Death on the D-List

by Nancy Grace

  “That is so wrong. It gives lawyers such a bad name.”

  “So, come on, please? You’ll like it because we have video of Fallon’s apartment from Harry’s last interview with her.”

  “Please what? What did you say about an interview?” Hailey was no longer paying attention. She was reading an article about a mugger stalking little old ladies all over the East Side.

  “Please do the show! The interview . . . Harry did it about six months ago. Hailey, listen! I don’t think you’re paying attention to me!”

  “Okay, I’m listening.” Hailey kept reading the article about the mugger. The mugger’s MO was to loiter around apartment building elevators, waiting until a little old lady with her arms full of groceries stepped on, then smash up her face and take her pocketbook.

  “So, Hailey . . . you have to do it! I’ve already got this great banner for the lower third of screen! It’ll be right under your face! It reads Inside Fallon Malone Murder Apartment!

  “Then we run video of Harry’s tour of Fallon’s Manhattan apartment when she did the interview! I was there with Sookie. The apartment was fabulous. We got raw footage of every square inch of the place, although we didn’t use it all originally . . . We will today! It’ll be perfect!”

  “But it wasn’t a ‘murder apartment’ then. When you did the interview and the tour of her place.” Hailey hated to rain on his parade, but she felt compelled to point out the obvious.

  “It is now.” He said it as if it made perfect sense.

  Hailey was taking a long, hard look at the composite sketch of the East Side mugger. He sure looked familiar.

  “Come on, Hailey . . . do the show this afternoon. We need the numbers. Our numbers nearly double every time you’re on the show and we talk about the serial killer. Plus, you won’t even have to be on the set with Harry or that sleaze-bucket Derek Jacobs.”

  “Hmm. Not remotely tempted yet.”

  Russo acted like he didn’t hear her. “It’ll be fantastic. Fallon had Harry over for a one-on-one about her movie career.”

  Even over the phone Hailey could picture Tony, sitting at his desk, pumping out sincerity. All the while he’d be typing furiously into his desktop computer and sending messages over his BlackBerry.

  Hailey was still processing everything she’d observed at Fallon Malone’s apartment. She’d stayed for a couple of hours, going over evidence with Kolker at some diner where they all seemed to know him pretty well, brought them both lemon meringue pie, and then refused to let him pay.

  It had been a long time since Hailey had had lemon meringue pie. She ate the whole piece. It reminded her of home, in Georgia. It tasted just like her grandmother Lucy’s.

  Prying her mind away from her grandmother, home, and lemon pie, Hailey said, “Listen, I’d love to do the show. I would, I really would. But I have to see two patients, starting in about ten minutes.”

  “Hailey, give me a break. Did I tell you I had to go set up a live shot in Boston last night and the hotel put me in a room next to a dog? A dog, Hailey . . . a dog.”

  “So? What’s wrong with a dog?”

  “Well, first of all, I could smell it.”

  “You could smell a dog through the walls?”

  “Yes. I could. I could definitely smell something shaggy. But even after I asked for a quiet room, they put me next to a dog. I called the front desk at 2 a.m. and held the phone to the wall so they could hear the yapping. Of course, I had them move me to the Presidential Suite. So, is it true you were at the Malone crime scene today?” he asked suddenly, tossing a little bomb into the conversation.

  “How did you know that?” Hailey finally looked up from the Post, stunned.

  “I have my sources.”

  Tony Russo being coy didn’t fit at all. He had a habit of blurting out everything that crossed his mind. Tony’s thoughts were like gum in a gumball machine. They automatically went from his brain down to his mouth, then were spit straight out. No filter whatsoever.

  “No BS. How’d you know?”

  “If I tell you, will you come on to the show? You can move a patient . . . or we can delay taping an hour or so. The crew is there all day anyway.”

  Tony should’ve been a lawyer. Always an angle. But Hailey really wanted to know if one of the cops or techs at the scene was a leak to the press . . . most likely paid for information. This was a serial murder case and any leak or impropriety could end up affecting a jury verdict down the line. Even the tiniest of improprieties, much less the big ones, could come back to haunt a case.

