“All the stories basically have the same facts,” Lex began, “and they all end up going into detail about Damien’s life and the fact that he was a duke. Thankfully, we’re only mentioned briefly, so at least this time it doesn’t look like we’ll have to fight off being suspects.”
“Thank God for that.” Madison moaned as warm hands kneaded the muscles in her shoulders. “Is that all? Nothing about Concetta’s arraignment?”
“According to one of the papers, she should have been arraigned at nine o’clock this morning.” Lex stretched her neck out and up, giving the masseuse a clear signal of where she was hurting.
“What was her bail set at?” Park asked.
Lex sighed loudly. “The newspapers say her bail was set at three million. Oh, right there. My muscles are sore from dancing so much.” A pleasurable pause. And then she said, “But I did find one thing strange.”
“What’s that?” Madison asked.
“All the newspapers said Damien’s body would be autopsied this morning, but they didn’t allude to the cause of death being blunt impact trauma, even though Concetta’s stiletto is mentioned as the weapon.”
Park’s head popped up. “That’s bizarre.”
“It is,” Madison agreed. “It looks like we have to prepare ourselves for a short road trip. Concetta should be released from police custody in about an hour or so. We’ll have to pay her a visit.”
“Do you think she’ll see us?” Lex asked.
“She’ll have to. We won’t go away unless she does.” Park stretched her left arm out and the masseuse gave it a gentle circular tug.
“What did your research uncover, Park?” Madison let out a series of happy moans as her masseuse’s hands worked down to her lower back.
Park reached for the manila file folder sitting on the edge of her padded table. She flipped it open. “According to the ATF Web site, the chemicals found in Mother Margaret’s office aren’t necessarily difficult to come by, but they’re mostly confined to offshore rigs and fairly remote areas. You can have it trafficked if you pay enough money. In most cases, dynamite is used to blast through mountains or for demolition purposes, for mining and underwater blasting. Like when a bridge needs to come down. That’s all legal, so the dynamite is purchased through proper channels.”
“What else?” Madison held on to the table as the masseuse gave her right leg a tug.
“Nitroglycerin is the main ingredient in dynamite,” Park continued. “It’s three parts nitroglycerin, one part diatomaceous earth, and a little bit of sodium carbonate. But the nitroglycerin by itself is totally strong—it’s what they call shock sensitive, which means that physical shock can cause it to explode. So, like, if it’s transported, it can blow up.”
“Who the hell would have that kind of stuff that we know of?” Lex asked.
“Someone who has a clandestine laboratory,” Park answered. “And like Mother Margaret said—they’d have to be pretty good at chemistry. But the funny thing is that these days, the use of dynamite has been eclipsed by the use of water gel explosives, which are safer to handle.”
Madison sighed again as the masseuse applied pressure to the center of her back. “Oh, wow…that feels good. I didn’t realize how tense I’ve been.” She took a deep breath. “So now we’re supposed to believe that Concetta Canoli has some sort of laboratory in her house? That traces of nitroglycerin ended up in Mother Margaret’s office when Concetta broke in there to steal confidential documents that may or may not be related to Damien’s murder?”
“That pretty much sums it up,” Park said.
“And Concetta certainly has enough money to buy off the black market.” Lex’s voice sounded like a series of trembling burps as her masseuse did a number of karate-chop movements across her back. “Is there any chance that some of those chemicals used in the making of dynamite could look like glitter?”
“No, there isn’t,” Park replied. “The glitter is really the only thing that ties the theft and the murder together. I still think it was plain old glitter that we saw—either from a hair product or an arts-and-crafts kind of thing. Possibly a horrible eye shadow, but glitter that large would be dangerous to use around the eye—it could scratch a cornea.”
“Could’ve also been from cheap clothing,” Lex said. “And from the looks of those stilettos, we know Concetta owns some of that. Otherwise, we’re looking for a killer who makes dynamite and uses glittery hair products or wears cheap clothes.”
