What's a Girl Gotta Do

by Sparkle Hayter

  “We think it was Griff’s gun,” Tewfik said. “We believe it was taken from his room at the Marfeles by whoever killed him. We found a carry permit for him, but we never found the gun in his stuff.”

  “I never heard about a gun,” I said, in my best Girl Scout, officer-sir voice.

  “It was one of the details we kept from the news media to prevent copycats and to weed out the nuts who confess to everything, ya know, to atone for some unresolved guilt from the past.”

  “Look, detectives, sirs, someone got into my apartment and stole my Epilady,” I said. “I lost my keys one day and Eric was in my office that same day, dropping off something. Remember how I thought someone had been in my apartment because it was neater?”

  “I remember,” Tewfik said. “Anyway, your downstairs neighbor says she heard you in your apartment around the time Mr. Browner is believed to have been killed. Of course, she also says your pimp was there too.”

  “She hears my cat and she thinks it’s my pimp. Like my pimp would be caught dead in that dump,” I said.

  “Your pimp?” Bigger said, as though he’d caught me in a slip, because I should have said a pimp instead of my pimp, and the solution to the crime could hinge on this. You had to be very careful talking to him, as he had no sense of humor.

  “It’s a joke. I don’t really have a pimp.” I resisted the urge to say I work solo. I almost said it, but I caught myself.

  “A man is dead,” Bigger said. “You think that is funny?”

  “No, but other things are,” I said. I wasn’t going to play Ophelia for Greg Browner. I felt bad, in a broad, philosophical, murder-is-always-bad way, but I never liked him and couldn’t honestly say I’d miss him.

  They asked me some more questions, about my relationship with Greg and the now infamous incident when I wrote for Browner and I told him in the middle of the newsroom to go fuck himself. They told me to “remain available,” as they’d have more questions for me later.

  After they left, McGravy came in, squeezing a squeezie doll. “Tell me everything you told the police,” McGravy said, sitting on the corner of my desk Lou Grant-style and looking down at me. But you know, I just couldn’t. I already felt bad for ratting out my friends and colleagues to the cops. I mean, I had to do it, legally and morally, but I didn’t want to rat them out to the boss-man too, even a boss-man I admired. So I told him only that I didn’t kill Griff or Browner, and that the Epilady the police found might have been mine, in which case it had been stolen from my apartment.

  “You don’t think I did it, do you?” I asked.

  “No, Robin, I don’t think you did it. But you yourself told me once that everyone is capable of committing murder under the right circumstances.”

  “But I didn’t,” I protested.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s just such a goddamned mess, Robin. Greg’s dead. I was just talking to the guy yesterday, and now he’s dead.”

  “He was an asshole,” I said, and reminded him of that bad-smell story he told me about the asshole who died and nobody missed him.

  “Being an asshole isn’t a capital crime,” he shot back. “Although Greg was an asshole, a real asshole. Robin, if I tell you something, don’t blab it around.”

  I nodded.

  “The cops wanted me to comment on some disturbing things they found in Greg’s apartment. There was an anonymous letter that Greg appears to have written, detailing every sexist thing Jack Jackson ever did or said, and every all-white club he ever teed up at. You know, Jack is an outspoken supporter of women’s and minority rights on one hand, and on the other, he’s a golfaholic and he’s been kind of a rascal with the ladies. He’s got a past. He’s made no secret of it. But, written up that way, all out of proportion, it made him look really bad.”

  “Greg wrote an anonymous letter about Jack Jackson? Why?”

  “Well, they also found a mailing list – JBS stockholders, who, as you know, are notorious for their … egalitarian point of view,” he said. “That’s not all. It looks like Greg hired Griff.”

  “How do they know that?”

  “They found your name and Eric’s in a Reporter’s Notebook in his desk. It said ‘Check out Robin Hudson and Eric Slansky.’ They asked me if this could have been a work-related message. I don’t see how it could have been. It looks like Greg was going to try to undermine Jackson and set himself up as the stockholders’ savior when Mangecet attacked.”

