Drama Is Her Middle Name (18 page)

27

After the church meeting, Pastor Edwin Lakes returned to an
empty home. His wife, Patricia had taken the kids and left.
She was staying with Kim, who was more than happy to
squeeze the Lakes family in with her own.

Patricia had told Edwin she needed some time and space
to think. He didn't argue. How could he? He had ruined her
life, too. He lied to her by not telling her everything about
his past. But what would he say: “Oh, yeah, by the way, before coming home to take over the ministry, I had a homosexual love affair that I really enjoyed but left because I
needed to be responsible. I think about him from time to
time and every now and then I even get an urge to explore
that side of me again, but I pray about it and I pray about it
and then I look at you and our children and those urges just
go away.”

Maybe he could have gotten away with that. But more
than likely Patricia would have never gotten involved with
him in the first place. But maybe he should have told her
anyway. Maybe.

Edwin sat in the family room. It was his favorite spot in
the four-thousand-square-foot home in Millburn, New Jersey.
The family room was just off the kitchen, and he could eat
and watch videos with his wife and kids and fall asleep on the
plush sectional. He loved to cook and he loved to eat and he
loved spending time with his family.

Edwin designed the home and paid extra-special attention
to the family room and kitchen. He wanted that space to be
almost seamless. The kitchen had a Jenn-Air stove with a
built-in grill, where he loved grilling burgers and salmon
steaks. There was an island in the middle of the kitchen with
a warm granite top and bar stools with matching stools at the
breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the family
room. He loved to gather with his wife there with four-year-old Edwin III at the table and little eighteen-month-old Ashley in her high chair as they talked over waffles and sausages.

Edwin didn't feel much like eating. And he didn't feel like
going upstairs to the empty bedroom, either. So he plopped
onto the sectional, grabbed the remote, and started flicking.

He sat there feeling really low. The UPN 9 News came on
and Brenda Blackmon had a special report: “New York shock
jock Ritz Harper has been gunned down on Park Avenue.
She's in critical condition. There are no suspects. Police are
investigating.”

Edwin was stunned.

Brenda Blackmon kicked it to a reporter who was outside
of the hospital. It seemed like a circus atmosphere. According to the reporter, they didn't know whether she had survived the shooting.

Edwin sat on his sectional and said a silent prayer for Ritz
Harper. As angry as he was at Ritz and Ivan, he asked God to
forgive Ivan and he prayed that Ritz would survive.

“I believe there is hope for her, Lord.”

28

Delilah Summers was curled up in a California king-size bed
with her Pottery Barn faux-sheepskin blanket covering her.
Since she lost her job two years ago, she found it hard to get
out of the house and, on most days, even her bed. Making the
television millions for all of those years left Delilah with
more than enough money to live for the rest of her life simply vegging out. But she wanted to get back in the game.
More than anything, she wanted to get back at Ritz Harper.

It was because of that “bitch” (which was the only way
Delilah would refer to Ritz now) that she had lost the job she
absolutely loved. She lost her career. Delilah Summers lost
her life.

“That fucking bitch!” was the constant thought that
Delilah had playing over and over and over again. “She will
get hers!”

Delilah actually hadn't spent the entire time in bed. She
had been plotting, planning, orchestrating her next move.
She was too smart and too savvy to be down forever, and she
understood a few things about her business. The most important thing: Everyone can make a comeback.

They—the media and the people—loved to build you up
and knock you down. On the other side of that equation:
They loved to see a comeback. They loved to see Vanessa
Williams lose her Miss America crown because of those
Penthouse
pictures only to come back to be a huge star in music
and film. They loved to see Halle Berry get caught in a hit-and-run scandal and failed marriages only to come back and
win an Oscar. They loved to see Martha Stewart become the
first female billionaire in America, get caught lying to the
feds, and go to jail only to come back to see her business return to its old glory.

“Delilah Summers will be back!” she told herself every day.
“And Ritz Harper will have her day, too.”