“That describes half the population of Greenwich Village.” Park stretched her other arm out. “Madison, what did you come up with?”
“I found the blueprints of Cleopatra,” Madison told them. “There are five suspended dancing cages in the club. Damien was killed in cage number one, which is closest to the catwalk that links all the cages. So if you want to believe Concetta is guilty, she would have easily been able to kill him and then make a fast exit. The staircase is only a few feet from where the catwalk begins. It’s staircase B, which, when you take it downstairs, ends right at the corridor that leads to the first-floor restrooms.” She yelped as the masseuse squeezed down on her shoulders. “I also found the guest list for Detective Connelly. We only had three no-shows. It would’ve been a spectacular event…if not for the murder.”
The three masseuses exchanged worried glances but kept quiet.
Park said, “I went through a lot of my new criminal psychology books, and I found some interesting things on this whole phenomenon of role-playing. It’s actually pretty common. But, from a psychological perspective, it differs entirely from acting or anything theatrical. Actors act a part or play a role creatively, and while they’re doing it they know that they’re ultimately doing a job—performing for an audience. Acting is also a creative process. Role-playing, on the other hand, springs out of a deeper psychological need. Role-players actually believe in the worlds they’ve thought up, and those worlds or the roles they choose to play are usually manifestations of deep, private fantasies. People who belong to role-playing groups have reported feelings of euphoria and pleasure and total freedom—most role-players love the whole process. But it has been known to go a little far. There’ve been a few killers who were into role-playing.”
“So then, what’s our profile of the killer?” Lex asked. “Assuming it’s not Concetta.”
Park folded her arms under her chin. “Someone very intelligent. Someone who’s pretty fearless and thinks she or he is above getting caught. Someone with control issues. And someone with a very creepy side, as evidenced by the Mozart Requiem.”
“And someone who doesn’t have an eye for fashion,” Madison added.
“I don’t really see how that’s relevant,” Park said.
Lex gasped. “The hell it isn’t! A killer with any shred of fashion awareness would not have killed using that shoe. The killer would’ve been totally repulsed by it.”
“Ya know, Concetta has never had an eye for fashion, even though she has a shoe fetish,” Madison pointed out. “Remember how she was dressed at commencement last year? She wore a black dress with those hideous white Minnie Mouse shoes.”
Park sighed. “Here we are doing all this work when the real killer has probably already been caught.”
“But the motive,” Lex said. “I’m not sure if I buy the crime-of-passion thing. We really do have to find out what goes on in those Black Cry Affair meetings to figure out the whole truth.”
“Then let’s get to it.” Madison checked her watch, then glanced up at the masseuse. “A little firming lotion on my back, please. I don’t want to look eighty years old while I’m on the beach in Capri in two weeks.”
For the next fifteen minutes, the library sounded like a pleasure palace: high-pitched squeals and moans of delight, low groans of ecstasy as the masseuses worked their magic. Lex turned onto her back and assumed a yoga position, stretching her right leg up while her masseuse pulled both her arms. Park arched her neck as high as it would go, feeling every last bit of tension dra
in out of her muscles. Madison nearly slid off her table with a yelp when the masseuse applied too much pressure to her lower back.
Exiting the library, towels tied firmly around their bodies, Madison, Park, and Lex fixed themselves warm cups of green tea in the kitchen. Then Madison stood up and said, “We’ll meet in the living room in ten minutes. Hurry.”
Ten minutes later, dressed casually in Triple Threat clothing, they grabbed their purses from the hall table and started for the front door of the penthouse. That was when Lupe walked in, trailing several plastic shopping bags behind her.
“Nobody go nowhere!” she screamed, dropping the grocery bags to the floor.
“We have to, Lupe,” Madison said. “We’re late for an appointment. Sort of.”
Lupe shook her head. “No, no. Before he left, you father said you stay home this today, and you mother already call three times since last night.”
