by Kate White
But it was too late. I was close to the intersection now, and I could see that it was filled with traffic, and there were even a few people up there too, a cluster of hipsters hanging by a bar. And on the far side, there was something that filled me with joy. A police cruiser.
I burst into the intersection and started waving my arms frantically. Behind me I heard the gypsy cab screech to a halt and then do a U-turn, the driver jerking the car forward and backward a few times. I slowed my speed a little, and looked back. The car was totally turned around, ready to take off in the opposite direction. In the dark I could make out only the first part of the license plate—L3. The driver suddenly thrust his head out the window and looked back at me. He screamed something in my direction. It sounded like “Stop. Be a body.” And then he took off like the proverbial banshee down the street.
Relief poured through my body, warm, almost intoxicating. I turned back to the intersection, waited for the light, and started to jog across to the police cruiser. As I moved, fighting a stitch in my side, I dug into my pocket and found my BlackBerry. The 911 operator was still connected.
“I’m okay,” I told her, trying to catch my breath. “I see a cop car.”
“Good. Please let me speak to one of the officers.”
As soon as I approached, the cop in the driver’s seat rolled his window down. He looked like he was twelve years old and might be wearing Spiderman underpants.
“What can we do for you, young lady?” he asked. The cop next to him set down the disposable aluminum dish he was eating from and leaned his head in my direction.
I blurted out that I’d been abducted and then handed him my BlackBerry. He listened intently, signed off, and then handed the BlackBerry back to me.
“Are you okay?” he asked, climbing out of the car. When I assured him I was, he asked for the best description of the car and driver I could give and then called it in on his radio.
I suddenly noticed that despite the cold, the sweater inside my jacket was wet with sweat. I also noticed a weird crashing sensation beginning to build in me, maybe from all the adrenaline that had been briefly pumped through my system and was now in retreat.
“We should cruise around and see if we can find this guy,” the cop told me when he was finished talking on his walkie-talkie. “But we don’t have much to go on. And we also need to make sure you get home somehow.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a yellow taxi head through the intersection, and the light was on.
“Why don’t I grab this taxi,” I told the cop. I shot out my arm and waved. The car screeched to a halt. “Thanks so much for your help.”
“You’ll need to file a police report tomorrow, okay?”
I promised I would and darted toward the cab. I spent the ride home fighting tears. I felt badly shaken.
By the time I let myself into my apartment, I was trembling, as if the fear was now really catching up with me. I stripped off my boots, jeans, and sweater and took a long shower. It felt so good to have the hot water course over me, as if I was washing the terror away too. My leap from the gypsy cab had left another ugly bruise on my left butt cheek but fortunatly that was the only damage. I thought of how reassuring it would be to talk to Beau, but even if things were fine between us, I would have resisted the urge to wake him so late.
When I finally slipped into bed, I felt a little bit better. I knew I wasn’t going to fall asleep anyway, so I tried to go back over everything in my mind. I was positive that the driver who picked me up was the same one I’d seen earlier in front of the Living Room. Obviously he’d been trolling for someone to rob or rape. I decided to let the bar know tomorrow so the management could keep an eye out for the guy.
I still had no sense of where he had been taking me or why. One thing seemed odd. If he were going to rob me or rape me, why not just pull over on one of those deserted streets when we first came off the bridge into Brooklyn? Maybe he had wanted to find an even more secluded spot. I was also still baffled by the words he’d hurled at me: Stop. Be a body. He’d had a faint accent, one that I couldn’t place, but I was pretty sure I’d heard him right. Had it been some kind of a sexual threat? I had no clue.
I eventually fell asleep around four and woke at eight the next morning. I felt like shit, but I had my breakfast meeting with Scott and I had no intention of taking a pass on it. I did my best to look presentable—Scott, after all, was a player, and I sensed I’d extract more if I catered to that part of him. I wore my black suede boots, a tight black pencil skirt, and a plum-colored silk blouse. But the circles under my eyes had darkened badly. By the time I was done with my makeup, you could have taken an elevation level on the amount of concealer I’d been forced to apply.
I was the first to arrive at the café-style restaurant, and I grabbed a private table at the back of the room. I asked for coffee but then instantly changed my order to tea. I still felt completely on edge from the night before, and I was afraid anything with too much caffeine might make me jump out of my skin.
Scott was nearly twenty minutes late—and I almost didn’t recognize him. His hair was slicked back and he was wearing a long black cashmere coat. Not the kind of look that went with skeet shooting.
He slid into the chair, shook off his coat, and with a flick of his chin, summoned the waitress to our table pronto. He smelled of expensive, manly cologne.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “What would you like to eat?”
“Uh, I guess I’ll try the asparagus and goat cheese omelet,” I said.
And then I felt dumb because all he ordered was coffee, black.
“How are you doing anyway?” I asked once the waitress was gone. There was something supertense going on in his jawline that made even his face look different today. It was tough to accept that this was the same Scott who had bounded down the stairs to greet Jessie and me with a big, boyish grin on his face.
