Killer Riff (23 page)

“I turned down a bribe and rejected a prewritten article,” I said, deciding to keep the part about holding her son hostage to myself as long as possible.

Henry nodded. Happily, what I was saying seemed to make sense in the context of what Claire had told him. “She didn’t mention that part. But she did say you accused her of murder.”

The bull pen wasn’t fully awake yet, everyone still on their first cup of coffee of the morning, but that got them sitting up straight and paying attention, even though I wished heartily that they weren’t. Eileen exclaimed my name with the same shrill tone you’d reprimand a puppy who’d wet in the house. Called on the carpet and now accused of ruining it.

I pressed on. “That might have come up in the course of the discussion. The same discussion in which she was trying to bribe me,” I said, ready to defend myself however possible.

“You’ve got to be careful about those sorts of things,” Henry said.

“I’ve told her that over and over,” Eileen said, cutting in line for a top spot on my firing squad.

“We have to be able to document everything,” Henry continued without acknowledging Eileen.

“In case she sues us,” Eileen added helpfully.

“And if Molly sues her,” Henry said.

“I kept the bogus article material she gave me,” I said, letting my stomach settle back from being lodged in my throat.

“Good,” Henry said.

“Henry. Are you encouraging her to continue, even though she’s offended a prestigious cultural figure with a vast following?” Eileen asked.

“She didn’t spit on the pope, Eileen. You’re giving Claire Crowley too much credit, and Molly not enough,” Henry responded. “I find that when people call and protest so vehemently about an article they haven’t read yet, it’s because the truth is being uncovered and they’d like it to stay buried.”

Eileen’s mouth worked soundlessly, like a goldfish lifted out of its bowl. “But you told me Claire was going to sue us.”

“She threatened. I’m comfortable that she won’t. We’ll find a way to smooth her feathers.”

Henry headed back to his office, but I called after him, “Would you like an opportunity to do it in person? She’ll be at Jordan Crowley’s private party at Pillow tonight and I can get you in.”

I could’ve sworn I heard a collective sigh in four-part harmony as the bull pen pondered the joys of attending a private party at Pillow. From Henry’s smile, I gathered the idea appealed to him as well. He walked back toward me. “Excellent strategy. Give Adrienne the information and I’ll be there.”

“I could get a car and pick you up,” Eileen offered.

“Are you sure you’re invited?” Henry asked.

He looked at me, Eileen didn’t. I wasn’t sure if she thought she was forcing my hand or if she just assumed, and for a split second, I thought about making her squirm. But then I decided that would just be mean. Entertaining, but mean. “She’s invited,” I said.

“I’ll get there on my own, thank you,” Henry told Eileen. “Go read, I’m anxious to compare notes with you,” he told me, and gestured for me to walk past him to the conference room, shielding me from any effort Eileen might exert to drag me into her office. It was delightful to think he was deliberately running interference for me.

I closed the conference room door behind me, kicked off my shoes, and sat at the mammoth table with my feet up in a second chair, as if I were settling in at the campus library for a long night of studying. It was odd to be in a room alone and trying to turn my mind to things other than Micah’s twisted family tree and its bizarre fruit. The chance to catch my breath made me want to call Kyle and see how he was doing, how we were doing, but I also knew I’d already made some extraordinary demands on his time and he’d been gracious above and beyond the call about accommodating them. I needed to give him some space and some peace at work, and I needed to read some letters.

An odd sense of anticipation crept under my rib cage as I held the folder, a mix of excitement and dread about the quality of what might be inside with equal chances of the letters being far better or far worse than I might imagine. Taking a deep breath, I hoped to be pleasantly surprised.

The first reply I read to the sample letter about whether it was possible to have a relationship when you feel as though you’re struggling for control shifted the barometer from anticipation to dread. “If you want to be in control, you’re not committed to the relationship.” Okay, I thought, this is about interdependence versus independence, fair enough. But then it continued, “You need to find someone you’re willing to surrender to, someone who makes you want to give up control.” Not in this century, not in this magazine. That one went in the “no” pile.

