Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3)

by Derek Ciccone

  “I want to thank you for your time, Woodrow—I think Rockfield will benefit from hearing your side of the story after all these years.” She glanced at her watch and smiled. “And it looks as if you’ll have plenty of time to get to your movie premiere.”

  He smiled back at her. “Oh, we’ve just begun, Gwen.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I gave your paper a front-page story that will be the talk of the town, so the least you can do is to cover my movie. Perhaps give us a plug in the entertainment section.”

  “You want me to do a story on your movie premiere?”

  “I would be honored to escort you, and will give complete behind the scenes access … if that’s okay with JP, of course.”

  The question wasn’t whether JP would give his blessing, but what would JP do if offered the opportunity to follow a lead suspect in a half-century-old mystery. The answer was hell yes he would go. And so would she.

  Chapter 44

  Woodrow appeared before her in his tuxedo, looking like an aging James Bond.

  “You know, Cinderella would have been a much less interesting story if she wore jeans and a T-shirt to the ball,” Gwen said, looking herself over.

  He held the rear door of the Rolls Royce for her. “I have that covered,” he said confidently, joining her in the backseat.

  “Are you sure Jill will be okay with this? I didn’t know I would be taking her place.”

  He laughed. “Okay with it? She is royally pissed. You should have seen her face when I told her—it was like she’d bitten into a lemon.”

  He sure seemed to take great joy in angering his girlfriend. But he had nothing but respect for his driver, Claude, who drove them past the fountains and onto Zycko Hill Road, in the direction of Rockfield Center.

  “Claude was Monique’s assistant in Paris, and came over after we got married. Fortunately for me, he decided to stay when she left. He’s the best thing I got out of the marriage.”

  “More so than your children?”

  He chuckled. “It depends on the day with them.”

  “Can’t say that I got anything from my divorce to Stephen, other than a feeling of failure,” Gwen said. “We basically rented and leased everything we owned. It’s almost as if deep down we knew it was temporary.”

  “All things in life are temporary—I always say, get what you can, and protect what you’ve got.”

  They drove onto Main Street—their destination was Bardella’s Dress Shop. Vivian was waiting for them, and presented Gwen with a hot red number. Hastings was right—he did have it all under control. It was obvious to Gwen that she was being played, but it was the “why” that intrigued her. She could also do a little playing of her own.

  Gwen entered the dressing room, and returned a few minutes later, looking like the lady in red. She was even supplied a designer version of a beach bag to carry her other items like her T-shirt and jeans. She was definitely flying in First Class.

  “I’m not sure we will make it on time, since you’re going to stop traffic,” Hastings said, with his creepy grin.

  As they drove into the city, Hastings looked her over, making her feel even more uncomfortable. “You are as close to perfection as one can get.”

  She forced a smile. “Thank you—you’re sweet.”

  “All that remains is your hair.”

  “Are you saying that my ponytail isn’t premiere worthy?”

  “Pick any stylist in Manhattan, and I’ll make you their top priority with one phone call.”

  Gwen was going to continue to play into his male ego, and let Mr. Big Shot pick one for her—and it’s not like she had all the top stylists on the tip of her mental Rolodex—but then she thought of where she wanted to go.

  “I’d select Renée’s, in the West Village.”

  Hastings nodded, as if impressed by the choice. “We often use Renée for our events, and I’ve even flown her to some of my movie sets. You have good taste.”

  If that were true, how come I always end up with murder suspects? Gwen thought.

  Chapter 45

  They pulled to a stop in front of Renée’s shop.

  As Woodrow helped Gwen out of the Rolls, he instructed Claude, “I’ll be only a few minutes—circle around the block a couple of times—and then we’ll be on our way.”

  Gwen was caught off guard. “You aren’t staying?”

  “Renée said it would be about a ninety-minute project, so I’m going to use the time to complete the preparations for tonight. My children, Nap and Louisa, are in town and they run most of the day-by-day activities. But my obsessive nature usually gets the best of me, and I have to go over all the final details.”

  What he said made sense, but Gwen got the idea that he was trying to temporarily get rid of her. Everything about her day with Woodrow Hastings had been planned, so she doubted this would be any different. She was sure he was up to something.

  She reached back in the car and grabbed the designer bag that Vivian had provided her.

  “You can leave that in the car, if you like,” Hastings said.

  Gwen rambled on about some type of conditioner and hair product that she’ll need, until she bored him to the point his eyes began to glaze over. He gave her a frustrated wave that said fine, take it … and hurry it up. It was clear the man had plenty of experience with high-maintenance women.

  He walked her into a waiting area, showing off his latest trophy. It served as another flex of the ego, just like when he had called ahead and demanded that Renée clear her schedule.

  Renée was Allison’s college roommate from NYU, who went on to become the hairdresser to the stars. Because of their friendship, Renée offered Allison to have her hair done free when she was starting out her business, in return for Allison’s marketing expertise. So when Renée’s career began to take off—and the name changed from Rene Dillard to Renée with the accent, but no last name—Allison was able to keep the free appointments. Gwen was able to occasionally piggyback on this deal when she lived in the city—Renée did her hair for her wedding, and a few other big events for the Globe.