“Well,” he said, cocking his head to the left, “my hot new recording artist died at my house, and for the next two days most of the world assumed I’d loaded her up with cocaine—but other than that I’m just fine.”
“I appreciate your taking the time to meet in the middle of all this,” I said.
“I’m a little surprised you could make the time,” he said. There was a tiny edge to his voice as he spoke. “I figured things must be crazy for you at work. Though I’m a little confused. I turned on the Today show yesterday morning, and there’s some guy on there from Buzz talking about Devon Barr as if the story was his exclusive. Don’t tell me your boss doesn’t think you’re mediagenic enough to chat with Matt Lauer.”
Scott never took his nearly black eyes off me as he said it, and I could feel a rush of blood headed for my cheeks, like a mob of paparazzi that has just spotted Lady Gaga coming out of a building wearing only a couple of Band-Aids. He’d either somehow heard that I was in the doghouse or he just had brilliant intuition.
“I do media appearances occasionally,” I said, fumbling a little as I spoke. “But if I’m still in the middle of a story, I might hand the press part off to somebody else.” Lame, I knew, but it would put me at a disadvantage to admit the truth to Scott Cohen.
“Oh, is that it?” he said, disbelievingly. “Well, who am I to know how your wonderful brand of journalism works?”
So that might explain why he was goading me. He obviously felt burned from all the coverage over the past few days, and saw me as entrenched in the enemy camp.
“What I’d really like to concentrate on for the moment is Devon and this past weekend,” I said, rushing off the subject. “I have a few big concerns.”
“As long as we’re still off the record, I’m willing to talk with you,” Scott said. “Because I’ve got a vested interest in knowing as much as I can. That incident with the doors still bugs the hell out of me. Why would someone pull a fucking stunt like that?”
“That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss. Have you any idea yet who might have done it?”
“The cops checked for fingerprints on the branding iron and apparently didn’t find any. Of course, what good would it do? They don’t have any of the houseguests’ prints to compare anything to.”
“And you didn’t turn up any clues yourself?”
“Just a small one courtesy of Cap on Sunday. His bedroom was at the base of the stairs in the guest barn, and not long after the time you took your spill, he woke to the sound of someone bounding up the stairs.”
That seemed to be another clue pointing to Jane. Because she was the only one on the top floor besides me, Jessie, and Devon—and Devon sure as hell hadn’t done it. Scott eyed me questioningly, as if he suspected I knew something. But I wasn’t going to out Jane to him.
“Let me think about that,” I told him. “Anything else that emerged later? Anything that Ralph or Sandy might have noticed?”
“About the night raider?”
“Or about Devon. Her death. Things leading up to it.”
“What do you mean? What are you suggesting, exactly?”
“Frankly, I’ve been wondering if Devon might have been murdered. Like I mentioned to you on Sunday, she told me she was afraid that someone knew something. And then suddenly she was dead.”
He shook his head, borderline exasperated. “I know you were hot on some theory like that last weekend, and I admit I had moments of concern—the stuff pinched from her bathroom, the missing keys. But the police were very clear. She died due to her eating disorder.”
“But what if someone pushed it along a little? She kept complaining that the bottled water tasted funny?”
Scott snorted. “Wait, are you suggesting someone doctored the water? Yeah, Devon complained about the water, but she also said the sheets were itchy and the sink in the bathroom didn’t drain fast enough. And besides, who would want her dead? She was making a load of money for most of us.”
“Do you think there’s any chance Cap and Devon were having an affair?” I asked.
“No way,” he said emphatically. “Skinny rocker was more her type. Though I sure as hell hope she appreciated all Cap had done for her. When he first took her on, I bet he thought her career would evolve into something beyond modeling—movies, or even reality TV, à la Heidi Klum. From what I hear, though, she was a total dud in front of a video camera. But then he found out she could sing, and he really pushed her. I believe her career as a performer could have been big. I’m not talking Rihanna or Katy Perry big, but still, a major success.”
“You said you hope she appreciated Cap. Why wouldn’t she?”
“Devon was fickle. She changed her mind easily. I don’t think there was any immediate danger of her dumping Cap, but I could see he was very careful with her—bending over backwards to please her. When she said itchy sheets, he made damn sure they got changed.”
“And what about her relationship with Christian? Could that have been strained?”
“Strained? I hardly think so. She asked me to include him.”
“But Tory told me Devon gave him the cold shoulder all weekend.”
“Maybe she was—”
He’d been gesturing as he spoke, and when he paused, his hand did too, midair above his coffee cup.
“What?” I prodded.
He made a noise, halfway between a laugh and a snort.
“There may have been something up, now that I think about it,” he said. “I’d arranged the place cards on the table for dinner and Sandy told me that at around seven o’clock, Devon came in and switched a few of the cards around. I figured it was so she could sit next to Tommy and fondle his groin with her foot. But originally she’d been seated next to Christian. Maybe the real story was that she didn’t want to sit next to him.”
He drained the last of his coffee cup, and I knew he was going to want to be on the move soon. I started poking with a fork at my untouched omelet in the hopes of encouraging him to hang around. But it didn’t work. He pulled his wallet from the pocket of his pants.
