Who Killed Tiffany Jones? (15 page)

Bill Wittington, her editor, approached just as she turned and began riffling through the stack of papers on her desk. He was an obese, frumpy man with a care-worn face. As usual his shirttail was hanging out of his trousers. “So, you decided to honor us with your company today,” he said sarcastically.

“Yeah, sorry about that, Bill,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’m on to something. I’ll brief you in a few days.”

“Nice of you to mention it, Mariana. It would be good if you made some time for the work that you’ve been assigned to do.”

Mariana turned to her computer terminal. “Trust me, Bill. You’re going to love this story,” she said, her annoyance barely contained.

“Oh, I’m sure I will. So long as it’s not another piece on these half-ass rap stars. I need something that grabs our audience, something on Jagger, McCartney, Rod Stewart, or Elton John—even Madonna or that Yank trollop J-Lo. Look at the Mirror. That’s what we need.”

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Mariana again glanced at the photo of a glaze-eyed Britney Spears emerging from a club with just the hint of a nipple spilling from her halter top.

“Yes, Bill, I see what you mean. My story is not quite so, ah, obvious, but it’s the biggest scoop this paper has ever had. Just give me some time to put it together, you’ll see.”

“That may be, but right now I need you for something . . . more obvious. There’s a photographer waiting for you in the lobby. Get your pretty little bum over to Mayfair, and do what you do best. ’N Sync is staying at the Four Seasons Hotel and Eminem as well, with all that testosterone, something is bound to happen. If not, stir something up.”

He smiled knowingly and let his eyes travel from her modest bust to her face. “But first do something about those bags under your eyes; you look like you’ve been up for a week.”

As Wittington turned and walked away, Mariana cursed him silently. A minute later, she grabbed a note pad and stalked out of the office.

It was near six o’clock when she returned to the Globe. As she expected, nothing much had happened at the hotel. Access to the floors on which the pop stars resided was sealed; she and many other reporters had spent the early afternoon sitting in a coffee shop watching bobbies trying to control the mob of teenagers outside the hotel.

Two members of ’N Sync did surface briefly but allowed no interviews.

They were whisked away in limousines while security fought off the screaming fans. Her photographer got a few shots of the mayhem but that was it.

She related all this to her editor and wearily turned to go back to her desk. “Who is Kim Carlyle?” Wittington asked, a Cheshire cat grin playing across his face.

“What—did she call?” Mariana asked, suddenly enlivened.

“Something to do with this story you’re working on, I take it.”

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“Exactly—but did she call?”

“Yes, she called and left a cellphone number a few hours after you left. And there was another call from some guy at one of those swishy bars out on Old Brompton Road. He said you could find someone called the diamond cutter at The Lollie tonight.” He paused, looking at her suspiciously. “What the hell’s this all about, Mariana? What kind of cloak-and-dagger games are you playing?”

“It’s no game, Bill,” she said. “I don’t want to go into details, but this is getting bigger than even I thought. I need some time, just a few days, and I’ll tell you everything. I’ll have enough to write the story.”

“Okay, but just two days. I can’t have you running around like a loose cannon representing the Globe.” He tried to keep a stern look on his face, but she could see him softening. “Look, be careful out there; you sure you don’t want some help?”

“No, Bill, this is my story; I can handle it.”

She returned to her desk and, after a few minutes’ thought, dialed Kim’s number. The phone was picked up immediately, and she was greeted by an eager female voice on the other end of the line: “Hello, is this Mariana?”

Bill had followed her. When she noticed him standing near her desk, she pulled the phone from her ear and waved him away. She hated the way he lurked around reporters’ desks when they were on the phone, and today she was determined not to be overheard. She waited until he retreated before speaking.

“Yes, is this Kim Carlyle?”

“Of course.”

Mariana paused, hesitant to reveal too much but anxious to find out what Kim knew. “Look, I don’t know you, but I’ve read that you’re a former detective. So I’m sure that you’ve given some thought to the curious deaths of your clients Tiffany Jones and Cheeno.”

