Who Killed Tiffany Jones? (11 page)

“I know, dear, I know. But it’s what Lester would have wanted. You know that,” the woman said.

Renee stared at the woman momentarily, then straightened in her chair and turned to the man. “Yes. I did. I made two or three calls yesterday after I got your call. The funeral home is about a kilometer from here. You’ll be allowed to inspect the body. A man named Pierre Chadenet will be with you and he’s going to step out of the room while you pay your last respects, and when he comes back into the room, he’ll seal the coffin. The coffin cannot be reopened, not by customs or anyone else. Only you or Lester’s sister, the sole surviving member of his family, can have the coffin opened when you arrive back in the States.”

Renee handed the woman a key. She took it and placed it in her purse without a word.

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“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked.

Renee shook her head. “I just want this to be over with. I don’t think I can continue. None of it was my idea. Lester would never have purposely put me in danger, and now that he’s gone I want out. I think I’m going to leave Paris for a while—after I hear from you and I know that you’ve arrived safely in the States.”

“Don’t worry,” the woman said. “We’re leaving this afternoon no later than four P.M. I’ll be sure to call you the minute we land so that you know everything went all right. In fact, I’ll call you from the plane so that you know we boarded with no problems. You deserve to take as much time for yourself as you need.”

“That’s what I intend to do,” Renee said, wiping her eyes.

“Still, I’d think about your decision to quit if I were you. It may not be as easy as you think, dear,” the woman said, as she and her companion stood up.

Renee stared at them silently, as Paolo escorted them out of the club. When he closed the door and returned, Renee started up the stairs to her office. “I have a lot of work to do, Paolo,” she said, “and I don’t think I can face the crowd when we open. Can you take care of things down here tonight?”

Paolo nodded.

Renee remained in her office all afternoon. She sat at her desk, going over the books, ordering liquor, wine, food, and other supplies, and making phone calls. She had resolved to leave Paris for at least a month or two. She would pack tomorrow and get a flight to New Orleans the following day. No one but Paolo would know where she was going. But she couldn’t even think about leaving unless she left everything in perfect order for Jean, the club’s general manager. He was a hard worker and extremely loyal, but not the sharpest person in the world when it came to making decisions. So if Renee really planned to escape in two days, it meant that she had a long, hard night’s work ahead of her.

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Around eight o’clock, the club began filling up. She could feel the excitement and the energy in the crowd. The Junior Mance Trio would be playing later, and she expected a big turnout. At any other time, the laughter and joy would be intoxicating to her. But on this night, the sound of the slow, sensuous jazz piano solo, which was being piped into the room, and the appreciative murmurs of the crowd made her heart ache.

No one was watching her. No one but Paolo and Jean even knew that she was in the club that night. She hadn’t left her second-floor office since she went down to the kitchen around five o’clock and brought up a thermos filled with frothy cappuccino. The kitchen staff hadn’t even begun to arrive at that point. No outsider could have gotten into the club. Still, as much as she berated herself for being frightened and panicky, Renee made sure to lock both locks on her office door and shut the window.

Around two in the morning, the crowd downstairs began to thin and soon the noise, laughter, and music faded out. Renee heard the sound of Paolo shutting and locking the front doors. About a half hour later, she heard the opening and closing of the heavy metal door in the back as the kitchen help packed up and left for the night. As was cus-tomary, the front doors opened and shut a few minutes later. Paolo had let Jean out, she thought. Afterward, The Emerald Isle was silent.

Too silent.

Renee waited for Paolo to come trudging up the stairs, weary after a long night, and help her put away the evening’s receipts. But she didn’t hear the usual tinkle of glasses, which signaled that he was preparing his special cosmopolitans. Nor did she hear the whir of the espresso machine, indicating that he was making cappuccinos instead.

Nothing.

Then Renee heard a muffled, creaking sound as someone ascended the wooden stairs. She assumed it was Paolo until she realized that the footsteps were much too light. Paolo was over six feet tall and weighed 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 76

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240 pounds; it was definitely not his heavy, forceful gait. Nor was it Jean, since he had apparently left. And if it wasn’t Paolo, who was it?

When someone pushed against the door and tried to turn the door-knob, she leapt up and backed away from the desk. Terrified and trem-bling, she eased her way over toward the telephone, which sat in its cradle on top of the filing cabinet. She picked up the phone and hurriedly dialed the police.

The key turning in the door lock froze her. That was impossible!

No one, not even Paolo, had a key. She had the only one and it was still hanging from her wrist. Suddenly, complete panic gripped her, and she screamed as loudly as she could: “Paolo! Paolo! Help me!”

A second later, a hand muffled her scream and another gripped her throat. She dropped the phone, and, just before the intruder ripped the cord from the wall, a hysterical voice could be heard screaming at the other end of the line—“Qui est-ce? Qui êtes-vous?”

New York

Perspiring lightly, Kim Carlyle flopped down on her couch with a towel around her neck; she was still wearing her powder-blue jogging shorts and a tank top. It was after 11 A.M., and she had just finished her morning run in the park and was ready to settle into the daily routine of unwinding with coffee, yogurt, and the daily papers before she showered and left for her office. The message button on her telephone answering machine was blinking, but, after checking the caller I.D.

and seeing that it was from Rick Dupre, she ignored it. She had picked up the late edition of the New York Daily News, and, when she opened it, she was stopped by one of the first headlines she saw: 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 77

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JAZZ GREAT SUCCUMBS

TO HEROIN OVERDOSE IN PARIS

Below it, there was a picture of a young and vibrant Renee Rothchild poised elegantly in front of a microphone, beaming with confidence at her audience.