  “You’re quiet . . . does that mean you’ll do it? I’ll tell you who told me you were there!”

  “Okay. I’ll do it. Now who told you?”

  “It was just Matt and Clark, two of our producers. I sent them out for Starbucks and they saw a lot of cop cars at one of the high-rises. They walked over and saw you coming out with a cop and getting into a car. They asked around and the doorman told them about Fallon. Which is why we need you!”

  “I’m not saying a word about what I saw.”

  “We just want you to talk about murder cases and the string of D-Listers that bit the bullet lately.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “What’s not funny?”

  “Your pun. ‘Bit the bullet.’ They were all shot in the head.”

  “Fallon was shot in the head too? Man! I didn’t know that!”

  Hailey wanted to kick herself. She’d unwittingly let a fact slip out. She’d have to be more careful on the show.

  “I really don’t know that, I was at a distance, I couldn’t really tell.” Hailey tried to cover.

  “Whatever. Head, chest, back . . . I don’t care. Fallon Malone was murdered and so were Prentiss Love and Leather Stockton. Think the same person killed them all?”

  “Come on. How would I know?”

  “Now that you’re doing the show, I feel so much better. I had Italian last night, and there was some dried red sauce on my fork. Before I started eating. They gave me a fork with somebody else’s food on it. I almost had somebody else’s food on my lip. I swear I’ve felt like vomiting ever since.”

  Hailey decided to ignore another of Russo’s stories about his nausea. “Please, don’t drag out that horrible gold lamé blouse again. I’m not wearing it, plus it smells.”

  “How about red velvet? I have that, too. It’s got a sequined lapel. You’ll love it. It’ll look great on air.”

  “Okay, I said I’d do the taping, but you have to stop with the red velvet and sequins.”

  “Promise. No red velvet.”

  “Or sequins.” She had to be specific with Tony Russo.

  “Or sequins.” He tried to sound glum. “You’re too prim . . . Will you at least unbutton the top button of your shirt?”

  “Bye, Tony.” She clicked off and went to change clothes. Hailey was smiling on the way to her bedroom closet. Tony was growing on her. Maybe she even liked him.

  Staring at the rack of clothes hanging there neatly, she wondered briefly why she bothered to look. Of course, she’d wear solid black, like she always did. Anything else would be inappropriate, given the topic.

  There was no way it wasn’t the same killer. That much she knew.

  But who could possibly hate all three women enough to tear their brains out of their faces with a single shot?

  Chapter 30

  IN LESS THAN TWO HOURS, HAILEY WAS BACK IN A DARKENED STUDIO, clutching a stack of research on serial murders and news accounts of the three murders she’d read and printed off her home computer. She sat completely still, staring into a blank camera. Suddenly, she heard a male voice in her ear.

  “Hailey, can you hear me all right? Got everything you need?”

  It was Tony Russo in her ear from the control room. “I’m fine, but I could use a cup of hot tea, skim.”

  “On the way! And remember, Harry just loves it when you fight with him! It’s great TV! The numbers will shoot through the roof!”

  H
ailey knew for a fact that Tony was outright lying and trying to “produce” her again. It was very clear Harry Todd hated it when she corrected him or argued with him. He always looked just like a deer caught in headlights, and until somebody coached him in his ear, he couldn’t think of a thing to say back to defend himself.

  The show’s theme music started playing in her ear and the screen before her lit up with “program,” what the viewer would see. Various video clips of Harry Todd flashed across the screen . . . Todd interviewing a former president, Todd cooking with a tall, brunette domestic guru, both wearing matching aprons and laughing . . . Harry Todd walking along the streets of New York City being mobbed by adoring fans who just wanted to touch him.

  If they only knew . . . Hailey thought it but would never say it out loud. She waited for the intros and for Harry Todd to begrudgingly throw her a question when it came her turn to take the side of the police. She knew he’d make it as much of a hardball as he could muster.

  She wasn’t worried. After practicing law for years and handling more homicide cases than she could remember, she’d basically prepared for this her entire life. Harry Todd, on the other hand, was just reading cue cards.