“Look, I know you have to split,” I said, “but I’d love a phone number for Sandy—and one for Laura too. I want to double-check with them that nothing seemed amiss.”
“I already talked to them before I left,” he said.
“But something may have occurred to them since then. If we want to get to the bottom of this, I think it’s essential to talk to them.”
“All right,” he said, reluctantly. “But I don’t want them harassed in any way.” He tugged an iPhone out of his coat pocket, asked for my cell number, and then texted me numbers for both women. “And this is a two-way street, remember?” he said. “If you learn anything important, I want to know.”
“Sure,” I lied.
I tried to pick up the check, but he insisted and tossed down a tip that was almost as much as the bill. Out on the street, he buttoned his coat with one hand and then pulled the collar up against the cold.
“Are you going to the funeral service?” I asked as people rushed by us on their way to midtown offices.
“Of course. I assume you’ll be covering it?”
“Probably not,” I said, fighting the urge to look away. “I’ve got other things to do on the story.”
“Really?” he said. “I would have thought that the funeral would be one of the plums of covering Devon Barr’s death.”
There was that goading thing again. A thought flashed in my mind: Could I have annoyed Scott so much that he’d tried to derail my career with Sherrie’s help?
I didn’t say anything, just studied his face. He didn’t give anything away.
“Well, I’m sure I’ll see our friend Richard out there,” he said. “I bet he’s all over this”
“Actually, he told me he probably wasn’t going to do a story on Devon, after all.”
“Don’t kid yourself. He was probably trying to throw you off the scent. He’s more than interested in Devon Barr. In fact, he nearly begged me to let him come last weekend. Since it meant a possible story in Vanity Fair, I was hardly going to turn the man down.”
“But—,” I said, flipping through my memory. “I thought you’d invited him—because you wanted him to do a story.”
“Nope,” he said. “I ran into him at a party, and somehow the weekend came up. He nearly foamed at the mouth when I told him Devon was going to be there. He all but guaranteed me the story if I let him freeload.”
I knew I wasn’t remembering incorrectly. Richard had made a point of saying that Scott had pressed him into coming. Why had he lied to me? I wondered.
Scott glanced toward Seventh Avenue, obviously checking out the cab situation.
“By the way, have you met Devon’s mother before?” I asked hurriedly.
“No,” he said, bluntly. “The music business isn’t like college basketball, where you have to meet the players’ mommies before you sign them. Look, I really have to go.”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks again for your time.”
He stepped off the curb and shot up his hand for a cab. Not surprisingly for a guy with his power aura, one jerked to a stop ten seconds later. Unexpectedly, he turned back to me.
“Since you and Jessie are such good buddies,” he said slyly, “my guess is that she shared the details of our little misunderstanding Saturday night.”
“More or less,” I said lightly. I didn’t want to offend the dude in case I needed him later. “But I’m not judgmental. One person’s idea of fun can sometimes be way too kinky for someone else.”
“What if it wasn’t kinky I was interested in? What if I said I just hadn’t been able to take my eyes off you from the moment we met?”
Oh, please, I thought, who was this guy trying to kid? And I’d want a date with him about as much as I’d like to be hurtling down his stairs again. At a loss for words, I smiled weakly at him.
“Maybe when this is all behind us, I can prove it to you over dinner,” he said.
“Actually, I’m seeing someone,” I said. “But thanks for the offer.”
He did
n’t look so happy as he slid into the cab.
Of course it took me ten minutes to find a taxi. I should have opted for the subway, but I was too antsy. There were a couple of things I needed to do, stat.
I tore off my coat the minute I stepped through the door of my apartment and didn’t bother to hang it up. The first thing I did was call the number Scott had sent me for Laura. Though I’d requested Sandy and Laura’s numbers, I’d been creating a bit of a smokescreen; it was only Laura who interested me at the moment, and I wanted to reach her before Scott had a chance to warn her I might be making contact.
She answered with pop music playing in the background. I had the sense she was at home, maybe still in her jammies. When I identified myself, she sounded less than pleased.
“I thought I’d just check in and see how you were doing,” I said.
“How did you get this number?” she asked warily. “Who gave it to you?”
“Scott did. He knows I’m calling you.”
“I’m really busy right now. It’s not a good time to talk.”
“I understand,” I said. “But it’s very important for me to clarify a few details with you. Some of the information you gave me doesn’t gel with what else I’ve learned.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tommy Quinn told me he went to your room just after one on Saturday night and had sex with you. That would have been good to know, because it explains why you didn’t go to Devon’s room right away.”
“What?” she exclaimed, faking shock. “That’s a lie.”
“You know, Laura, it’s against the rules to lie to the press. It’s not as serious as perjury, but you can still get in trouble.” She seemed naive enough to fall for it.
“Are you going to print this?” she asked. She suddenly sounded distraught.
“No, I’m playing nice, and if you’re straight with me, I won’t print what Tommy said. I just want to know what really happened.”
