On the Avenue (11 page)

“The streets of SoHo can hear you,” Park said quietly. “Just calm down.”

“Don't tell me to calm down!” Madison whirled around and stomped out of the library. She flew down the hall and into her bedroom, pulling the Chanel gown over her shoulders and tossing it onto her bed. Without giving it much thought, she started ruffling through her closet for something else to wear.

Park and Lex appeared on the threshold. “What are you doing?” Lex asked her worriedly. “You look like you're gonna explode.”

“I'll tell you what I'm doing,” Madison replied sharply, disappearing into her closet. “I'm going right over to the Pierre, and I'm going to drag Jeremy Bleu kicking and screaming onto Fifth Avenue.”

Park sighed again. “Madison, I won't let you go out there. Not with all those reporters on the prowl.

Not with a killer on the loose. And not after that text message.”

“Well,
I
won't let
you
ruin our name and our reputations just because you're under the spell of Jeremy Bleu's banana,” Madison snapped. She pulled two pairs of jeans off their hangers and, deeming them inappropriate for what she was about to do, hurled them across the room.

“Wait a minute, Madison.” Lex walked into the room and held her hands up in protest. “How the hell are you gonna go outside without causing a stir? Reporters will follow you, and they'll have a field day with it. What if you can't get to Jeremy? How bad will that look for us?”

“Not as bad as the newspapers, and definitely not as bad as pictures of us being hauled in for questioning in a murder we didn't commit.” Madison came out of the closet holding a tattered pair of black jeans and a bulky sweater she'd purchased in Aspen the year before.

“
What
are you gonna do with
that
horrendous outfit?” Lex's hands flew to her throat in fear and shock.

But Madison didn't answer. Quickly, almost effortlessly, she slid into the jeans and pulled the sweater over her head. Then she went to the bureau in the far corner of her room and opened the bottom drawer; from it she grabbed a Yankees baseball cap. She flipped her long hair up and yanked the cap down
over her head. Running back into the closet, she dug out a pair of brown Timberlands and jumped into them. In under a minute, she had transformed herself into a hapless-looking, boyish figure. The jeans were baggy and loose, and the sweater was bulky and completely missed the outline of her bust.

“Utterly tasteless, and just a little crude,” Park observed. “I don't even want to know what you're planning to do.”

“I'm planning to solve a murder before it nails us,” Madison said. “If I disguise myself enough, maybe I can sneak out of here and slip into the Pierre unnoticed.”

Lex's jaw dropped. “And then what? Jeremy Bleu will never agree to see you, and you won't get past security.”

“Look,” Madison said, whirling around to face her sisters. “We have to figure out what's going on here, and that means we have to work together to solve this crime. No one's going to do it for us. And we have to do it fast—before Dad gets wind of it, and before Mom hops on the next plane to New York.”

Park crossed her arms over her chest. A smug expression played on her face. “Even if Jeremy
is
guilty, you honestly think he's going to admit that he committed the crime? I mean, I totally agree with you that we should all be suspicious of his behavior tonight, but you're acting on impulse. And, most
important of all, you're
not
thinking the way a good detective would.”

Madison tensed. She had caught the unmistakable edge—the certainty—in Park's voice. That meant it was time to shut up and listen. Along with the ability to remain calm in the most trying of circumstances, Park had been blessed with the gift of insight: she could dissect a situation, turn the broken pieces around in her mind, and then link them back together again easily. Madison hated yielding to her younger sister, but given the confusion of the moment, she did just that.

Park was visibly pleased. She began pacing the floor, her strides fluid and assured. “Now,” she began, “detectives usually operate by the forty-eight-hour rule. They try to solve homicides in two days, because the trail goes cold after that. The most important person in an investigation isn't the killer— it's the victim. Most people are killed by people they totally know, so if you find out enough info about the victim, you're more than likely to find your way to the killer.” She stared at Lex, then Madison. “Get it?”

“But everybody knows the details of Zahara Bell's life,” Lex said. “She was a public figure.”

Park shook her head. “That doesn't matter. There are always skeletons in the closet, secrets that aren't meant to go public.”

