Lethally Blond (9 page)

I flashed back to my conversation with Harper. She might not have actually
said
she’d returned on Sunday, but she’d told me that was the plan and had
implied
she’d followed it. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Oh, so she got to see Tom before he left,” I said, again all nice and easy. I felt like someone trying to pluck a dropped earring from the edge of an open drain.

“No, he was gone by then, I think.”

As I offered a benign, bewildered-by-life’s-injustices expression, my mind began to race. What if Tom had been less vague with Harper about his plans for Saturday and had told her exactly where he was going? She might have been aware of exactly what kind of “work” he had to do. She could have taken the red-eye home from L.A. and then hopped in a car and headed for Andes. Perhaps she’d learned about Locket. She may have exploded in jealous anger at Tom and hit him over the head with something—like a tool he’d been working with. Or stabbed him. Then set his body on fire. The info was too slim to take to the police—it might land Harper in trouble for nothing—but I needed to talk to her and determine why she’d misled me.

Chris returned just then and plopped back down in his chair.

“That was Harper,” he said, sighing. “She says she’s out just wandering the streets not far from here. She sounds totally wigged out.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Amy asked.

“If there is, she doesn’t seem to know how to articulate it. . . . Oh wow, Locket and Alex are here.”

I looked up to see a couple standing at the farthest table—they’d obviously come in from the door closer to that end of the room. Locket looked hip and cool despite what a long day she must have had. She was wearing skintight black jeans, boots and a hot pink turtleneck (also skintight) and was carrying a pink Birkin bag. Alex took a seat, but Locket began working her way down the row of tables, saying hello to people one by one. If she was overcome with grief, she wasn’t giving it away.

Her scent arrived at our end about four minutes before she did—an intoxicating blend of what I guessed to be patchouli and vanilla. When she finally reached us, Chris stood up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. I was closer to her than I’d been the day before, and I could see that though there were fine lines around her face, they did little to detract from her other attributes—the platinum hair, the large blue eyes, and skin as white and luminescent as the inside of a scallop shell. And then there were the lips. In some ways, they were like fake boobs—they might be absurdly larger than normal, but you couldn’t peel your eyes off them.

“Bailey,” she said after Chris introduced us. She let her eyes roam over my face, as if she’d been given permission to search it. “How does one end up with a name like that?” There was an edge to her words, and she looked intently into my eyes. The thought that bounded instantly through my mind was: Does she
know
me somehow?

“It’s just one of those old family names that you end up with regardless of whether you’re a girl or a boy. I believe it means the wall of the castle.”

She wrinkled her nose in a manner that suggested my answer didn’t smell right to her.

“Your name is quite unusual, too,” I added, hoping to engage her a little in conversation. “Where does it come from?”

“You’ll have to ask my mama that,” she said, dismissing me, and then rounded the corner to greet Amy. When she moved past Chris, she gave his arm a squeeze.

As we sat down, she worked her way up the other side of the table, back toward Alex. I leaned toward Amy again, hoping to restart the conversation, but Chris’s cell phone rang. All I heard him say was, “Okay, I’ll meet you right in the front.” That didn’t sound good to me.

“That was Harper again,” he said into my ear. “She’s outside the bar. I’m going to meet her for a minute, maybe take her out in the garden and see if I can talk her off the ledge. Are you cool with that?”

“Uh, sure.” I didn’t like it, but what was I going to do? I had my own questions for Harper, but this wasn’t the time or the place.

“Are you going to be all right hanging here for a while?”

“Actually, I’m done with my beer, and I think I’ll just grab another at the bar.”

Amy had ambled down to the middle section of the
Morgue
tables, and it didn’t look as if she’d be missing me. As I stood up to make my way to the bar, I noticed Locket, now back with Alex, whisper something into his ear. He looked away from her and directly at me, his high forehead gleaming from the light. Was it just a coincidence? Again, I had that odd sensation that she knew me. Had I been marked as a
Buzz
reporter?

After fighting my way to the bar, I asked for another Guinness. Just as the bartender, a stocky redheaded guy, slid it toward me, a stool opened up. I decided to hop on and bide my time there. From that position, I could see into the side room and watch the goings-on.

Over the next ten minutes, I perched on the stool and nursed my mug of beer. Other than having to hose down two horn dogs who came on to me, I was left to my own devices in the orange glow from the bar lights.