Reading further, I found several that fell into the empowerment camp: “You deserve to be in control,” that sort of thing. And a few that went for the deeper issue, raising the possibility that the angst was really about something else in life and the writer was taking it out on the boyfriend. They all got extra points for insight, as uncomfortable as the insight made me, and I put them in the “yes” pile.

Then there was the letter that started: “Of course control is an illusion. Everything in life is illusion. Life itself might be. So why not do what you want? Pedal to the metal!” I’d been trying not to imagine which staffer had written which letter, but that one just seemed to scream Seth in Art Direction, the one with Buster Keaton’s face tattooed on the back of his neck, the eyes peeking out just above the collar line, which made walking down the hall behind him a surreal experience.

Halfway through the folder, it was well past lunch and my rear end was asleep from my bad posture in the chair, but I had several strong candidates, a couple of possibles, and a large pile of not quites. Then I came to:

Dear Balancing Act
,

Men and women should both respect control, but they have to respect each other first. Just because you want to take the trip on your terms doesn’t mean it has to be a solo flight. If you really have momentum in your life, find a man who’s going to hop on board and ride shotgun as you build up speed, not one who’s going to flag you down. Or a man who inspires you to slam on the brakes and have a picnic at the side of the road. Get there when you want to, how you want to, with whom you want to.

It touched me. It amused me. But most of all, it rang a bell.

Debating between calling Cassady, who was baby-sitting, and Tricia, who was party building, I grabbed the phone. Cassady won, because I knew she’d be more interruptible. “How’s he behaving?” I asked.

“He’s sleeping again,” she assured me. “It’s all been very Freudian. Poor boy really needs to work things out with his mother, whether she’s harboring Gray or not. Oh, and Adam’s taking us all to a jazz concert at the end of the month. Unless you wind up implicating him, too.”

That explained the John Pizzarelli album playing in the background. “Hey, it’s not like I get to choose who’s involved here,” I said. “But before we get into that, listen to this.”

I read her the answer; a thoughtful pause followed. “The last line needs work.”

“I agree.”

“Molly, I thought you were leaving that job.”

“I am.”

“So why are you writing another column?”

Now the bell didn’t just ring, it pealed. “Yes! That’s why it sounds familiar, I wrote it!”

Cassady chuckled, but it had a worried tinge to it. “Have you been sipping out of Adam’s cocktail glass?”

“No, no,” I said as I tried to rise from my chair, slumbering hindquarters and all. “This letter was submitted by someone who wants my job. But I wrote it.”

“Plagiarism
and
shortsightedness. A winning combination,” Cassady said. “Hire that person right away.”

I told her I’d check back with her in a bit and raced stiff-hipped back to my computer, ignoring the anxious faces that attempted to peer without being seen to peer, wondering what letter had provoked such a strong response that I would galumph through the office barefoot.

Cracking open my archive folder and searching my past columns for two- and three-word combinations, I was able to pull up five different letters I’d written, each of which was represented in the patchwork letter that lay crumpled beside my keyboard. The metaphors had been adjusted, but they were all there. Except the last sentence.

I looked up from my computer, and everyone in the bull pen looked down, suddenly busy, like high school students who believe if they do not make eye contact, they will not be called on to answer the pop quiz question. Everyone except Skyler. Tensed, as though prepared to either call Security or dig Mace out of her purse if I moved too suddenly, she stared at me from her desk.

Could it be Skyler? All I had to do was get the key from Adrienne, assuming no one had tampered with the key, but she was all the way over on the other side of the building. Skyler was right in front of me and starting to sweat.

I picked up the crumpled letter and advanced on her, waiting for her to blink or bolt or, worse, buzz Eileen. As I walked up to her, I tried to imagine how anyone could believe they’d be able to pass off someone else’s work as their own, even if they claimed to model themselves after that person, to be offering an homage to that person—

To be that person’s son.