“We’ll call them later,” Park assured her, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Now go on into my bedroom and relax. They’re reairing the first season of Sex and the City on HBO, and there’s gourmet popcorn in the kitchen.”
Lupe frowned. “What I tell your father when he calls?”
“Tell him we’re out running errands,” Lex said. “And if Mom calls again, tell her we went bikini shopping for our trip to Italy.”
“Okay,” Lupe replied, sighing. She looked at Madison and pointed to one of the grocery bags. “I buy milk and champagne and chocolate syrup for you.”
Madison’s eyes widened. “Oh! Wait—let me fix myself a drink before we leave. Please!”
“Absolutely not,” Park snapped. She ran a hand through her hair. “You drink that and you’ll have gas for the rest of the day. The answer is no.”
Madison grunted as they walked out to the foyer and into the elevator.
Donnie Halstrom was sitting in the lobby. When he looked up from his newspaper and saw the triplets, he shot to his feet. “Hi, girls,” he said.
“We’re only going a few blocks, Donnie, but we’ll still need a ride.” Lex smiled at him, then watched as he ran outside to the limo and held open the back door for them.
It took all of five minutes to reach the Canoli town house on East Sixty-fifth Street. There were two police cars parked out front and several news vans scattered along the block. Donnie cut the engine, then turned around and said, “Looks pretty bad here. You girls want me to walk you to the front door?”
“No, thanks,” Park answered him, already climbing out. “But wait for us, okay? I don’t know how long we’ll be.”
“Okay,” Donnie said.
Madison led the way to the town house, Park and Lex close at her heels.
A female reporter with short blond hair dashed out of one of the news vans and came bounding toward them, trailed by a cameraman. “Madison!” she called, already holding out her microphone.
“Damn,” Madison muttered. She threw a glance at Park and Lex. “I’ll handle this one.”
“Are you friends of the accused, Concetta Canoli?” the reporter asked.
Madison kept her eyes trained on the woman even as she felt the camera zooming in on her for a close-up. “We’re friends of Concetta’s, and we were also friends of Damien Kittle. We’re distraught by this tragedy and our condolences go out to Damien’s family, and to the citizens of England, who have lost an incredible young man.”
“Do you think Concetta’s guilty of the crime?”
“We cannot make any statements regarding the crime until a full investigation has been completed.”
“Are you girls investigating this one?” the reporter asked excitedly. “We can’t forget that you all solved the murder of legendary fashion editor Zahara Bell.”
Madison cleared her throat. “We are doing all we can to aid in the investigation,” she said simply. But as she started to turn around, instructing Park and Lex to do the same, the reporter stepped in front of her.
“There are people claiming that St. Cecilia’s Prep is a school with a lot of secrets and a lot of strange academic practices.” The microphone hung in the air like a giant, hairy fly. “Do you think the school will try to cover up certain secrets to avoid more scandal?”
“Absolutely not,” Madison replied sharply. “St. Cecilia’s Preparatory High School is an educational institution of the highest caliber. The work is demanding and challenging, and records show that nearly ninety percent of graduates go on to attend Ivy League colleges and universities.”
“One last question,” the reporter pressed. “How do you feel about the other charges being filed against Concetta Canoli?”
Madison glanced at Park and Lex. “What other charges?”
The reporter held the microphone a little higher. “It was leaked to the media about ten minutes ago that forensic analysis of the Canoli town house revealed traces of nitroglycerin and sodium carbonate—chemicals used to engineer explosives—in one of the rooms.”
“What?” Lex cried.
Park nudged her shoulder, indicating the rolling camera.
It took every ounce of strength for Madison to maintain her composure. She licked her lips and cleared her throat even as her stomach knotted painfully. “I’m afraid we don’t know anything about those charges,” she said firmly. Then she grabbed Park and Lex by their hands and made the quick dash up the front staircase.
“Do you think Concetta Canoli is involved with a terrorist ring operating out of St. Cecilia’s Prep?” the reporter called out.
Madison ignored the question and banged on the front door of the town house.
