about
falling,
not floating. The news reports are going crazy. Coco's totally being painted as a psycho.”

“I know,” Madison said gravely. “I've been trying to think a way out of this for her, but nothing's coming. There has to be something we're not seeing!”

Like a blind man groping at solid objects, Park reached out and grasped the edge of the bowl. She plucked another slice from it and pressed it to her cheek. “There's a lot we aren't seeing. But according to the cops it's open-and-shut. They have everything spelled out already.”

“All that evidence is circumstantial! They'll never get a murder conviction—not with the attorneys good money can buy.”

A slice of cucumber slipped off Park's cheek and plopped onto the floor. “Come to think of it, I doubt they'll be going for a murder conviction. It's more like manslaughter. This wasn't a premeditated act.”

“Whoa!” Madison suddenly screamed.

Park jumped, the cucumbers flying off her eyes. She looked down and saw what had spooked Madison.

Champagne, Lex's Chihuahua, had slipped into the room unnoticed. He was busy munching at the slice just beside Madison's bare foot.

In her ensuing panic, Madison had managed to hold on to the bowl, but not its contents: the remaining slices of cucumber had apparently taken flight and were now sitting on top of her head in a wet, dripping mess.

Park muffled her laughter.

Trying her best to appear unaffected and customarily composed, Madison feigned pleasure and daintily patted the messiness dripping through her hair. “Like a balm,” she said easily. “I won't have flyaways for months.”

Champagne hopped onto his hind legs and waited for another slice to come his way.

Madison plucked one from the top of her head and dropped it onto the floor.

“Maybe you should follow me,” Park said, turning and leading the way back out onto the terrace.

Madison only stepped over the threshold, and not an inch farther. She pressed herself back against the door as her eyes scanned the stunning view of Central Park in the moonlight, the skyscrapers of Midtown, and the distant vista of the Hudson River. It was breathtaking. It was also painfully timely, given the fact that Elijah Traymore had plunged from a similar balcony only a few hours earlier.

Park faced Madison, pressing her back against the high stone-and-concrete railing. “Now,” she said, “this is just about where Elijah must've been, right here along the edge when he and Coco were arguing—”

“When he and
his killer
were arguing,” Madison corrected her.

“Fine,” Park replied. “When he and his killer were arguing. Anyway, things got rough before they even came out here, right? Signs of a struggle. So they're arguing or whatever and then he comes out here, or maybe she comes out here and he follows her, and then…”

“And then what?”

“Well, let's just pretend we're building Coco's defense, okay?” Park held her arms out and made a small square TV screen with her hands. “Coco comes out onto the terrace, Elijah's getting rough with her. Maybe he grabs her or even threatens to push
her
over the edge, right? So she turns around and tries to make a run for it. But he grabs her, spins her around. His back is to the railing, just like mine right now, right? They struggle. She totally feels like he's gonna kill her so she gives him a hard shove—not because she wants to throw him off the terrace, but because she wants to break free of him. But he hits the railing and loses his balance, and then—”

“And then he turns the sidewalk into a red carpet,” Madison cut in.

Park nodded. “Pretty much.”

“It sounds like it's plausible, but we still don't know what the hell's going on with Coco.” Madison folded her arms across her chest. “I called her parents on their cell, and they're in Italy, of course. They sounded freaked out when they saw everything on the news. They sent their attorneys to Central Booking, but I haven't heard anything in hours.”

“They're grilling her,” Park said. “Trust me, they want to tie this up and try to get a full confession out of her right away.”

Madison stared out into the night, her gaze troubled. “You said a minute ago that reenacting the crime wasn't easy. But it looked way easy to me. And that's what scares me. It could totally be true.”

“I'm just posing theories here,” Park said. “What I just reenacted could have absolutely happened, but there're still a lot of weird things I don't get.”

“Like what?”

“Like that handprint on Elijah's T-shirt. Like why Ina Debrovitch didn't hear anything if she was in that suite. I mean, I know she's deaf, but there has to be more than what she's saying. And
this,
” Park said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the sheet of paper she had stolen from Elijah's wallet. She held it open to where the words
To the Penthouse
had been scrawled, followed by the strange numerical line.

“What is it?” Madison asked.

“I only showed you the front of this note in the limo today—we were all so fixated on getting to the Dakota, to Poppy.” Park handed the piece of paper to her. “But look at what it says. How strange is that?”

Madison gasped as her eyes swept over the writing. “This is
freaky.
I mean, the fact that he would write
To the Penthouse
and then plunge from one is…it's…”

“Too much of a coincidence?”

“Maybe. I mean, it's just crazy. I totally got the chills.”

“You think that number is a code of some sort?” Park sounded hopeful.

Madison brought the piece of paper closer to her face.
RCS00491.
Why did the little code look so…familiar? She studied it closely—repeated it in her head—and then walked back into the living room and turned on a lamp.

RCS…

“Hey,” Park called after her. “What is it?”

Madison traced her eyes over the code a second time. Then a third. Then a fourth. She didn't blink. She didn't move a single muscle as everything came crashing into place.

RCS…

“This is an art code!” she said excitedly. “I
knew
I'd seen it before!”

“An art code?” Park shrugged. “What's that?”

“RCS. It stands for
Royal Crown Society.
It's how any piece of art the society has acquired is labeled. Kind of like an inventory code. Every one of their pieces begins with these three letters.” Madison hopped up and down excitedly.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I even saw numbers like this in the society's private catalog when I went there for that dinner three weeks ago!”

“So then…
To the Penthouse
refers to a painting?” Park asked.

Madison nodded, still thrilled with her investigative discovery. “It must. I've never heard of it, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. There's so much art out there that we never hear about.” She lost herself for a moment in the truth of that statement, picturing colorful canvases and big, gleaming sculptures. She let out a dreamy sigh.

“Yeah, okay. Fine. But why would Elijah have a private art code if he wasn't a member of the society? How did he get it?”