My freezing in midstep alarmed Skyler, but the idea struck me with physical force, and I couldn’t move for a moment. It was like bracing myself at the breaker line when we were kids at the beach, the breathless exhilaration of staying on your feet as the waves crashed into you even while the water slapping into your face stung your eyes and throat and lungs.

Gray Benedek might kill for a new hit song, but anything he did with the Hotel Tapes, he’d have to share with Claire and the rest of the heirs.

But if Claire had the tapes, she could not only lay claim to the songs, she could reclaim her dynasty. In fact, the best way for Claire to guarantee Adam could become his father was to give him his father’s songs and let him sing them as his own. And to kill the only person who knew they weren’t.

17

The only thing worse
than a plan that doesn’t work is one that works too well. You revamp your diet to focus on organics, and either you discover you’re allergic or you find that once you’ve shopped for groceries, you can’t pay your rent. You flirt with someone to get his attention, and either he walks right by you or you discover he’s not as much fun as you thought he’d be but you can’t shake him. You construct a press leak, and either no one listens or you wind up getting indicted. Or the entire fourth estate camps out on your doorstep before you’ve had a chance to get presentable.

But I wasn’t speculating on the potential press mishaps in my future when I slammed the letter down on Skyler’s desk. Invigorated by my new insight into Claire’s motive for killing Russell, I was psyched to smite a few ethical dragons before I left to get ready for Jordan’s party. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Rarely,” she said, sounding nervous for the first time in our acquaintance.

“What were you thinking?”

“I wanted to try something new.”

“By using something old?”

“I know there are copyright issues—”

“You better believe it.”

“But I thought if you liked the concept, we could figure out the royalty issues with the songwriters and see if it was doable.”

Her lower lip trembled while my mind slid to a stop. “You wrote the answer with the song quotes. The advice Cole Porter and Norah Jones might give.”

“Yes,” she said tentatively.

“Excellent answer.”

She brightened slightly. “I thought you were upset.”

“I am. But apparently, not with you. I need to talk to Adrienne.”

Trouble was, I didn’t make it to Adrienne. I made it all the way to the other side of Skyler’s desk before Carlos stood up at his, phone in his hand, and said, “Molly, call for you.”

Of all the people I considered on the way back to my desk, I did not consider Peter Mulcahey. “I’m the last person in the world you should be holding out on.”

“I beg to differ several times over,” I said. “What do you want, Peter?”

“What’s the announcement about the Hotel Tapes?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve slept with you enough times to know when you’re lying, Molly,” he said with a certainty that annoyed me.

“So you knew it wasn’t true when I told you how terrific you were?” I snarked.

“Don’t bait me while I’m baiting you,” he said. “I’m trying to get a story here.”

“Peter, assuming I even know anything about whatever story it is you’re chasing, why would I give the story to you instead of telling it myself?”

“Because you’re too close to it. Give me an exclusive.”

“To publish in your magazine.”

“So your guys fire you. I’ll get you a sweet deal over here.”

“Thanks for checking in, Peter.”

“At least invite me to the damn party.”

The twisted notion of fixing up Peter and Eileen occurred to me, but I’d have to ask Aaron about the global implications of introducing an unstoppable pressure to an emotional black hole. “Yeah, see you there,” I said, and hung up.

The word was out. And it had already gotten from the tabloids to the mainstream press. Or at least to Peter.

It had also reached the music community, because I’d barely cleared the line when it rang again. This time it was Risa, who announced she wanted to acquire the Hotel Tapes for her label. “I’ll pay you ten percent over what anyone else has offered.”

“Who told you I was selling the tapes?”

“You’re the last person I discussed them with. I heard there was some big announcement coming, and I just assumed you were involved.”

I had hoped the rumor that someone had found the tapes would be sufficient to force the hand of the person who really did have them: If I said I had them, Claire would be compelled to come forward and prove me wrong. Said rumor exploding into an auction for the tapes in the blink of an eye took my breath away. I just hoped the explosion didn’t take me with it before Claire had been flushed out.

