“Pressure from what?”
Shooting me a sharp look that implied my question was somewhere between stupid and offensive, Bonnie said, “To finish his new album. He’s such a perfectionist, he deserves to take his time, but Gray’s pushing him, Claire’s pushing him …”
“You’re not.”
“I’m encouraging him. That’s what mothers do.” She crafted a brittle smile. “Good mothers, anyway.”
“What do bad mothers do?” I asked, knowing I was throwing open the door to a knock on Claire.
“They let their children quit.”
While I had an urge to defend Adam, I didn’t want to have to explain to Bonnie how and what I knew about his next album, so I let it go. Knowing Bonnie’s take on it was worthwhile, too. “Then maybe you should encourage Jordan to stop stirring up the tabloids and get back to work,” I said politely.
“You’ll include him in your article, won’t you?” she asked with equal politeness.
“Absolutely. From what I’ve seen already, he’s a big part of Olivia’s life. I think the way Adam and Jordan treat her like a sister is very endearing.”
“Russell adored Jordan,” she said with a wistful smile. “He saw Micah in my son from the very beginning, encouraging his musical aspirations long before I ever dared imagine….” The handkerchief slid back up under the eyelashes and I waited to see what other items were on Bonnie’s agenda, other than making sure Jordan didn’t slide out of the spotlight for even a moment. “I miss him very much.”
“Micah or Russell?”
“Well, both of course, but I was speaking specifically about Russell.”
“Has it been hard for you to live this way?”
Her back straightened, and the handkerchief disappeared into her fist. “What way?”
“In Claire’s shadow.”
To my utter amazement, Bonnie laughed, an amazingly resonant and hearty laugh for such a delicate woman. “Is that how it appears to you? You haven’t been paying enough attention, Molly. Our worlds happen to intersect, but mine is every bit as bright and worthy as hers. More so, even. And my son is absolutely the true heir to Micah Crowley’s musical legacy.”
I half expected her to send me to the Tower of London to await my execution. “I apologize.”
She laughed again. “There’s no need, it’s a common mistake. But don’t repeat it in your article, because I’d have to refer the matter to my lawyers and there’d be all sorts of unpleasantness, and my family deals with enough of that.” I was impressed by how she’d slid from reassuring me to threatening me without her voice changing one bit. She stood up to let me know we were done talking. “And don’t mention the tapes in your article, either, because that will only get people agitated and, again, the lawyers would have to get involved.”
“Why would you think I’d bring up the tapes?”
“Gray said you were over there this morning, asking about them.”
“Did he tell you what he told me about them?” I wondered how much energy Gray expended balancing the two widows. It had to be a full-time job now that Russell was gone.
“That he doesn’t know who has them.”
“That’s all?”
“What more could there be?”
“That Claire’s very anxious to find them. And lock them back up, so they don’t dampen sales when Adam and Jordan release their albums.”
Bonnie’s smile froze so hard, I was worried her lips would turn blue. “The tapes would actually encourage sales, I’m sure.”
“That’s what Gray thought.”
“Gray’s a smart man.”
“Smart enough to figure out where the tapes are?”
She looked at me, but she was looking far past me. “Wouldn’t that be nice.” I stood so she could leave after all, but she still didn’t move for a moment, chasing some idea in her head. “We’ll find them,” she said after a beat, and I tried to decide whether I was honor-bound to warn Claire and Gray that Bonnie was on the warpath and headed in their direction.
I did feel compelled to walk Bonnie to the elevator and thank her for coming by to warn me to stay away from her son, even though neither of us phrased it that way. It was that gesture that put me in the right place at the wrong time, so Peter Mulcahey could step off the elevator right before Bonnie got on it and ask me if I’d lost my mind.
“Hello, Peter,” I said in response, pleased with my composure, especially because Peter, normally the one who was all too cool and controlled, looked to be unraveling a bit. I debated suggesting the conference room to him, too, but something in his demeanor made me more comfortable staying in the elevator lobby. With lots of witnesses. “Nice picture, isn’t it.”
“What picture?”
It’s so hard to stay current in today’s fast-paced world. “Okay, then what are you upset with me about?”
“What did you say to Adam Crowley to make him pull out of the deal with Ray Hernandez?”
“I don’t think I did.”
“Think again.”
I tried to remember, but thinking about it just made my lips sting and my heart race. “Okay, I might’ve said something along the lines of ‘forget it,’ but trust me, I don’t have that kind of influence over him.”
“You sure? Ray Hernandez just chewed me out because Adam called him to say he had better dreams to spend his money on or some starry-eyed crap like that, so now Ray’s furious with me because this whole deal between the two of them was below the radar and Ray blames me for letting you talk Adam out of it.”
“First of all,” I said, trying to calm us both down, “everyone’s giving me way too much credit here. Second, Ray will cool off and you’ll still get your article. You might even get a front seat to either Ray wooing Adam back or Ray landing a new investor, which is a process that should enthrall all the wannabe Trumps who read your magazine.”