“Or secrets that someone might kill for,” Madison chimed in. “Right?”

“Exactly.” Park smiled. “When you think about it, how much do we really know about Zahara Bell? Someone hated her enough to kill her, and that someone is using us like Wal-Mart dish towels to clean up the mess. Maybe Jeremy Bleu did kill her, but how would we ever prove it without evidence? What if we uncover info that leads us to someone else? If we're leaving here, we're going to Zahara Bell's apartment, not the Pierre.”

“She lived on West Fifty-sixth Street,” Madison said quietly. “Forty-one West Fifty-sixth Street.”

“Yeah, and the building is probably already crawling with cops!” Lex shrieked. “Are you two crazy? That's the apartment Zahara Bell spent most of her time in, and everybody knows that.”

“What do you mean?” Park asked, confused. “How many apartments did Zahara Bell have?”

“She moved to the one on Fifty-sixth Street three years ago,” Lex said. “Right after her divorce. When she was married, she lived with her husband in a town house off Washington Square, on Waverly. She kept the town house as part of the divorce settlement, and that's where she held all her parties during Fashion Week. I mean, like,
majorly exclusive
parties.
We
weren't even invited.”

“That's interesting,” Park said. “The apartment
on Fifty-sixth was her main residence, probably because it's pretty close to the executive offices of
Catwalk
magazine. She lived there most of the time because it was convenient, but I'll bet she kept her personal life—the things that mattered most to her— in the town house.”

“And if that's the case,” Madison said, “the apartment on Fifty-sixth is where the police will go first, because it's where she spent most of her time.”

Lex blanched. “Are you two saying that we're gonna go and break into Zahara Bell's town house?”

“Why not?” Park shrugged. “Someone broke into our house and stole a dress from your closet! This is no time to play fair. We have to at least
try.
”

Madison nodded. She gave herself a once-over in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that hung to the right of the closet. In the dark, and from a distance, the ugly getup worked: she resembled a fifteen-year-old boy. She turned around and faced her sisters. “You two can't go out looking like yourselves,” she said firmly. “Go and try to make yourselves ugly.”

Lex ran a hand through her hair and stepped in front of the mirror. She pouted her lips in a mock kiss. “Is that really possible? I mean,
look
at me.”

Park rolled her eyes, pulling Lex with her as she strode out of the bedroom and into the corridor. “I'll bring a weapon,” she said calmly over her shoulder. “Just in case someone tries to kill us.”

As those ominous words swirled around her, Madison felt a nervous tremor rip through her stomach. She tasted the thick, chalky milk-and-champagne mixture at the back of her throat. And when the burp shot past her lips—frighteningly loud, dangerously sharp—she wondered if they would need a weapon after all.

Theo was trying hard to keep up with Annabelle. They were fully entangled in Calvin Klein sheets, but his body wasn't responding as swiftly as it usually did. What on earth was the matter with him? Instead of enjoying the moment, he kept glancing around the dimly lit splendor of Annabelle's bedroom, hoping the answer to his problem would pop up on one of the walls.

“Oh, Theo, you're
so
hot,” she cooed. “I knew the moment I saw you that we were meant to be
together.” Annabelle was pretty in an odd sort of way. Her eyes were intense and exuded emotion, but it was her body that attracted attention from nearly every guy in school.

Theo smiled. He closed his eyes. He tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Unfortunately, nothing was happening. The electric tingle of arousal was alive and well in his brain, but the lower half of his body simply couldn't respond. Sex was by far his favorite pastime and he had enough testosterone in his blood to fill a football stadium. Why the hell was his equipment stalling?

“Theo?” Annabelle whispered. She could tell that something was wrong.

He opened his eyes and forced himself to study every inch of the pure hotness before him, but the moment was as good as dead. Finally, with an irritated sigh, he rolled onto his back.

Annabelle sat up. A worried expression played on her face. She smoothed a hand over his chest, tracing a playful little circle. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know,” Theo replied through gritted teeth. “I think maybe I'm just tired. Plus I'm kind of stressed.”

“It was a crazy night. I don't blame you for feeling out of sorts.”

In truth, he felt like a failed fireman: Annabelle's flames were burning, but his hose was out of order.