  After tossing an opening question to a tall, blonde female reporter dressed in a gorgeous red cashmere coat and matching scarf, standing on the street outside Fallon’s apartment, Todd, of course, went to the defense attorney to the stars, Derek Jacobs. Jacobs was seated in the studio a few inches from Todd himself. The two looked extremely casual and friendly, like they’d just had a long meal and now were kicking back for drinks and cigars.

  Fallon Malone’s death was simply sport to them. Something to talk about. The fact that she’d been brutally murdered, just like the others, meant nothing to these two.

  Hailey grimaced. At that precise moment, the camera showed her face, as if the control room had been waiting for a twitch or a sneeze. She quickly erased her expression. She took a look at the panel . . . the beautiful blonde reporter; the left-wing nut, Yale Professor Robert Seefeld; a crime-scene-specialist-turned-TV-talking-head; slimy looking Derek Jacobs; and the ringmaster, Harry Todd. They all smiled widely, displaying shockingly white smiles. They had to be caps or veneers. No teeth were naturally that white.

  Hailey just couldn’t bring herself to turn on the big smile she knew was expected of her. What was there to smile about? The awful fact of the murders, grim news that should depress anyone, was just another hot topic for Todd and his crony, Jacobs. The panel moved on swiftly to Fallon Malone’s failing movie career, inanely discussing her last movie and her “sex goddess” image. Hailey remained silent, but knowing Todd’s show as she now did, Hailey deduced this was just a ploy by which they could justify showing a clip of Fallon washing the Vette.

  It was no way to treat a murder victim. No matter how the public viewed Fallon Malone, she’d been viciously gunned down through no fault of her own.

  Hailey broke in, speaking for the first time. She’d been warned Todd hated to be interrupted. It broke his train of thought, such as it was, and it was hard for him to counter original thoughts not written on his yellow cue cards and printed questions.

  “You are all making a mockery of Fallon Malone’s murder, and it’s wrong. She is a crime victim. Would you want people to laugh in the same breath they talk about your murder? I wouldn’t.”

  Her spontaneous tirade stopped Todd cold. He looked around to see if one of his pals was going to defend him. They didn’t.

  Todd turned his attention to Hailey. “With us is Hailey Dean, former prosecutor, who has been at the Malone crime scene. Is it true she was shot in the head?”

  “I will not comment on anything I observed at the scene.” Hailey was stone-faced. “But I will confirm your reporter’s story that Malone was murdered in her apartment.”

  “Assuming they catch the guy, I guess you’re ready to string him up as usual, right, Ms. Dean?” His tone was sarcastic, as if there were something wrong with jury trials followed by sentencing for cold-blooded murders.

  “I’d have to hear the facts at trial, Harry. But if your reporter is accurate that Ms. Malone was unarmed and shot from behind with no chance to defend herself, and if there is no affirmative defense such as self-defense, accident, or insanity, I think a jury’s consideration of the death penalty would be appropriate. Of course, any lawyer worth his salt would already know that the state of New York outlawed the death penalty.”

  Todd’s response was fast. “How does it make you feel, Ms. Dean, to send someone to Death Row? Have any of your targets actually been put to death?”

  If he was trying to make her feel bad, it didn’t work.

  “That would have been a decision made by a jury after hearing facts and evidence on some of the most heinous, most brutal murders ever seen in the halls of a courthouse. It was my job to offer that alternative to jurors, an alternative they had the right to accept or reject.”

  Hailey heard Jacobs try to interrupt. She didn’t stop. “And just for your information, Harry, so you don’t continue to mislead your viewers, regardless of what Mr. Jacobs and the professor on the panel today have to say on the subject, most of America believes that certain murders, depending on the atrocity of the crime, do warrant the death penalty.”

  Todd’s face was beet red and Hailey spotted perspiration on Jacobs’s upper lip. It beaded through the thick makeup they’d caked onto him.

  “And as you may or may not know, death row appeals take up to twenty, twenty-five years to complete. So the answer is no, as of today, none of the convicted murderers I put on jury trial have sat in Old Sparky or gotten the needle . . . yet.”