“Holy shit,” Lex said quietly. “I can’t believe what I just heard. See? I’m right.”
“I can’t believe it either.” Park kept her head held high, aware that cameras were still rolling behind them.
“Well, I, for one, am furious,” Madison whispered. “We’re going to find out what the hell is going on here—and then we might have to kick Concetta’s ass.” She banged on the door again.
When a small, impish maid appeared on the threshold, Madison literally shoved her to the side and stepped into the foyer of the town house.
“Oh!” the woman yelled. “Wait! You can’t—”
Park closed the door behind them. “Where the hell is Concetta?” she demanded.
The short maid stared at them with wide-eyed horror. “You Hamilton girls can’t just come barging in here! I’ll call the police! Get out!”
“Cut the crap!” Madison screamed back. “Where is Concetta?”
“Concetta is not receiving guests, and Mr. and Mrs. Canoli are out speaking with their attorneys.” The maid pointed to the closed front door. “Now you have to get out of here! I’m not telling you anything—and I’m not letting you move one step further.”
“You have to!” Lex cried. “Please!”
“Out!” the maid shouted. “You little bitches have no right to be in here.”
Madison bared her teeth and emitted a low, wolflike growl.
“Oh, great,” Park whispered, taking a step back. She shot a glance at the maid. “Now you’ve really done it.”
“Madison, please stay calm.” Lex plunged a hand into the magic purse, already shuffling for a bottle of water and, with any luck, a tranquilizer dart.
There were very few instances when Madison ever lost her cool. She always kept the public in mind. She took her role as an ambassador of Hamilton Holdings, Inc., very seriously. She worked hard to project a professional, refined image. But when her nerves did snap, when she bared her teeth and assumed what Park and Lex called the “attack position,” trouble usually ensued.
“Move back,” Park said to Lex with a fluttery wave of her hand.
Madison extended her right arm and clamped her hand over the maid’s white T-shirt, lacing her fingers around the fabric at the woman’s neck. Then she gently but firmly shoved the little woman against the wall.
“Please!” the woman cried. “Don’t hurt me.”
“Listen to me and lis
ten well,” Madison said through gritted teeth. “In exactly five seconds, you’re going to take us to Concetta. Then you’re going to leave us alone with Concetta. Then you’re going to come back down here and forget that any of this ever happened, and if you don’t do as I say, you’re going to be sitting on top of a hot dog cart in Central Park, because I’m going to twist you into a pretzel! Got it?”
The woman nodded, her eyes glazing over. “I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t mean to get you mad.”
Madison growled again, then released her hold on the woman’s shirt.
Park stepped in between them. She smiled brightly at the woman. “I apologize for that,” she said with a chuckle. “My sister just found out she has the same hairdresser as Mariah Carey, so you can understand why she’s so upset. Please don’t take it personally.”
The woman took a deep breath and smoothed a hand over her white shirt.
Lex yanked Madison to her side. She immediately began dabbing lotion onto Madison’s cheeks. “It’s Bliss Fatigue Fighter,” Lex said, working quickly. “You’re all flushed and blotchy and stressed.”
“That’s what happens when people push me too far.” Madison threw her head back and fanned herself with her purse. Then she stared at the maid and said, “Take us to Concetta. Now.”
“Yes, okay.” The maid nodded nervously. “But be advised that Mr. and Mrs. Canoli don’t want anyone here because they’re afraid the real killer might be coming after Concetta. And we have private security here in the house, so if Concetta’s upset, you might all be thrown out on your butts.”
Park smiled. “We’ll take our chances. Thank you.”
The maid led them through the living and dining rooms, into the kitchen, and up the back staircase. When they were all standing in a bright hall, the maid pointed to the closed door at the very end. “Concetta’s in there. But she’s very upset. Please knock first. Please—”
“We’ll take it from here,” Madison snapped. She grunted a third time. Then she tightened her grip on her purse, stormed down the hall, and threw open the door.
In the Club Page 14