  “A palace coup,” I said. “But he would have had to shut up the women who had dirt on him, just in case one or all of us pulled an Anita Hill after all these years.”

  “Yes. Ironically, Greg has strengthened Mangecet’s hand. Now we look like a den of thieves, liars, and murderers,” he said. “Mangecet will look like Sir Galahad at the next stockholders’ meeting.”

  “Bob, what if they don’t catch this killer? Almost half of New York murders go unsolved, and that includes some famous ones. I could be next. I’m not being paranoid this time, Bob, I swear.”

  “Maybe you should stay with a friend.”

  “And expose my friend to danger?”

  “Then go to a hotel,” he said. He crushed the squeezie doll’s head between his thumb and forefinger and then flung the head into my wastepaper basket.

  “Griff was killed in a hotel. Browner lived in a fancy doorman building. But maybe I’ll be lucky, maybe I’ll be arrested.”

  “I’ll see what I can get the cops to do,” he said. “To protect you tonight, not arrest you. I gotta run, though, Robin. On top of everything else, we have to figure out what we’re going to do during Greg’s hour tonight. The cops were beginning to grill the supervising producer just before I came to see you.”

  “Eric? Oh,” I said, trying not to give anything away, feeling awful. “So who’s hosting Greg’s tribute?” I asked quickly.

  “Lash. I’ll speak to the cops for you, Robin.”

  I guess I was expecting a little more concern, but Bob saw me as only one of many problems at the moment, not the least of which were a dead, traitorous talk-show host, a suspected killer on staff, and a big flood in Mississippi.

  I knocked on the wall, but Claire wasn’t back. I was all alone. What was I going to do? If Eric was the killer, if he’d taken my keys from the office that day and had spares cut, then I couldn’t go back to my apartment without changing the locks. The cops might be finished questioning him at any moment. He could be there waiting for me when I got home. I wouldn’t feel safe in a hotel or at a friend’s house. Where would I feel safe?

  I could stay here, I thought. Twenty-four-hour news. Always someone here. I could sleep at a pod in the newsroom and wear the same clothes the next day and … But for how long? I mean, who knew how long it would take the cops to sift through Greg’s apartment for the one hair or fiber that was going to ultimately lead to a killer, maybe.

  Sooner or later I’d have to go home to bathe and change clothes. Someone had to feed Louise Bryant. So these were my options – sit around and wait for the killer to get me or hope I was arrested. But with my luck, if I was arrested, ANN would bail me out. So that left sitting around, waiting for the killer to get me – maybe a killer I’d just slept with, who knew how to turn me on.

  No, that option just was not satisfactory. Somehow, I had to force the killer’s hand, because I couldn’t stand the fear or the uncertainty. If my suspicion of Eric was wrong, I needed to have it proven wrong. That was the bottom line. I just plain had to know. It was like, you know, a moment of truth.

  Where was this information Griff had presumably sent me? Every day, I’d checked the mailroom, but there was nothing. Every day I’d gone through my mail, opening everything just in case it was disguised as a sweepstakes entry or a Con Ed bill. Nothing. What was it I had to know to find it, and why didn’t the police find a copy in his stuff? Surely he’d have kept a copy for himself.

  It was so quiet I couldn’t think. I turned on my monitor and watched the news. ANN covered the murder with a dispas
sionate thirty-second reader that lead into Browner’s obit, which showed his good side, as obits often do. I hate to admit this, because the guy was dead and all, but it made me laugh a little. Not because Browner’s death was funny, but because it got me thinking about my obit.

  There was a special section in the obit drawer for ANN and JBS personalities. But if anything happened to me, I wanted to be sure I went out in style, so on a lark one slow Saturday I’d secretly redone mine. With the help of Louis Levin and a genius in Graphics who was able to superimpose me into a number of different historical scenes Zelig-style, I managed to build myself quite an impressive biography. Twice a year, the obits were updated, and just before updating I’d replaced my fake obit with my real obit. When the updating was over, I switched them back again.