Peter looked at me with amazement. I thought he was impressed with my deft spin on the situation until he said, “Are you pitching me? Are you trying to apologize to me by pitching the fix to this story?”
“It’s better than an empty apology, isn’t it?” I said with a smile that was intended to be winning.
In spite of himself, he smiled back. “Actually, it is. Go on.”
“Most importantly, I didn’t do this deliberately. I was talking to Adam about his music, not about Ray and the club. The club comment was collateral damage. And again, I apologize.”
Peter’s smile darkened down a bit. “Why are you still hanging around with him?”
I frowned, then immediately rubbed at the wrinkle I was creating so it wouldn’t set, a habit I’d picked up from Tricia. “I’m researching a story. Olivia’s circle is pretty tight. You can’t deal with one of them without dealing with all of them.”
“That why you were kissing him?”
“I thought you didn’t see the picture.”
“I didn’t want to get sidetracked.”
“But now that you’ve got a fix for your story, you can nose around in mine?”
“Why were you kissing him?”
“He was kissing me. I was trying to ask him about Olivia and her dad, and the conversation wandered a little.”
“A little?”
“Yes, a little.”
“You must be getting close to something. He’s trying to distract you.”
While I knew there was some truth there, it sounded harsher coming from Peter than I wanted to hear. “Or maybe he likes me.”
“If he has an ounce of sense,” Peter replied.
“Thank you.”
“Or maybe he’s involved in Russell Elliott’s death and is seducing you to get himself off—off your suspect list, that is. Damn straight the approach I’d use.”
One of the human emotional reactions that intrigues me most is the anger provoked by someone saying something you know deep in your heart but are trying to deny. Something you are quite capable of denying until another person has the gall to be clearheaded eno
ugh to say the denied truth out loud. Some sort of chemical reaction occurs between the warring heart and brain, and the central nervous system overloads. Which was why, right then and there, in the elevator lobby of my own workplace, I wanted to strangle Peter Mulcahey. Whether I liked it or not, he was on to something. The question was whether Adam had some actual knowledge of or involvement in Russell’s death or if he was just muscling into the spotlight so Jordan didn’t have it all to himself.
But I’d known Peter long enough to know that I’d never live it down if I acknowledged his direct hit. “Thanks for believing in the power of my charms.”
“What do you think he knows?” Peter asked, trying to demonstrate his own.
Even if I’d figured that out, I wasn’t going to tell him. “Peter, this isn’t snack time. I’m sorry I’ve complicated your story, but I’m not going to make it up to you by giving you part of mine.”
“That’s not why I’m asking. I’m concerned about you. You’ve gotten into a lot of trouble since we broke up.”
I had to laugh. “I’ve started writing about murders since we broke up. Which of those variables do you think is more relevant?”
“All the more reason I want to protect you,” Peter said, almost convincingly.
“I appreciate that, Peter, but it’s not necessary.”
“And keep you from ruining my story.”
“Oh yeah, that too.”
Peter smiled with such a rare moment of self-awareness that I couldn’t resist. “Thanks,” I said, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
He caught my hand as it rested on his shoulder and kept it there for a moment. Just long enough for Kyle to say, “Is this the picture you warned me about?”
Peter and I were both startled, having been oblivious to the elevator delivering another set of spectators. Most of them dispersed quickly, leaving Kyle standing there, looking us over as though we were in a lineup for a felony.
“No, there’s actually a different picture. Different guy,” I fumbled. Attempting to recover, I said, “I thought you were in court,” then hated the fact that it sounded like a lame alibi.
“Continuance.”
“Good to see you, Edwards,” Peter said.
“I bet it is,” Kyle said. “Y’know, Molly, when I said I wanted to start all over again, I didn’t mean you had to go back to being with him every time I turned around.”
“I could start dating her again, if you want a running start,” Peter offered, enjoying the situation far too much.
“You’re a stand-up guy,” Kyle said, more amused than he should have been.
“Anything to help.”
“If the two of you want to go out for a beer together, don’t let me keep you,” I said, failing to match their light-hearted tone.
“I should probably take a rain check, since I came here to talk to you about something specific.”
“The picture.”
“No. Your buddy Olivia. She’s been arrested.”
12
“I owe you,” I told Cassady.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll bill her for it. That’s how it works with lawyers and clients. Well, clients who aren’t your best friend. And even then, in certain circumstances.”
“I meant ‘owe you’ in a more emotional sense.”
“Oh, that goes without saying.”
We paused halfway down the steps of the police station and looked back to see what progress Olivia and Kyle were making. Not much, since she insisted on stopping and planting her feet each time she had a point to declaim.
“I’m not the one who broke the law!” she protested, not for the first time since we’d arrived to arrange for her bail. The tales of my adventures and how Kyle was handling them were spreading through the police community, and a friend of Kyle’s at the Twenty-fourth Precinct had called him when Olivia was brought in. She hadn’t called anyone by the time we got there, thoroughly convinced that she hadn’t done anything wrong.