It just happened that I glanced up at the moment Chris entered the pub with Harper. They stood at the front door, with her shaking her head vehemently and him clearly trying to soothe her. The whole scene bugged me. This was the guy I’d slept with last night, who’d announced he wanted to consume every inch of me. Though I knew he’d been called on to help Harper in her grief, it looked as if they were in the midst of a lovers’ spat—he was mad, perhaps, that she’d been flirting with other guys, or she was pissed because he never called when he said he would. I felt that odd little sensation in the pit in my stomach, the kind you get when a guy you’ve gone to bed with for the first time unexpectedly starts putting on his pants at five the next morning with some story about a very early meeting, which if he doesn’t haul butt to could lead to the collapse of not only the World Bank, but possibly even Western civilization. As I watched them surreptitiously, Harper suddenly looked all the way down the bar and made eye contact with me. Chris followed her gaze. His eyes seemed to plead for patience.

“Where’d your date go? He didn’t abandon you, did he?”

Expecting to see another horn dog, I spun around to discover Deke’s large head four inches from my own. He smelled like sweat, onions, and grease, and he eyed me up and down as if I’d just stripped to my panties. I would have liked to hose
him
down instantly, but it was a golden opportunity for me, my chance to finally learn what he knew about Tom.

“He’s talking to Harper right now,” I said. “She’s pretty upset—about that actor Tom Fain.” I figured I might as well jump right in and see what I turned up.

“Oh yeah, that’s a real bummer. I’m Deke, by the way. Deke Jacobus. This is Danny De Mateo.” He indicated his sidekick with a flick of his head.

“Bailey Weggins,” I said, shaking Deke’s hand, which felt as thick as a baseball mitt and as rough as plank wood. Danny shook my hand, too. He was tall and wiry, with frameless glasses that magnified his eyes so much, he looked like a bug.

“So you an actress?” Danny asked.

“God, no,” I said. “The last time I was on stage I was playing a Pilgrim in a grade-school production. All they let me do was carry a squash.” I flashed a little smile at the end, though trying to flirt with these two dudes was about as much fun as licking the inside of someone’s shoes.

“So then how do you know Jared?”

“Pardon me?” I said.

“Chris, aka Jared. The guy who’s supposed to give Dr. McDreamy a run for his money.” He said the last part sarcastically, which was ironic considering Deke, with his thick, broken nose and greasy, dirty blond hair, was about as dreamy as a Spam sandwich.

“We’re old friends,” I said. “I know Harper, too. This is just awful for her—I mean, what happened to Tom.”

Danny had turned away at this point, to shout an order to the bartender. Deke just let the remark hang there.

“You knew Tom, right?” I said.

“Yeah, about as well as you ever get to know any of the actors on a set.”

“But I thought you guys played cards together. Harper said you even went to Atlantic City together.”

He stared hard into me with slate-colored eyes. “Harper still has a real thorn in her claw about that Atlantic City trip, doesn’t she.”

“She didn’t like Tom hanging at casinos?”

“That wasn’t the prob. Tom had just started dating Harper, but on that trip he brought along this other chick—some actress.”

Blythe? I wondered. In the days before she’d become a real pain.

“Was Tom much of a gambler? Do you think that could have anything to do with his death?”

“What are you anyway—a little Miss Marple?”

“Just curious.”

“I really haven’t a clue,” he said, and moved past me, his thick thigh rubbing hard against mine. He and Danny claimed a spot halfway down the bar in the middle of the crowd.

Something was odd. It was clear Deke didn’t like discussing Tom, and it wasn’t because he was in mourning. I looked down the bar to the front door, hoping to catch Chris’s eye again. I thought I spotted the edge of his shirt, but some other patrons were blocking him from complete view and there was no sign of Harper. This was starting to get
really
annoying. I turned and checked out the side room. A few chairs at the
Morgue
tables were empty now, and Locket and Alex were standing, clearly ready to be on the move. Locket glanced through the doorway in my direction and just for a second locked eyes with me, then looked away. Something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye, and when I turned my head, I spotted Amy standing by the door of the garden, gesturing for me to come over. After shrugging off my jeans jacket to save my stool, I headed over there, weaving my way through the crowd.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“What’s going on with Harper, anyway? I saw her at the end of the bar a few minutes ago.”

“She’s pretty upset, apparently. She showed up here and Chris is trying to talk her off the ledge.”

“I know this sounds rude, but I hope she’s going to be able to work next week. We’re only two weeks from the premiere.”

“I’m sure she’ll pull it all together,” I said, having no idea whether she could or not. Amy sighed, said good-bye, and wandered off. It took me a second to realize my cell phone was ringing.

“Hey, it’s me,” Chris said. “Harper’s in the ladies’ room right now, and when she comes out, I’m going to run her home in a cab. Are you cool with that?”