“Curious? What, you’re saying you have information on that?”

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was a friend of Brixton’s, and I think his death was part of it as well.

Then there were the deaths of Lester Bennett and Renee Rothchild; they may also be connected to this . . .” she paused again, to consider how much she should reveal.

“This what!” Kim demanded.

“All I can say with certainty now is that I have evidence that it’s much more than some entertainment vendetta. Diamonds are apparently involved, and I think it’s centered here—in England, Belgium, the Netherlands, and France—and it probably stretches much further.

Everything points to—”

Mariana paused again when she noticed that Bill had returned and was standing behind her. She crouched her shoulders and lowered her voice to a whisper, “I can’t really talk freely right now, but I’d like to find out what you know about Ruff Daddy and Tiffany’s husband Klaus Svrenson. I don’t know if it means much but they spent a lot of time in Amsterdam and both of them knew Kees Van derVall.”

“Kees who . . . slow down,” Kim said. “You’re implicating a lot of people—making this sound like a major conspiracy. Do you have evidence?”

“Trust me, I know I’m on to something here, and, if you know anything, I could use your help getting to the bottom of it. You can ask questions, find out what’s going on over there—these people were your friends, too. If you wish, I can even fly to New York.”

“Wait, can’t you tell me more now?”

“No. I have to hang up. I’ve said enough for now.”

“Will you call later?”

“No, not tonight, there’s something I have to do. But I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Mariana, wait—” Kim shouted as the phone clicked off.

“Damn it, Bill, I asked you to back off,” Mariana said as she stood and angrily faced her editor. They argued for a minute before she 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 107

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turned, snatched her bag from the desk, and stormed toward the door shouting, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” over her shoulder.

Mariana stopped at her flat, made a few calls, and updated her notes before changing clothes and leaving for The Lollie. At the entrance, two burly black bouncers framed the door. The sound of funky house music blared behind them as they scanned the queue of about fifty people who stood outside the velvet ropes waving for their attention.

Every five minutes or so, they pointed to someone and, after patting them down, allowed them to enter. Mariana stood in line for about ten minutes before moving toward the ropes and flashing her sexiest Friends smile. She had changed into high heels, a red Lagerfeld miniskirt, and a sheer silk blouse that left little to the imagination. That was probably enough, but out of habit she flashed the press credentials that she carried in a small bag when one of the bouncers approached.

Without hesitation, he opened the ropes and, after inspecting her bag, escorted her through the doors.

Inside, the hallway leading to the main room was noisy and crowded with shadowy figures pressed against the walls in intimate embraces. The faint smell of ganja drifted in the air. She started down the stairs toward the dim main floor when someone grabbed at her arm. Startled, she pulled away, but it was only a hostess stopping her to stamp her hand with an invisible brand indicating that she was among the chosen few who had been admitted.

Before stepping down onto the main floor of the huge hall, she took a deep breath and told herself to relax. She had decided that when she saw Freesley she would play it by ear. If the opportunity arose, she would approach and confront him. But she wouldn’t press it, if she had to she would see whom he talked to and try to question them. She’d decided that if necessary she’d even follow Freesley home, find out where he lived, and use that information to step up her investigation.

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She was still relatively new at this, and her mind was racing with possibilities. Her heart was pounding nearly as fast—it was part fear but there was also the thrill of living on the edge.

The dim smoke-filled dance floor was jam-packed with silhouetted figures writhing to the sound of “Fallin’ ” by Alicia Keyes. Standing at the top of the winding stairs leading to the heart of the thumping mix, Mariana peered down at the crowd. Under the flashing colored lights, it was nearly impossible to recognize anyone. She decided to head toward the long bar at the side of the hall; if Freesley was looking for her, she’d be easier to find there.