Kyle rubbed his face wearily. “Actually, you are.” He glanced down at me, and I had a deep urge to blow him a kiss in thanks for all he was doing.
He walked down another two steps and got Olivia to follow one more before she stopped again. “He broke into my apartment!”
Two steps. “It’s not breaking and entering when you use a properly issued key.”
One step. “I should’ve taken it back from him after Dad died.”
Two steps. “Separate issue, not relevant here.”
One step. “Of course it’s relevant. I didn’t want him in the apartment and he knew it.”
Kyle backed up two steps, took her arm, and marched her down to meet us. “But that doesn’t give you the right to strike him with a blunt object.”
“‘Clobbering him with a Grammy’ will sound much better in the press,” Cassady said.
“You’d be doing everyone a favor if you kept this out of the press,” Kyle advised.
“Getting the charges dropped would be even better,” Cassady said.
“Isn’t that your department?” Olivia asked.
“Given your long-standing relationship with the victim, there’s a certain amount to be said for a direct conversation. One that includes an apology,” Cassady said.
“I never want to talk to Gray Benedek again,” Olivia said.
“Good luck with the whole apology thing,” Kyle said, delivering Olivia’s forearm into my grasp and kissing me quickly. “I need to get back to my precinct. Talk to you later.”
“I should get back to the office, too. Share a cab, Kyle?” Cassady and Kyle hurried down to the curb, leaving me with a truculent Olivia.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she repeated, but her voice quavered a little this time, and I was sure she was going to dissolve into tears on me.
“Hang on,” I warned her. “Let’s go somewhere a tad less public and sort this all out.”
“I want to go to Serendipity and get a Frrrozen Hot Chocolate,” she insisted. Stomping her foot didn’t seem far behind.
“I don’t have all afternoon to wait in line,” I said.
She looked at me with something from her “Poor, Poor Pitiful You” collection. “Don’t you know anyone?” she asked, taking her cell phone out of her bag.
Half an hour later, through the skillful plying of interlocking friends of friends I couldn’t quite follow, we were secreted at a corner table. The old-time ice-cream parlor ambience, with its Tiffany lamps and other cheery frippery, soothed Olivia enough for her to manage a smile. It was the most relaxed I’d seen her yet, though fatigue and distance from anyone else she knew probably had as much to do with it as the candy-colored charm of our surroundings.
“You’d make a good therapist,” she said. “You’re very easy to talk to.”
Working around a mammoth pile of whipped cream, I scraped a curl of frozen hot chocolate onto the tip of my spoon. “Then you won’t mind my asking what you think Gray was doing in your dad’s apartment this afternoon.”
“He told me he wanted Dad’s notes on Jordan’s album.”
“Was that before or after you hit him?”
“After. I didn’t know it was Gray when I hit him. I told you, I thought someone had broken in. I came in, heard noises in Dad’s study …” She mimed smacking Gray with her spoon, then stabbed the spoon into her cup. “He forgot I was staying there. I forgot he had a key.”
“He has a key, so does Claire. Anyone else?”
“Adam. Bonnie and Jordan. We’ve always treated it like one big house, with separate wings.”
“Where does Jordan live?”
“Upstairs, with Bonnie.”
These people were beyond cozy. I thought of the psychology experiment we learned about in college where the overcrowded rats start to eat one another to create some space. “I see why you moved out.”
She made a wry face. “And I was miserable. I missed them all so much. Even Jordan, who used to tell me when we were teenagers that he’d drilled a hole in his bedroom f
loor so he could see down into my room and watch me sleep.”
“Were you guys ever together?”
“No,” Olivia said sharply. “Disgusting. It would be like dating my brother. He just liked to tease me. Still does, in fact.”
“What about Adam?”
“He’s always been very sweet. We have a warmer relationship.”
“How did Adam and your dad get along?”
“Great.” Her eyes widened. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m interviewing you about the dynamics of your childhood, especially now that I’ve met a few more of the people since the first time we talked.”
She flattened the whipped cream with the back of her spoon as though beating it into submission. “No, you’re trying to figure out if Adam could’ve killed my father.”
“Hadn’t even occurred to me,” I lied. “Why does it occur to you?”
“It doesn’t, it wouldn’t. And I can’t believe you’d suspect him, after …” She trailed off uncertainly and took refuge in a big scoop of dessert.
“After what, Olivia?”
She stalled for a few moments, then said, “After what happened today.”
So she did know. “Did he tell you or did you see the picture?”
“Jordan called me about the picture, so I called Adam to find out what really happened.”
“Who’s setting up whom?”
“No one. Adam really likes you, and a friend of Jordan’s saw the picture pop up on a site and called him. That’s all.”
That wasn’t even scratching the surface. Jordan was a little too in touch with the gossip community for my comfort, and Adam confiding feelings about me to Olivia didn’t sit right, either. I felt manipulated, but I couldn’t figure out where the puppet strings ended.
“Do you believe Gray about this afternoon?”
“No. He was looking for the tapes, I know he was.”
Killer Riff Page 18