Renee Rothchild, born Edna Louise Byrd, in Westwego, Louisiana, in 1948, was found dead of an apparent overdose by her bodyguard at approximately 2:30 A.M. at The Emerald Isle, the nightclub she owned in Paris. Drug paraphernalia was found in her office. Police sources say they are attempting to determine whether or not there had been any foul play. They are questioning the bodyguard, the general manager of the club, and the staff. The bodyguard claimed that he had been in the basement completing the liquor inventory. He heard nothing unusual, but when he came upstairs to check on Renee, her office door was open and she was dead.

The article was brief, since, from what Kim could make out, the incident had happened the night before.

It went on to say that the police inspector in charge of investigating Ms. Rothchild’s death noted that a few bruises had been found on her wrists, which may have been the result a struggle or Ms. Rothchild may have been restrained. Mention was made of the fact that Renee Rothchild’s longtime companion, Lester Bennett, had also recently committed suicide in his Paris apartment. Authorities were going to continue investigating both cases vigorously.

The story intrigued Kim. She didn’t know Lester Bennett personally, but she had been introduced to Renee Rothchild when she visited Paris a year or so before. She had always admired Renee’s music, and 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 78

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when they met she had been impressed with her elegance and charm.

Their deaths reminded her of Tiffany. And that in turn led her to think about the drive-by killing of Brixton from which Ruff Daddy narrowly escaped. Suddenly, it seemed that the black music industry was under siege. Tiffany, Brixton, and now Renee and Lester Bennett.

There was no apparent connection, and, given the rivalries and hostil-ities in the world of hip-hop, the Brixton drive-by was not that unusual.

Still, the coincidence of all these deaths in a week or so seemed strange. And Kim had been trained never to accept coincidence as a satisfactory explanation for anything. When she started with the NYPD, Lt. Jackson had told her, “If it crawls like a snake and hisses like a snake, look out for the venom.”

When she left her apartment she decided that on Sunday, after returning from her Los Angeles trip, she would call her old friend, Lt.

Jackson, and arrange to have a drink with him. At least she could air her thoughts and get a reaction from a pro. Perhaps he had some conclusive information on Tiffany Jones’s death. If she knew Tiffany had really died of a diabetic seizure, as everyone assumed, it might help her get rid of all these nagging suspicions.

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SEVEN

Los Angeles—Saturday, July 28

Ki m C a rlyl e
guided the rented convertible, a silver-gray Mercedes, to a halt at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and La Cienega.

She had met two senior Warner Records executives at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel earlier in the afternoon and, if her instincts were correct, the multirecord deal for saxophonist Charlie Holt and his fusion-jazz group had been sealed. After returning to her suite at the Chateau Marmont, she had discarded the severe, power business-suit worn for the meeting and rested for a few hours before changing into the slinky Chanel pantsuit that she now wore. Tonight’s festivities called for something more chic and relaxed.

She glanced quickly at the visor mirror to assure herself that the wind and heat weren’t destroying her hairdo, then pulled away, heading west toward the Pacific Coast Highway. The bash for Cheeno—

the rapper turned actor who had recently gotten rave notices and 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 80

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upturned thumbs from critics across the country for his performance in the film Crack Baby—was due to kick off at nine. The sun was just beginning its descent toward a typically hazy L.A. horizon, and she figured she had about an hour to get to Cheeno’s newly acquired digs in Malibu. Cheeno had suddenly become one of her hottest clients; she had to make an appearance, and she didn’t want to be late.

It was twilight when she turned off the Pacific Coast Highway onto Winding Way, a narrow, snakelike road that led up into the hills overlooking the Pacific. The road was intersected by short lanes and cozy culs-de-sac with houses nestled close together near the bottom of the hill. But as she ascended the steep grade, the lots and houses ballooned in size and the small crossing lanes were replaced by wide circular driveways leading to sprawling mansions. Near the top, a huge banner had been stretched across the road:

CHEENO—IN THE HOUSE.

She smiled to herself as she turned into the wide driveway, wondering what the old residents thought of their irrepressible new neighbor.

Cheeno had a knack for outrageous self-promotion, and understate-ment was definitely not his thing.

It was only 9:15, but all available parking in the drive had already been taken and a line of limousines and expensive cars stretched almost to the road. A half-dozen young male attendants, attired in glistening black gaucho pants and scant red vests opened to reveal their well-developed pecs, scurried around assisting guests from their limos and whisking unchauffered cars off to be parked. Kim couldn’t resist thinking that every one of them looked as if he had just stepped out of Cheeno’s latest music video.

Inside the grand, colonnaded, neocolonial mansion, the heavy beat of Cheeno’s mega hit, “Booty Power,” literally rocked the space. Kim was greeted by a group of hostesses clad in red vests—only slightly less 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 81

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revealing than those worn by the outside attendants—and skimpy thongs that boldly accentuated that part of the anatomy celebrated by the rapper’s lyrics. One of the perky young mascots approached, literally bouncing over to Kim, and led her through the domed foyer into a massive living room. There guests gathered in small groups sipping champagne and attempting to talk over the music, which blared from concealed speakers. Cheeno’s latest music video was being displayed on a huge flat-screen monitor suspended high on a wall near the rear of the room.

Arched entrances led, on her left, to an imposing dining room and, on her right, to a den or game room, which was stocked with electronic gadgets and games. The semicircular staircases on either side of the huge room ascended to a spacious balcony that served as entranceway to more than a half-dozen bedrooms but was now filled with can-dlelit tables. A few guests had already taken up positions there and sat gazing down at the mob below them. Through a wall-length expanse of sliding glass doors at the rear of the room was a tiled patio, and beyond that an Olympic-size pool sandwiched between two bubbling, oversize spas.