As she descended the stairs, a young woman in purple leather cigarette pants, an embroidered strapless top, and calf-high stiletto Gucci boots reeled back and forth, clinging to the banister ahead of her. Her long straight hair spilled forward concealing most of her face, which was covered with bizarre purple makeup. Suddenly, when Mariana tried to pass, the woman emerged from her apparent stupor and lurched forward.

“Happy New Year, deary,” she muttered in a garbled Cockney-sounding accent as she embraced Mariana and tried to kiss her. Mariana quickly recoiled and, pushing her away, continued down the stairs. “Too good for me, you bloody bitch!” she heard from the stair-well as she elbowed her way onto the dance floor.

Despite her heels, she couldn’t see anything but the dancers surrounding her as she pressed forward through the mob of hip-hop fanatics who bumped and rubbed against her. Snoop Dog’s “Tha Last Meal” blared from the speakers, and, as she strained her neck to look for Freesley, she was also busy pushing away the sweaty hands that randomly swiped at her. When the song ended and the crowd slackened, she pushed ahead trying to make it to the bar before the lull ended.

She was ten feet away from it when she felt a hot, ripping pain in her lower back. A gloved hand closed over her mouth as she fell back into someone’s arms. The pain intensified, and she realized she was being 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 109

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dragged or carried backward toward the lounge chairs at the edge of the dance floor.

The room began to swim and the colored lights swirled above her as a curious calm settled over her. She tried to move her lips to speak but couldn’t utter a word as she was lowered into one of the soft chairs.

The old Naughty By Nature hit “O.P.P.” came on at full blast, then faded as the swirling lights gradually stilled, dimmed, and darkened.

It was three hours later when a waiter finally discovered that the young woman in the Lagerfeld miniskirt who had been reclining in the corner of the lounge area for most of the night had not passed out and spilled a glass of red wine on her silk blouse as they had assumed.

Mariana Blair was dead.

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NINE

Las Vegas / New York—Tuesday, July 31

Las Vegas

“ It ’s go od !
It’s all good!” Brian Woods laughed as he hoisted a double shot of Grand Marnier and gulped it down. “Broads, booze, all the money, and, ah, accessories any paesan could want.” He was sitting with three associates—Carmine “Linguini” Lozzi from Miami, Andy Anfuso from Los Angeles, and “Big Tony” Marintino from New York—in a large booth near the rear of the first floor bar at the Lucky Dragon Casino. Lozzi and Marintino watched with detached amusement as Woods flashed a broad, exaggerated smile and extended his hand out over the table to display manicured nails and a perfect two-and-a-half-carat diamond set in a platinum pinky ring.

“C’mon, drink up!” Woods urged. He waved for a red-haired waitress wearing a skimpy, low-cut outfit and net stockings, and reared back in his seat, fidgeting with the lapels of his slate-gray silk suit. As his eyes darted back and forth between the casino floor beyond the bar 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 112

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and the faces of the three men who sat with him, he drummed the fingers of his ringed hand on the table to the sound of the Al Martino bal-lad that filled the room. A rugged, good-looking thirty-nine-year-old, he had a reputation as a tough, fearlessly confident worker, but tonight his bravura seemed forced. Occasionally he dabbed at the small beads of sweat that uncharacteristically dripped from his dark, slicked-back hair onto the collar of his custom-made shirt.

He was the casino manager and second in command at The Dragon, a second-tier casino in Meadows Village about ten miles from the Las Vegas Strip. It was a run-down section of Vegas where you could rent a room in one of the seamy hotels for as little as $150

per month, less than the nightly rate at most of the plush casinos on the Strip. The Dragon masked its shoddy underside with glitzy accou-terments and lighting, but, despite the veneer, it was mostly frequented by an odd assortment of hustlers, dyed-in-the-wool gamblers, and wanna-be wise guys. Tonight was an exception. Woods and his friend Anfuso, who had grown up in L.A. together after Woods’s family moved from Ohio, were still trying to make their bones. But Marintino and Lozzi were made guys. In town “for a little recreation,”