I told Risa that I didn’t have anything to do with selling the tapes, but I’d certainly call her first if I heard they were for sale. After pushing a little more, she thanked me, I hung up, and Gray Benedek grabbed my shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Such is the power of stardom that a tall, muscular man with fury in his eyes and vitriol in his voice was standing over me, clearly meaning me harm, and my colleagues sat in their places, gazing at him with awe and adoration. I even heard giggling as Gray leaned down into my face, and I hoped that was in honor of his fame and not in anticipation of my demise.

“Where’s Adam?” he demanded.

“I’ve been looking for you to ask you the same question,” I said with what I felt was commendable calm. “You were the last person seen with him in public.”

Gray straightened up slowly, a cobra recoiling after a strike. “Don’t try to make me look bad here, little girl. You’re the sucker, falling for the charming act. You think Adam is the wounded party? He’s the one who’s got the tapes and is telling everyone he’ll sell them to the highest bidder.”

“Since when?” I asked, wincing at the anxious crack in my own voice. He had to have this wrong, didn’t he?

“Who the hell knows? But I’ve got press up to my armpits wanting reactions and pictures and producers wanting a piece of the project, and what I want is Adam Crowley so I can teach the ungrateful piece of spineless scum about loyalty and respect, just one more thing his father never bothered to do for him.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that my colleagues’ awe and adoration were ebbing into the discomfort and fear zone. Not that anyone was coming to my aid, but at least they weren’t batting their eyes at Gray anymore.

“Why would you think this was Adam’s doing?” I asked.

“He doesn’t have his own songs,” Gray said with distaste. “The best he can do is ride on someone else’s riff.”

The sour torque in my stomach acknowledged his point and the fact that I’d ascribed a similar motive to Claire yet kept Adam free of any culpability. The attractive option at this point was to attend medical school, probably in another country. The responsible option was to check on Adam and give him a chance to answer these charges. But I had to get away from Gray to be able to do that. Knowing how well he handled confrontation, I tried a different approach. “I’m really sorry that you’re being bothered. Let me look into this, press my contacts. I’ll see what I can find out for you, Mr. Benedek.”

Gray actually smiled, and a soft group sigh filled the room behind me. “Good. Good.”

“In fact, I’ll walk out with you, get right on this,” I said, scooping up my accoutrements and stuffing them in my bag. Even the offending letter went along; it would have to wait its turn in the long line of events wanting to mess with my life.

As I walked out with Gray, Skyler stood at her desk. “Wait! What about the letters?”

“Grab them out of the conference room and sit on them if you have to. I’ll call you!” I called back. My giving her a mission seemed to please her, perhaps because she thought it meant we were friends now. Yeah, fine.

Gray and I seemed to be friends now, too, and we parted with professional politeness in front of the building. I wasn’t sure how he’d feel about me at the end of the evening, which I was still hoping would culminate in the exposure of Claire, but my promise to track down Adam mollified him for the moment. I was willing to take that and run with it all the way back to my apartment, where both Cassady and Adam were happy to see me.

“Changing of the guard,” Cassady proclaimed, scooping up her work. “I have to go find a fabulous dress to wear to dinner with Aaron. I don’t suppose …” She wrinkled her nose at Adam, then shook her head. “Never mind.”

Adam leapt to his feet, tossing down my well-worn copy of
One Hundred Years of Solitude. “
Let’s go. Put me in drag if you have to, to get me through the press downstairs, but I need to go outside.”

“He does need something to wear tonight,” Cassady said.

“A condemned man deserves to go in style,” Adam said.

“You’re not a condemned man. Unless you’re holding out on me and you’ve been working the phones,” I warned, Gray’s slams on Adam’s character reverberating in my head.

Adam gestured at Cassady. “She confiscated my cell and listened at the door while I was in the bathroom.”

“I was being thorough,” Cassady explained. “You told me to keep him incommunicado and I did.”

“We’re on the same side,” Adam said.