This was supposed to happen to old guys in their thirties and forties, not to a healthy, virile sixteen-year-old like him. Shit, what if Annabelle mentioned to her girlfriends that he couldn't perform? The word would spread through the halls of St. Cecilia's Prep faster than a fierce winter wind.
West is a softie. West can't please the ladies. West went south.
It was every guy's worst nightmare.

He tore his eyes from the vaulted ceiling and stared around the bedroom aimlessly. The walls were creamy white, the moldings pink. Elaborately framed pictures created a chronological display of Annabelle's life, from the day she was born right up to last month, when she won a gold medal in a gymnastics competition. Cute. Traditional. Warm and toasty for a duplex apartment that faced Columbus Avenue and not Central Park West.

The Christensen family was big money, but not
huge
money. The Christensen furniture line was sold in various retail outlets all over North America, grossing slightly over one hundred million dollars annually. As far as Theo was concerned, it wasn't an empire by any stretch of the imagination.
His
family had built an empire.
His
family warranted international attention. That photographers chased him frequently was no surprise. He wondered what his parents would say if they knew he was courting a Christensen. His mother, Renee, would likely disapprove; she'd smile
and nod and run a hand through her perfectly blownout hair before saying something like:
Annabelle's darling, isn't she? But don't be fooled by girls from economically challenged families, Theo. She probably sees your fortune and not your beautiful mind
.

He turned and looked at her just as she reached onto the nightstand for her pack of Nat Shermans. “Hey, gimme one of those,” he said. Pinching the thin brown cigarette in his fingers, he lit it, took a long drag, and exhaled. Then he sat up.

Annabelle wrapped her arm around his shoulders, pressing her naked body against his. “Tell me what's wrong, Theo. I know you're out of it.”

He nodded slowly. The cigarette was menthol, and the hint of mint reminded him of the cloves he used to smoke back when he was a freshman. “I'm pretty freaked about what happened tonight,” he said. “Just to think that we were standing in the same building where a murder took place …it freaks me out.”

“Me too. I always wanted to meet Zahara Bell. I totally worshipped her style. Tell me about her, Theo.”

He cut Annabelle a short stare. “I never really knew her.”

“But … you told me you did on our first date,” Annabelle said with certainty. “I asked you about her because I knew your father's company published the first magazine she worked for—
Women's Style.
Right? I
asked what Zahara Bell was like and you said she was pretty cool. Don't you remember?”

Theo remembered. He remembered and at the same time cursed his big mouth. Why had he told Annabelle that? Well,
duh.
To impress her. To get into her red lace Agent Provocateur panties. It had worked. He took another long puff of the cigarette and said, “Zahara Bell wasn't really that cool. In fact, she was a royal bitch. There're probably a lot of people secretly applauding the guy who killed her.”

“Theo!” Annabelle shouted, drawing away from him. “That's pretty sick. The woman was killed, for God's sake.”

“Sick or not, it happens to be true.”

Annabelle was silent, the cigarette smoldering between her fingers. She stubbed it out in the ashtray hidden behind her lamp. “What did Zahara Bell ever do to
you
?”

As the words circled him, Theo recalled the numerous occasions in which he'd had the distinct misfortune of being in Zahara's presence. Back in February, he had attended the Hugo Boss menswear fashion show with his father, Richard West, president and CEO of West International, LLC. As Theo and Richard went to take their seats in the front row, they'd spotted Zahara coming toward them. Richard had stood there, thinking she was going to kiss his cheek in front of the press and make one of those superficial
displays of affection that always ended up in the Sunday Style section of the
New York Times.
But instead of fussing over them, Zahara paused, lowered her sunglasses just enough to peer over the rims, and said to Theo and Richard, “Those seats you're sitting in are taken by
my
guests. I think you should try the second row.” Then she turned around and started gabbing on her cell phone. Theo and Richard, utterly humiliated and shocked, had crept into the second row to watch the show. But the worst part was that queen gossip columnist Cindy Adams had witnessed the entire exchange, and wrote it up the next day in the
New York Post.
Theo had despised Zahara Bell ever since.