  She knew instinctively that her references to “the needle,” or death by lethal injection, as well as her use of the term “Old Sparky,” as if the Georgia electric chair was somehow an old friend of hers, would irk Todd and gang.

  Someone in Todd’s control room mistakenly pressed the wrong key and Hailey could hear the directions being thrown at Harry Todd over and over. “Get out! Get out! Go to break! She’s doing it again!”

  On camera, Todd looked confused, and the other two men on set, Derek Jacobs and Robert Seefeld, looked like they’d bitten lemons.

  “Just read the prompter, Harry. Read the prompter.” Hailey overheard the voice as it continued in Harry Todd’s ear.

  “When we come back, exclusive! A look inside Fallon Malone’s murder apartment!” Against all bets being waged in the control room, Todd did manage to read the words right in front of him.

  The show’s music suddenly geared up and played over the famous clips of Fallon Malone washing the Vette. Then there was a dissolve to police cars swarming outside her penthouse apartment just as a van drove onto the scene. NEW YORK MEDICAL EXAMINER’S MOBILE UNIT was emblazoned across its side underneath a depiction of a large, gold police shield.

  Hailey looked down at the bottom of the camera’s monitor where the precise time down to the second was displayed in dimly lit red digital numbers. Only twenty minutes had passed.

  It was going to be another long hour.

  Chapter 31

  MR. ANDERSON?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Lieutenant Ethan Kolker, NYPD. Do you have a moment to speak to us?”

  The next morning, when Scott Anderson answered his front doorbell, he certainly didn’t expect to find Lieutenant Kolker flanked by two huge NYPD uniformed officers on either side of him. The three of them at the edge of his front door practically blocked the morning sun behind them. It was only 7:30 a.m. and Anderson was still in the sweat pants and T-shirt he’d slept in the night before. His dark hair, usually perfectly coiffed, was still tousled from sleeping.

  Kolker flashed his badge, the gold shield reflecting a seventies-style light fixture hanging from the ceiling behind Scott Anderson there in the foyer of his suburban home. It looked like an agglomeration of clear, crystal icicles hanging in a mass, lit from inside its center. His ex bought it years ago. After nine years
together, she left with half of everything he’d made off the PGA tour, the house in Boca, the two dogs, and the Porsche.

  He got the house note and the crystal light fixture. All because of a fling. It had been nothing to Scott. It was just a girl who sold sandwiches at the Masters down in Augusta. An Augusta local, for Pete’s sake. It wasn’t like he would ever leave Rachel for her. He could barely even remember her name. Or any of the others, for that matter.

  His ex found out about the sandwich girl. One night when he was a little late coming home, she hacked into his cell phone and heard messages from the girl. Scott’s contention was that his wife had no right to listen to his private voice mails . . . that she’d violated his Fourth Amendment right to privacy.

  Note to self: Never use your birthday as the numeric code to your voice mails.

  “Hello, gentlemen. What’s up? Somebody get their car egged again? I swear, I didn’t do it! I don’t even like eggs!” Scott Anderson flashed his best smile, which even this early in the morning was dazzling white, thanks to several sessions too many at a teeth-bleaching franchise.

  “Got a minute?” the tall one with the tan, standing in the middle, answered. He didn’t smile back.

  “Sure. Come on in.”

  At first thought, Anderson assumed he’d keep them on the front porch just outside his front door. He was afraid they were like vampires; you had to invite them in and once they’re in, you’re a goner. But neighbors would be slowly driving by, starting their commutes to work and preschools at any minute.

  No need for them to see the three men, two in uniform, on his front porch. A quick glance at the street in front of his yard confirmed the three had arrived in an unmarked car, thank God. He ushered them in and with one more sharp glance toward the street, Anderson closed the front door behind them.

  He stepped ahead of them and took them through his empty living room. The hardwood floors were bare, no rugs and no furniture. Just one lamp sitting on the floor in the corner. It had once sat on a beautiful end table, whose top was decorated with several tones of inlaid wood, just at the arm of a deep navy brocade sofa.