“Sure,” I said, though I was actually sick of Chris playing baby-sitter.

“Do you want to wait here and I’ll come back for you?”

“How long do you think it will be?” I asked.

“Not long—maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. She lives straight east of here—around Gramercy Park.”

“Why don’t you call me when you’re done. If it’s not too long, I’ll stay; otherwise I’ll head back to my place. You could come by—if you want.”

“Great, I’d love that,” he said.

The ladies’ room was just around the corner, and before heading back to the bar, I slipped in there, curious. Harper was standing at the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

“Harper, I’m so s—”

“Do you think he suffered?” she demanded, her penny eyes catching the reflection of my eyes in the mirror.

“I don’t know—I hope not,” was all I could muster. She stomped past me in her cowboy boots, as if my response had irritated her to death.

Two minutes later I threaded my way back to my stool. A pack of girls, all in low-slung pants or minis, shouted to one another nearby as they surveyed the room like falcons. Deke and Danny had slipped off to parts unknown. I continued to sip my beer, trying to decide whether to stay or leave. Was I right to be
this
annoyed? I asked myself. If Chris was just taking Harper home, why not let me ride along in the cab and then head to my place together? Finally deciding to blow the place, I slid off my stool. One of the girls next to me asked if she could have it.

“Sure,” I said. But it came out “Sllur.” Suddenly it was as if I were watching myself from far above me. And as I watched, the only thought in my mind was, God, you’re drunk. Really, really drunk.

CHAPTER 8

T
he first thing I became conscious of was that it was cool, almost cold, out—and that I was shivering. I crossed my arms over my torso and rocked back and forth to generate heat. Just that small movement seemed exhausting, and I lowered my head, catching it in my hands. I could see my thighs, but my feet, I realized, were in darkness. And there was a taste of vomit in my mouth. I popped my head up. I was sitting on the stoop of a brick town house on a street lit only by the glow from streetlamps and the random lights on buildings. I glanced to the right and then the left, my heart pounding. I didn’t have a clue where I was—or how I had gotten there. And from the emptiness of the street, I knew it had to be very, very late.

My first urge was to run, just tear down the street like a bat out of hell. But I was too tired even to move. My arms and legs felt as if they’d been poured with wet sand. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself—and to think. What was this street, and what was I doing here? Even in the dark I could see that the street was pretty, tree lined, with mostly brick-fronted four-story or five-story buildings. I wasn’t in the Village, I was pretty sure—the side streets there were much shorter. And the stoops here weren’t high, like the ones on the Upper West Side.

I glanced to the left again. There were several more town houses and a big, white-brick apartment building and then the cross street, a few cars whizzing along it. It was an avenue, but I had no idea which one. Side streets this long might mean Chelsea.
Chelsea
. And then, like a wine stain spreading on a tablecloth, I began to see in my mind the Half King on 23rd Street. I had been there with Chris, and we had been talking to people, and then Chris was leaving and I was alone.

My arm jerked, and I felt clunkily for my purse. It was there, beside me on the cool stone steps. I dug through for my phone, flipped it open, and looked for the time: 3:47. God, I’d arrived at the pub just before nine. I didn’t remember leaving. I remembered saying good-bye to Chris and being at the bar. But that was all.

A sound in the street—a scratching noise—startled me. I glanced up to see a rat the size of a tabby cat scoot from under a car and scurry across the road. My head had started to throb, and I fought off the urge to cry. I wanted to run, to get
out
of there. Though the strength was returning to my arms, my legs still felt leaden, and I couldn’t imagine how I could get my body to move.

I forced my mind back to earlier. Why had Chris left me?
Harper
. That was it—he’d been taking her home. But he’d been coming back for me, hadn’t he? And then I remembered. I’d decided to leave. And I was slurring my words. I’d felt woozy, plastered actually. But I’d had only two beers. And suddenly it hit me like a bloody hammer. Someone had put something into my drink—a roofie, maybe.

Fear overwhelmed me, squeezing my breath out. Had it been a guy planning to date-rape me? I glanced at my clothes. They weren’t disheveled. But where had I been for the past hours?

For an instant, I thought of calling 911. I realized, though, that it might take fifteen minutes for a patrol car to show, and I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting alone in the dark here any longer. I flexed my feet several times. Miraculously, they felt much lighter now, and I was pretty sure I was going to be able to move. I shook out my arms and legs, trying to jump-start them.

And then my phone rang. I jerked my hand in surprise, as if the phone were electrified. I knew it had to be Chris. He had said he’d come back for me. He must be crazy wondering where I was.

“Hello,” I said breathlessly.