  She arrived moments later wearing a T-shirt with a picture of Chewbacca on it, and the caption: Everybody Has A Bad Hair Day! Gwen had never seen her with the same hairstyle. This time it was a jet-black, Goth Punk look that Gwen thought Rene needed Renée to fix, but admittedly, Gwen wasn’t up on the latest fashion trends.

  She hugged Gwen, and then stepped back to view her in her dress. “I always said you were a movie star waiting to happen, girl, and I guess I was right … again.” The smile then fell off her face. “Well, as soon as we lose that ponytail you will be.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m just covering the premiere for the newspaper.”

  “Let me do your job for you: Breaking news: movie mogul Woodrow Hastings brings most gorgeous woman in New York to his latest premiere, and how cute was her hair?”

  She went on to heap lavish praise on Hastings, which he ate up like this was the finest restaurant in the city. As good as Renée was as a stylist, she was even better with the compliments. Sometimes Gwen thought it worth a visit just for the self-esteem boost.

  With niceties out of the way, Hastings got down to business—he was definitely itching to get out of here. “I’ll be back in ninety—we got a tight schedule here, so do your magic.”

  “Abracadabra.” she said back. Gwen could tell Renée didn’t particularly care for Hastings, but cared about his business very much. She took Gwen back to what she called the “lab.” She always expected something dark and mysterious like the Bat Cave with blow dryers, but it looked more or less the same as every salon Gwen had been to.

  “I always love working with your hair,” she said, directing her to a chair. “It’s like molding this spectacular ball of clay.”

  Gwen’s face filled with urgency. “Listen, I need you to cover for me. I’m investigating a story, and it’s not the movie premiere.”

  Renée loo
ked intrigued. “How very CIA … go on.”

  “You stall Hastings while I change. And let me know the minute he leaves—I can’t lose him.”

  “And here I thought you were the good girl—that boyfriend of yours must be rubbing off on you. I like it.”

  Gwen had wondered the same thing this past year. Renée made a dash back to the waiting room, “Woody—before you go, there’s one other thing I forgot to ask you …”

  Their voices trailed to a muffled whisper when the door shut behind them. Gwen could picture the scowl on Hastings’ face as he encountered another unwanted delay.

  She went into the dressing room and made the quickest change of her life, back into her jeans and T-shirt. And just as she hung the dress, Renée returned with an update, “The Silver Fox is on the move.” She was really enjoying this.

  “I’ll be back,” Gwen said, already walking toward the back entrance—the one that’s usually reserved for the paparazzi-stalked celebrities.

  “Can you at least give me more than five minutes—I’m not a miracle worker,” Renée called to her.

  “I guess we’ll find out how good you really are,” Gwen said with a smile, and was gone.

  She stepped curbside, and located the Rolls in the distance, stopped in traffic. She flagged down a cab, which would have been much easier if she’d kept the dress on.

  “Follow the Rolls,” she instructed, sounding like a scene from an action movie.

  They picked up the Joe DiMaggio Highway, which turned into the Henry Hudson Parkway at 72nd Street, even though most New Yorkers erroneously refer to the entire strip as the West Side Highway. The area then began to look familiar to Gwen as they followed Hastings into Morningside Heights around 116th Street, near where she’d attended college at Columbia.

  Things became even more familiar when the Rolls drove into the neighborhood where JP owned his brownstone. The car stopped suddenly, and Hastings got out.

  From there, things got real weird. Once Claude took off, Hastings walked directly toward a pre-war building with fading brick facade that she recognized. It was JP’s place! He double-checked that he wasn’t being followed, and entered through the front door.

  What was going on? What are you up to, Woodrow Hastings? And what does my dear boyfriend have to do with this?

  Gwen paid the cabbie, and set out on foot. She eased closer to the brownstone, going over the possibilities in her head. She had a key—she could surprise him. No … that was pretty much the worst idea ever. She’d wait it out, until he left, and then follow him. He claimed that he’d be back at Renée’s in ninety minutes, so he couldn’t stay too long.

  That’s when her internal alarm clocks started going off. She felt the large presence behind her. But before she could scream out, the strong hand had covered her mouth.

  Chapter 46

  I continued to stakeout … my own house.

  My irritation was growing by the moment. When Bridget had texted me about a meeting Poca planned to attend, my thoughts led to the clandestine and illicit. I grew excited about the possibility of cracking a centuries-old mystery, and the suspicious death of Thomas Archibald.

  But the meeting’s agenda turned out to be nothing but good old-fashioned lust—I should never have trusted my house key to a horny ex-wrestler on the rebound.

  I was tempted to barge in and put an end to the get-together. Or should I call it a rendezvous? A nooner? But that could only make things worse … and possibly win me a free trip to the emergency room.

  As we get older, performance often dips in all aspects of our lives. So that might explain why ten minutes later Carter left the brownstone, alone, and began walking away from the place. And if he stayed on his current course, he would pass right by me.