  See, I knew that when I kicked, chances were that obit would be run straight to air without being screened by anyone first, in typically sloppy ANN fashion. It happened all the time. So what ANN’s viewers would see if anything happened to me was a video that showed me in a minidress and obey-me heels leading an infantry assault in the Battle of the Bulge, dating the Aga Khan in the fifties, advising Kennedy during the Cuban missile crisis, and climbing Mount Everest with a Japanese team in the seventies.

  It makes me feel better, knowing I’ll get the last laugh, I guess.

  Chapter Sixteen

  LATE THAT MORNING Claire came back carrying a soggy bag.

  “Special delivery,” she said. “Eric asked me to give you this. He’s really furious with you. The police questioned him for two hours.”

  “Really?” I said, taking the bag from her. Even though I knew what was inside, I opened it and looked. Melted Ben & Jerry’s Light Reverse Chocolate Chunk. A very clever touch. “And they released him?”

  “Yeah. They’ve released everybody.”

  So far, she told me, the cops had talked to me, Eric, Solange, Susan, Dillon, Jack Jackson, and Frannie Millard. According to an informal poll conducted by Louis Levin, fifty-two percent of newsroom respondents believed I did it.

  “Do you think Eric killed them?” she asked me.

  “The thought has crossed my mind,” I said, and I told her some of what I knew.

  “But Griff was naked, wasn’t he?” Claire said.

  “So?”

  “I’ve been thinking about this. You know how you thought it had to be someone who had a room on the floor so they could change out of their clothes after the murder?”

  “Or someone who could hide their clothes under their costume.”

  “Griff was naked. Why? Perhaps he was about to have sex with another naked person. He went to the bathroom, and when he opened the door to come out, the other naked person beaned him with a blunt instrument.”

  “I’m with you so far.”

  “After killing Griff, the killer washed his blood off her naked body, got dressed, wiped the room for prints. Didn’t need a change of clothes.”

  “Escaped?”

  “Service elevator? Out through the underground parking garage? Back to the party? I don’t know. There were a couple hundred people in costumes that night, right? Everyone was drunk. Much confusion. My point is, it was probably a woman.”

  “Well, she may have had a partner in crime,” I said.

  “Maybe. But not Eric.”

  “Claire, if you had something really awful in your past, would you kill to keep it secret?”

  “But I don’t.”

  “No, neither do I, not really. But what do we actually know about each other, pre-ANN? The killer obviously has a big secret, something Griff knew about, and Greg may have known about, or the killer was afraid he’d find out. It could very well be Eric.”

  “Maybe Sawyer Lash did it. A career move.” She smiled.

  When I didn’t smile back, she said, “I shouldn’t make light of it. I know you’re really frightened.”

  “No, please make light of it – because I’m frightened.”

  “Stay at my place tonight.” “I can’t put you in jeopardy.”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” she said. “I have a great doorman. Great locks. I’m not afraid. Really. Trust me.”

  “Do you have an umbrella at home?”

  Before she answered, Jerry poked his head in. There was this split second between the time I realized it was him and the time I started pretending I was busy.

  “What are you doing?’ he asked, annoyed.

  “Um, looking for my part two script rewrite?”

  “Robin, you’ve got other things to worry about,” he said, which was so totally out of character that I could only stare at him. Then he went on. “McGravy says you think this killer is after you, so … I brought you this.”

  He pulled the undercover purse camera from behind his back.

  “I want you to take this with you everywhere you go from now on, until this is over.”

  “So if I’m killed you’ll have video?” I said.

  “Just to be on the safe side,” Jerry said. “I would hate for you to die before you’ve tracked part two of the sperm series. You know I’m not interested in your safety and welfare. I’m only interested in video.”

  “I’ll take the purse-cam.”

  “Take it with you everywhere, even to the ladies’ room. Where are you staying tonight?”

  “Claire’s” Claire nodded.