I hoped so, or the chopping block was going to have my name on it right next to his. Relenting, I said, “There’s no press downstairs yet, but incognito is still the order of the day.”

Which was why, one hour later, Cassady and I escorted Adam into Saks, his sunglasses on despite the overcast weather, his telltale curls crammed into a bright yellow baseball cap from a 5K for diabetes research that I limped through, his chin tucked down into the zipper of a ragged burnt orange zip-pered sweatshirt that had survived a Green Mountains camping trip with a little more flair than I had. Adam managed to be remarkably low-key as we entered the men’s department, though I’d barely begun to sift through the stacks of shirts when he arrived at the customer service desk with a Marc Jacobs ensemble, black sateen trousers and a white sweater, plus a package of Calvin Klein knit boxers and black socks. Either the cashier didn’t notice the name on his credit card or didn’t care, because she didn’t blink an overly mascaraed eyelash as she completed the transaction.

Adam strolled back to where Cassady and I waited and smiled. “Done.”

Cassady looked him over with something that approached distaste. “Men just don’t understand how to shop.” She sighed and led us to the evening wear department.

While Cassady slid between racks, evaluating, dismissing, and moving on, Adam and I loitered near a table of merino sweaters that compelled you to stroke them. “I appreciate this very much,” he said as I slid my hand between two sweaters.

“The shopping?”

“Your helping Ollie like this. Figuring out what happened.”

“Don’t thank me until it’s over,” I said, touched by his loyalty to Olivia but trying to imagine what his reaction would be when the blame came down on Claire. Especially since she seemed to have done it all for him.

“I’d like to do a lot more when it’s over,” he said with a smile I couldn’t quite read.

“Like record a jazz album?” I asked, uncomfortable with the slick tone in his voice.

“Like take you out.”

A little perturbed that he was playing with me again, I laughed it off. “You don’t have to do this anymore.”

“Ask you out?”

“Flirt with me to keep me from suspecting you.”

“Is that what you thought I was doing?” His smile disappeared. “That’s crap. I was trying to open up to you, share something special with you, and you thought it was an act? So you taking care of me, helping me out, that’s been an act in return?”

“No, I genuinely want to help you,” I protested.

“And I genuinely like you,” he snapped back, not seeming to care for me all that much at the moment. “Which is why I want to take you out.”

I deemed a new approach necessary. “That wouldn’t go over well with Kyle.”

“My other baby-sitter?”

“Yes.”

For some reason, that pulled him up. “Sorry. I thought you were old friends.”

Which pulled me up. “Old friends?”

“Or cousins or something.”

Adam was not exactly a neutral observer, but he seemed genuinely surprised. How could the undeniable attraction Kyle and I felt for each other not be plainly obvious, even to him? Kyle and I were meant to be together. Fated. Destined. Force of nature and all that. Weren’t we?

Though I told myself—repeatedly—Adam was giving me a hard time, I had difficulty dismissing his statement. Sufficient difficulty that when Kyle arrived at my apartment several hours later, looking more handsome than ever in a tailored black jacket I hadn’t seen before and a deep blue shirt that made his eyes radiate, I grabbed him and kissed him as passionately as I could without getting into exhibitionist territory.

“So,” Kyle said when I let him come up for air, “we’re not going to Jordan’s party?”

I allowed myself a glance at Adam, who sat on the couch in his new Marc Jacobs ensemble topped with a Simon Cowell scowl. “Interesting,” Adam said.

“What?” Kyle asked.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, shooting Adam the narrow-eyed frown that translates universally as, “Shut up. Now.”

In the taxi on the way to the club, I wound up between the two men, holding myself in my own space so tightly that I could have cracked walnuts between my knees. I was experiencing serious eleventh-hour anxiety about my strategy, and I didn’t need Adam playing with my mind, heart, or any combination thereof, either by declaring his own feelings or by questioning Kyle’s. Was he doing it just to do it? Or because he really meant it? Or because he sensed I was closing in on his mother?