The sound that came through from the other end was ugly and horrible. It was someone laughing, not a man or a woman, but something almost inhuman. Laughing demonically. And then it disconnected.

I sat there almost paralyzed again, staring at the phone. From down the street to the left, I heard a muffled sound from near the parked cars across from the apartment building. Was it the rat? Could someone be down there, crouching behind one of the cars?

I inhaled as well as I could, grabbed my purse, and lunged from the stoop. I began to run in the direction opposite from where the noise had originated. At first, lifting my legs seemed nearly impossible, like fighting an undertow, but after a dozen strides, they found their strength again. As I tore down the street, it seemed as if my heart were beating so hard, it would soon outrun the rest of my body.

Within a few seconds, I could see the traffic light at the end of the street, where it met the avenue. But which avenue was it? Would there be anything open? Would there be cabs? I slowed just enough so I could turn halfway around. There didn’t seem to be anyone behind me, but the street was so dark and leafy, it was hard to know for certain.

I stumbled a little when I spun back around, and as I caught myself, a stitch popped in my left side. I slowed my pace, rubbing my side with my free hand, willing the cramp away. As the pain ebbed, I picked my speed back up again.

I was almost at the corner now, and there was a building on the near right side—a small hotel, its ground floor lit up and the front door open. I staggered into the lobby. An older guy, fifty or so, was sitting on a bench just inside the lobby, reading a rumpled newspaper, and his head jerked up in surprise when I stepped through the open doorway.

“I think someone is following me,” I sputtered, figuring the “I was slipped a roofie six hours ago and have no idea where I’ve been since then” excuse wasn’t going to make much of a dent with this guy. As it was, he looked as though he wanted me out of his lobby as fast as possible.

He craned his head so he could see behind me, a frown forming on his face.

“Look, miss, we can’t help you here,” he said in a gravelly voice. “We’re just a hotel. You gotta call the police.”

“Where am I, anyway?” I asked. “I mean—I know I’m in New York and everything, but what street is this?”

“Twenty-second Street,” he replied almost reluctantly.

“That’s Ninth Avenue, then?” I asked, tilting my head to the left.”

“Yeah. Like I said, why don’t you give the cops a call?”

“Sure,” I told him. “Thanks for your help. It’s nice to know that chivalry is alive and well in Chelsea.”

Outside, I glanced up and down the street. There was no one in sight. I hurried the few steps to the corner and stepped onto the avenue. The entire block was empty of cars, the street pavement shimmering red from the traffic light, but several blocks farther down I could see cars bunched up at a light. Shivering, I glanced behind me. No one there. After what seemed an interminable wait, the traffic began to move again. I spotted a taxi with its top light on and threw up my arm. The second the cab stopped, I yanked open the door and jumped inside.

By the time I was back in my apartment, the fatigue had returned, but it was different now—not so much the leaden arm and leg thing, but an overall weariness. I stripped off my clothes and glanced over my body, checking for soreness or bruising. Then I popped two ibuprofen tablets and wolfed down a few stale saltines to help chase away the puke taste in my mouth. What I wanted more than anything was to sleep, but first I grabbed my BlackBerry and punched in the number for Dr. Paul Petrocelli, an ER doctor just outside of Boston whom I’d interviewed once for a story and now used frequently as a resource. I wasn’t certain what his current work schedule was, but he favored the night shift. To my relief, he answered his phone. I asked if he had a few minutes to talk.

“Sure, no one’s tried to drive through a tree tonight—yet,” he said. “You don’t sound so good.”

“I don’t feel so good, actually. I was out in a bar earlier, and I’m pretty sure someone slipped a drug in my drink.”

“Were you assaulted?” he asked. His words were blunt, but I heard worry in his deep voice.

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, I haven’t got any bruises, and there’s no sign whatever that I had sex.” I had quizzed Paul easily about everything from poisoning to blunt trauma to the brain, but it was awkward to talk to him about my own body.

“So tell me what happened—though I take it you don’t remember much.”

“I don’t remember
anything
. The last thing I know is that I was taking a swig of my beer at the bar, and then all of a sudden I felt completely woozy. A few minutes earlier, someone had called me over to talk, and I stupidly left my beer unattended. The drug could have been slipped in at—”

“Jeez, Bailey, if anyone should realize not to leave a drink on the bar, it should be you.”

“I know, I know. Anyway, the next thing I realize, it’s after three in the morning and I’m sitting on a stoop in pitch darkness. I had a headache, and I must have vomited somewhere because I could taste it in my mouth. Does it sound like I had a roofie?”

“How much were you drinking?”

“Why?”