  This gave me an opportunity to do something that I’d always wanted to do. I hid behind the front stoop of my neighbor’s walk-up. When Carter passed by, lost in his thoughts, I came up behind him and attempted to hit him with a flying elbow. I tried to catch him in the back of his head, but with his height advantage, and my lack of leaping ability, it hit him square in the middle of his back.

  It did pack enough wallop to send him to the ground—timber! For a moment, he just laid on the sidewalk, stunned. But that quickly wore off, and the angry bear emerged. He was pissed, but not as much as I was.

  When he tried to get up, I shoved him right back to the ground. “Who told you that you could use my place as your personal bachelor pad!?”

  “You always said su casa es mi casa. And besides, you got it all wrong.”

  He tried to get up again, and I pushed him back down. The other thing I was pushing was my luck, but I was too mad to think straight.

  “Okay, maybe you got some of it right,” he conceded.

  “Which part was that?”

  “Pretty much all of it. She had a meeting with her son in the city today, so I thought we could meet up and have a little fun. And since your place was empty, and I had the key … it made sense.”

  “Then why aren’t you with her now? Even for a quickie that would be a little, well … quick.”

  “She told me how oysters make her insatiable, and that they didn’t offer them at Norvell’s, where she had lunch. So I told her about the Oyster Club a couple blocks away—best in the city—and we decided that I would go get some while she slipped into something more comfortable.”

  “Who decided to go get oysters?”

  “I told you—we did.”

  “There’s no such thing as a mutual decision. Which one of you made the decision … to go get oysters?”

  He had a puzzled look on his face as he rose to his feet. This time I offered no resistance.

  “She did, I guess—what are you getting at?”

  Our attention was diverted by a vintage Rolls Royce pulling to a stop just up the street and letting off Woodrow Hastings. He went directly to the front door of my brownstone, looked to make sure he wasn’t being followed, and entered.

  What I was getting at, was that she had sent away Carter because she had a meeting to attend, and it didn’t include him. And now we both knew who that meeting was with—the opposing general.

  Were they having peace talks? Or did end it once and for all suggest something more along the lines of a duel? The only thing I was sure of was that Thomas Archibald resurfacing had caused uneasiness on both sides.

  No sooner had Hastings entered when a cab pulled up and a woman stepped out.

  “Oh shit,” Carter said, and I agreed. He ominously added, “I’ll take care of it.”

  Moments later, he’d kidnapped Gwen in broad daylight, and dragged her back to me kicking, and if he didn’t have his hand over her mouth, she would have been screaming. And in a sad example of modern society, not one passerby attempted to help her.

  We gathered at a park-like strip of trees about a half block away, but with a perfect vantage point to watch the brownstone. Nobody could come or go without us seeing it.

  Once Gwen got her bearings, her shock switched to confusion. “What are you two doing here?”

  “I was following Poca, and Carter was … fishing for oysters.”

  “And I was with Hastings, as we agreed. If you haven’t noticed, he’s in your place. How exactly would he get in there?”

  “Poca let him in,” I said.

  “And what is she doing in there?”

  Carter proudly puffed out his chest. “Afternoon delight.”

  Gwen looked to me, and I sadly confirmed it with a nod. “Gross,” she said, but then her light bulb went on, and she grew excited. “JP—the security cameras! We’re going to be able to play back every word they say in there.”

  Carter’s guilty look popped Gwen’s balloon. “There’s a chance I might have turned them off so nobody knew we were in there.”

  “How good of a chance?”

  For the first time in history, Carter had nothing to say.

  “I’ll take that as the cameras have been disabled,” Gwen said with a
frustrated sigh.

  Any other time he would have filmed his “afternoon delight” and posted it on the Internet—just our luck.

  We continued to watch the outside of the building, even though anything worth watching was taking place on the inside. I breathed in a smell that I thought had come from many of the horse-drawn carriages that ride throughout the city. But then I realized where it was coming from.

  “Why do you smell like a barn?” I asked Gwen.

  She surprisingly didn’t take offense. “Because I went riding with Hastings today during our interview. But don’t worry—Cinderella will be smelling real sweet when she attends the ball tonight.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hastings invited me to accompany him to his latest movie premiere. I’m supposed to be getting my hair done at Renée’s right now, while he makes final preparations. I had a hunch, so I followed.”

  “You’re not going to be doing anything of the sort.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This thing is a fault line about to shift, and the Archibald discovery has set it into motion. Poca claimed this meeting was about putting an ‘end to it,’ and who knows how Hastings will respond—I don’t want you anywhere near it when the earthquake hits.”

  “Too bad—I already have a dress. And Hastings wants me there for some reason—he planned this whole thing out—so it’s our best chance to get to the bottom of the story.”

  “Which is exactly why you’re not going.”

  “Would you go?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Because I’m a woman? Think really hard before you answer that.”

  “No—because you’re the woman I love. And that is different!”

  Carter stepped in, “It pains me to be the mature one here, but since you’ve spent your Sunday following the two suspects, who happened to end up in the same place, shouldn’t you be comparing notes? I’d share mine about Poca, but they’re too hot for daytime TV,” he said with a proud-of-himself grin.