Revenge seemed to be the only thing keeping Delilah
Summers afloat, that and a good accountant who had invested her money so wisely that she could maintain her
multimillion-dollar penthouse on the Upper West Side of
Manhattan without one shred of worry.

Delilah might have lost many of her so-called friends following the scandal uncovered by Ritz Harper. But no one
really had any friends in her business. She did, though, have
a few favors owed to her, and it was time to call them in.

Delilah had gained about fifteen pounds. She knew she
would have to get off her ass and get back into the race soon.

“I'll start my diet next week,” she reasoned.

Until then, her nightstand was piled high with empty
Häagen-Dazs containers, empty potato chip bags, bottles of
Pepsi and Arizona Iced Tea. She propped herself up on three
pillows and settled in to watch the twenty-four-hour news
programs on Fox, MSNBC, and CNN. She was a news junkie
still and missed being at the center of it all.

“I'll be back!”

CNN had a news flash: “Radio personality Ritz Harper has
been shot. It is unknown whether she has survived, but according to our sources, she was shot four times. Stay tuned for
further details as we get them.”

Delilah grabbed a sheet of paper from under a bottle of
Pepsi on her nightstand. The paper had a list with numbers
next to them. Delilah grabbed a pen and put a line through
the first item on her list.

“One down, five more to go,” she whispered to herself as a
huge smile crossed her face.

29

The cab driver gave Tracee her card back but before he could
get out to open the door for her, she was out and striding
toward the hospital. The cab driver blew his horn and sped
away but Tracee hadn't noticed. She looked up and down the
street hoping to see Ritz or Chas, but all she saw were a lot of
television trucks and what looked like paparazzi huddled
around the emergency room entrance. Tracee felt uncontrollable heat rising from her neck. She knew the evening would
not end without a migraine.

Tracee walked past the press and into the hospital, straight
to the security station. She didn't know what to say or what
to ask the hospital security. She was lost.

“Can I help you?” the attendant asked.

Tracee's voice cracked but she was able to finally get the
words out. “I don't know. I'm looking for a friend. I'm
not sure what he's wearing but he's a tall black man and,
and . . .”

Tracee felt crazy. This was not at all what she planned for
this trip.

“Tracee! Tracee!” It was Chas.

“What's going on?!”

“Ritz. She's been shot. I don't know how many times. I
don't know what her status is. I don't know anything really.
Now you know as much as I do.”

“Oh my God! Oh my God! No!” Tracee was practically
screaming at the top of her lungs. Chas pulled her into his
arms and she cried uncontrollably. Chas rested his chin on
the top of her head, holding her tight for his own comfort as
well as hers.

A redheaded doctor walked out of ER and over to the
nurses' station. The emergency room nurse pointed to Chas,
and Chas didn't wait for an invitation to walk over. Tracee
was right beside him holding him hard.

“Are you the brother of Jane Doe?”

Ritz was originally listed as a Jane Doe because she had no
identification on her when she arrived in the ambulance.
The media knew she was Ritz Harper because an eyewitness
called it in. But she had not been officially identified. Her
fifteen-thousand-dollar bag had been stolen along with her
Gucci frames and her new diamond ring.

“Jane Doe?”

“Yes. The young woman arrived here with no identification and just the clothes on her back.”

“Her name is Ritz Harper. Ritz Harper,” Chas said.

“It would help if I can ask you about her medical history so
we can know if there are any precautions we should take or if
there are any allergies to any medication,” said the doctor.
“Right now I can tell you that she is in critical condition. She
was shot three times—once in the shoulder, once in the chest,
which punctured a lung, and the last bullet passed through
her side. Right now the only thing we can do is wait and pray.”

Tracee began to cry again and ask why.

“Can we see her?” Chas asked.

The doctor led Tracee and Chas to the ICU. They were
able to stand outside the glass and look at her.

“Why is her head bandaged?” Tracee managed to get out
between sniffles.

“She seems to have suffered a concussion and a huge gash
when her head hit the concrete.