  “Take a car service.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “I’m not kidding. I’m going to get some ANN security assigned to you. You wait here. I’ll arrange it.” He went into his office to “make a few calls,” despite my protests that I really didn’t want to put any ANN security guards in the line of fire. About the hairiest situation they’d had to handle was the occasional fan or schizophrenic soothsayer who wanted to personally deliver the news that the end was near. Their area of expertise was subduing crabby Federal Express guys.

  “It’s all set,” Jerry said. “Security is going to escort you home and the cops told McGravy they’ll check on you tonight. I’m going to call too.”

  I had this sickening revelation just then. For all his flamboyant sexism and crass news judgment, Jerry was one of the few people at ANN I trusted.

  “Okay. Thanks,” I said reluctantly. “That was nice of you.”

  “It’s all who you know,” Jerry said.

  After he left, I said, “Man, he’s getting kind of paternal, isn’t he?”

  “He doesn’t want you to die because if you do, you’ll never fall in love with him,” said Claire. “Or else it’s a way for him to demonstrate his power, that he can make you safe and secure.”

  I was only half-listening. I was thinking about Solange, whom Claire listed among the people the cops had questioned, and how, as Greg’s ex-wife, she probably had been investigated by Griff too. How she went up to change when Susan spilled her drink on her and came down just before eleven, when I was going up. That gave her plenty of time to kill Griff, slip into her room, and change clothes. Did that mean Susan’s spilled drink was planned? Did that mean a real conspiracy?

  Then I thought about what Tewfik said, about those nuts who confess to something they didn’t do in order to cover up something they did do, or to atone for it. Were all Solange’s televised confessions just a smokescreen for some greater, more dastardly deeds? Add to this the fact that Solange was a tall woman, nearly six feet, with broad, Joan Crawford shoulders and honey-colored hair. It would be easy for Mrs. Ramirez, with her dim eyesight, to mistake her for a transvestite. Then again, she thinks I’m a transvestite and, as you know, I have the body of Rita Hayworth.

  It was lunchtime, and Claire wanted to go eat. The special in the cafeteria was broiled tofu-salad, one of the few things they did well. Broiled tofu-salad day was a big day in Claire’s life every week. But I didn’t want to go, fearing my appearance among my peers, after ratting several of them out, would spark a food fight or worse. Oh, for the days of food tasters.

  “Please,” Claire said. “I’ll protect you. W
e’ll get it to go, and bring it back here to eat. You’ll be there ten minutes at most.”

  “You go, I’ll wait here,” I said.

  “Okay. But lock your office door after me,” she said, the picture of friendly concern.

  God, how long was this going to go on? I wondered. Being babysat, escorted, watched, all for my own protection. When would I get my privacy back? The Ben & Jerry’s was melting through the paper bag with a sickly brown stain. I picked it up and dropped it into the trash can.

  “Special Delivery,” I said.

  And it hit me. Actually, it did a twist and a flop before it hit me. What is the opposite of Special Delivery? General Delivery. Anyone can receive their mail there. Anyone can send mail there. But you wouldn’t think to check there, would you, if you had a legitimate mailing address?

  Of course. I called the post office and got an automated recording . General Delivery was open at the James A. Farley Post Office from 9 A.M. until 1 P.M. It was twenty-five to one. I had twenty-five minutes to go crosstown and downtown – in midday New York City traffic.

  Well, I didn’t have time to wait for Claire or even to have her paged. I shoved some money into my pockets, grabbed the purse-cam, and scribbled a quick note telling Claire where I was going and when I’d get back. I taped it to her door on the fly.

  Murphy’s Law, right? I’m yards away from the security door when I run smack dab into Turk Hammermill.

  “Robin!” he said sympathetically. “How are you? Where are you going?”

  “I can’t talk right now, Turk. I have to be some place,” I said, staccato.

  “What’s your hurry? Need a hand? Where are you going?”

  “Post office. It’s a personal errand …”

  “Oh, I need some stamps,” he said, digging in his pocket for change. “Could you …”

  “Listen, Amy Penny was trying to defend the designated hitter rule yesterday. You need to have a word with her.”

  Escape facilitated by a little revenge, two birds, one stone. Sometimes life just works out that way.