“No offense, but it’s not uncommon for women to think they’ve had a roofie when they’ve actually just overindulged. They assume they’ve been drugged because they can’t remember anything, but what they’ve actually experienced is an alcoholic blackout.”

“Honestly, I only had two beers. In fact, I didn’t even finish the second.”

“How many hours were you missing in action—give me a rough idea.”

“Almost six.”

“Did you come out of it pretty quickly—like you were popping awake?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” I asked.

“I think what someone gave you was GHB. It’s different from a lot of date-rape drugs in that the recovery time is shorter—and you just sort of come out of it with a jolt.”

“Should I go to an ER and get my blood tested?”

“It only shows up in a urine test, and you have to do it within twelve hours. You still have time, but without any evidence of assault, most ERs won’t administer the test for you.”

I thanked him for the info and before signing off promised to provide an update later. Based on what he’d told me about my chances of getting tested, I decided that it was pointless to head to a hospital. My phone still in hand, I called up the log. The caller with the demonically evil laugh had rung me at three-fifty a.m. It had said “Caller Unknown,” just as it had with the weeper’s call on my way back from Andes. Were they the same person? I thought so. And was the caller the person who had drugged me? That laugh had been so knowing. It was as if the person on the other end had been fully aware that I was sitting alone in the dark, terrified, and had chosen to mock me. Even if the person wasn’t close by, I sensed he or she knew I was alone and vulnerable. But why exactly was whoever it was doing this to me? Was the person Tom’s killer? Did he or she know I was making inquiries?

While I sat there, bone tired with the phone in my hand, something else occurred to me. There were absolutely no calls in my log from Chris. If he had come back to the bar and not found me there, he should have been curious, even concerned—so why hadn’t he attempted to track me down? I dragged myself off the couch and into my office to check the light on my phone. No messages. God, why hadn’t Chris been worried about my whereabouts? He’d certainly been all fussy over Harper—was something going on with them?

On top of everything else that was happening, I now felt like giving myself a swift kick in the rear. On principle, I was in no way opposed to the occasional romp with a guy I’d never set eyes on again. But I couldn’t bear the idea of going to bed with someone who made it
seem
as though it meant something when it really didn’t. And then the next day you felt like shit.

I returned to the living room and flopped on the couch, pulling a throw blanket over me. For some reason, the couch just seemed more appealing to me than my bed—more womblike, I guessed—and that’s what I needed at the moment.

When I woke three hours later, it was to the light coming through the windows of my living room and my head was still throbbing. I popped another ibuprofen and swung open the door to my terrace so that the fresh air rushed in. Part of me longed to sink into the couch again and spend the day in a fetal position. The emotional hangover I was experiencing from being drugged was almost worse than the physical one. But I now had too many urgent things on my plate to wallow in misery.

After making coffee, I headed for my computer and Googled GHB—or what turned out to be the official name, gamma- hydroxybutyrate, sometimes called “GHB” or “grievous bodily harm.” What a perfect term for it. The side effects were just as Paul had described. In low doses, the drug produced a high or euphoric feeling and a loosening of inhibitions. But if you upped the dose just a little, all sorts of bad things occurred: nausea, headache, drowsiness, dizziness, amnesia, and loss of muscle control. And with just the right amount, there was a loss of consciousness, respiratory arrest, and then last but hardly least, death.
Fun!

Despite the fact that the drug was illegal in most states, it would have been easy enough for someone to get their hands on it. Apparently, the most frequent users were clubbers, rave party participants, date rapists, strippers, and bodybuilders—who believed it counteracted the negative effects of steroids. According to one site, all you had to do to score some was to walk in a gym and put the word out.

It also would have been simple for someone to slip it to me. It came in clear liquid form, and though it was salty, the taste was easily disguised by alcohol. Especially beer. I’d been drinking the perfect beverage for it. I cringed when I read that consuming GHB
with
alcohol increased the likelihood of death. It was lucky that I’d consumed less than two beers.

And just as Paul had pointed out, the effects of the drug lasted only about four to six hours, burning off quickly toward the end. There was one other fascinating tidbit buried on one of the sites: GHB could cause you to experience an out-of-body feeling. I suddenly remembered the sensation of slurring my words and simultaneously seeing myself from above as I did so.

That was enough research for the time being. Now I needed to get busy trying to find answers about what was going on. Not only was I on assignment for
Buzz
about Tom, but I also now had an urgent personal motive for trying to figure out who the murderer was: Someone was after me—and in all likelihood, it was the killer. I needed to know who it was before he or she did something worse than slipping a date-rape drug in my drink.