Ritz looked not only like had she been shot but she also resembled Mike Tyson after his fight with Lennox Lewis. Her
eyes were swollen closed and tubes seemed to be coming from
every part of her body.

Tracee's stomach lurched; she had to leave immediately.
Chas turned to the doctor and said they would be back.

Tracee and Chas went to the family lounge. Tracee needed
to sit before she fell. A migraine had started to work its way
through her head, shredding her frayed nerves to pieces.

“Chas, who could have done this?”

“Tracee, take your pick on that one,” he said. “I don't even
know where to begin.”

“I can't believe this!” she said. “I never thought people
would take what Ritz does for more than entertainment.”

“Tracee, what Ritz says on the radio is as serious as the stuff
that killed Tupac and Biggie,” Chas said.

“Oh, no!” Tracee said. “Did you call Ritz's aunt and uncle?”

“I don't even have a number for them.”

“I'll call them. I just hope that they get the news from me
and not from the television.”

The doctor told Chas and Tracee that there wasn't much
for them to do at the hospital, and he advised them to go
home. But Tracee wasn't leaving Ritz. She and Chas went
outside to get some fresh air and were met by a throng of reporters from every major newspaper, magazine, supermarket
tabloid, and television news outlet.

With the lack of concrete news, it was turning into a media feeding frenzy. Everyone was trying to be the first with the
next update.

“Excuse me! Did you say her parents are on vacation?” said
one NY-1 reporter who had managed to sneak inside and was
standing behind Tracee and Chas the whole time, eavesdropping. It took every ounce of strength for Tracee not to slap
the shit out of her.

Seeing Tracee's anger, the reporter moved away without
asking another question. Chas grabbed Tracee's arm and ushered her back to the lounge area.

As they sat waiting, a tall, handsome man in a nicely fitted suit walked over to them with authority. “You two come
with me.”

“Who are you?” Tracee asked, worried.

“Please, ma'am, I'll tell you everything, just come with me.”

Detective Tom Pelov walked briskly down the corridor with
Chas and Tracee. They went through two large white doors.
Beyond the door there was little movement except for the occasional passing of a nurse. Pelov stopped and introduced
himself.

“My name is Detective Pelov. I'm with homicide, and I
have been assigned to this case.”

Tracee screamed.

Acknowledgments

I am going to keep this simple. I want to thank my husband,
Kevin, and my son, Kevin, who give me a reason to keep doing what I'm doing. To my mother, father, sister, and brother,
who are always there for me, I love you very much.

Thanks to Steve Lindsey, who keeps me fab-u-lous!

Thanks to my very competent and wonderful writing partner and friend, Karen Hunter.

Thanks to everyone at Harlem Moon/Broadway for believing in Ritz Harper and making it happen.

And last but not least, I want to thank my radio fans for
staying with me this long and for embracing my fertile imagination. I love you all for listening . . . and now reading!

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

WENDY WILLIAMS, a top-rated syndicated radio host, has published
two
New York Times
bestsellers—
Wendy's
Got the Heat
and
The Wendy
Williams Experience
. In addition to her books and radio show, she also
hosts a television show on VH1. Wendy lives in New Jersey with her husband, Kevin, and their son. This is her debut novel.

KAREN HUNTER, a Pulitzer Prize–winning editorial writer, has coauthored ten books, including
New York Times
bestsellers
On the Down Low
,
Wendy's Got the Heat
,
The Wendy Williams Experience
,
I Make My Own
Rules
, and
Ladies First
. Karen hosts a morning show on WWRL (1600
AM) in New York and is an assistant professor in the Department of Film
and Media Studies at Hunter College. This is her first novel.

PUBLISHED BY HARLEM MOON

Copyright © 2006 by Wendy Williams and Karen Hunter

All Rights Reserved

Published in the United States by Harlem Moon, an imprint of The Doubleday
Broadway Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.harlemmoon.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places,
events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress

eISBN: 978-0-307-41894-4

www.randomhouse.com

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