Over Her Dead Body (27 page)

When I returned to the office, I was halfway into a funk. At least Leo had good news for me.

“They’re staying at the Four Seasons,” he said. “They’ve been out to dinner once, but mostly he’s been on his own while she’s done press and stuff.”

“Has he been going out?”

“Oh yeah,” Leo said devilishly. “For two nights in a row he showed up at Scores—you know, that stripper place?—with a bunch of guys who looked like their combined IQ was just over a hundred. Then he totally switched gears and started going to Soho House each night—you know, that members-only place? My bet is that Eva gave him a spanking when she heard he was out enjoying lap dances.”

“Thanks, that’s great.”

The only thing not great about it was that I had no way to gain entrance to Soho House.

Jessie returned from an appointment moments later, anxious to know how my meeting with Kiki had gone.

“I’m sporting a few singe marks from the experience, but at least she gave me a statement,” I said. “Listen, is there any way you can get me into Soho House tonight?”

“Soho House? Why, what’s up?”

“Brandon Cott has been hanging there most nights this week, and I’d like to find a way to talk to him. I want to try to pry a quote from him, too, about the night of Mona’s murder. It would add a little flavor to my piece.”

If Jessie suspected I wasn’t telling her the whole story, she didn’t let on.

“I think I can pull it off,” she declared. “But you’ve got to give me a little time.”

For the next few hours, I stayed focused on my article: I added Kiki’s lame explanation of her flare-up with Mona. Since I couldn’t add the word
bullshit
in brackets afterward, readers would have to decide for themselves how legitimate it sounded. As I worked, I occasionally stole a glance at Ryan. Though he’d been away from his desk more often than not lately, he was now pounding away intently at his computer.

Late in the afternoon, I also met with the fact-checker to go over his questions on my piece and then clarify details he was confused on. A little before five I phoned Detective Tate, just to be sure the police weren’t about to make a critical announcement. He answered my questions warily, as if he still didn’t trust me as far as he could throw me. The investigation, he said, was progressing, but there was nothing to report at this moment.

“There are some people at the party who had reason to dislike Mona—Kimberly Chance, Eva Anderson’s publicist, Kiki Bodden. And then there’s Eva’s husband. Do all of them have alibis? Or are any on your suspect list?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss those details with you at this time.”

“And Robby? Are you still considering him a suspect?”

“All I can say is that he hasn’t been removed from the list.”

“All right, thank you,” I said. For nothing, I wanted to add.

“I hope I’m not going to read any surprises in your article when it comes out,” Tate said. “I expect if you learn something of interest, you’ll contact me.”

“Absolutely,” I said. Of course, at the moment I was withholding information that might be incredibly valuable—the whole hermaphrodite angle—but I wasn’t going to tell him until I’d verified things. And I would tell the police only after running it by Nash. I also hadn’t informed Detective Tate about the attacks. Maybe I should have, but I still had no evidence they were related. Plus, if I told the police about them, they might try to do something to curtail how deeply I’d become involved.

Dinner that night was catered, as it always was on closing night. Jessie had nicknamed this weekly buffet the Starch Bar, because so much of it was loaded with carbs. Despite how bad it was, people always lined up the minute it arrived, as if they hadn’t eaten a meal in days, and if you waited and sauntered down thirty minutes late, all that was ever left was the decorative lettuce with the pink tips. As I helped myself to a dish that could be described only as chicken in butter and fat, I couldn’t help but think of Beau and the dinner date that wasn’t going to be. I hadn’t called him back yet to tell him my Tuesday night was free. I decided it was time to play a little tougher to get.

Just before seven I headed back to the coffee station, needy of caffeine. As I turned one of the corridors, my heart nearly stopped. A cleaning cart was parked outside one of the small conference rooms and Katya was standing next to it, emptying a wastebasket. It was like seeing a ghost. I must have startled her, because she spun in my direction. She looked haggard and tired. She also looked terrified.

CHAPTER 15

“K
atya,” I said, moving toward her, “are you okay?” I could see that the shadows under her eyes were now even deeper and darker than they’d been when I’d visited her.

“Yes. Thank you. I am okay.”

“Is this your first day back?”

“Yes,” she said without further explanation. She right-ended the wastebasket and stepped into the conference room with it, placing it in a corner. After hesitating for a second, I followed her into the room. She hardly seemed receptive to speaking with me, but I couldn’t just ignore how shaken she appeared.

“Are you sure you’re ready to come back to work?” I asked. “You don’t look all that great.”

She pulled the left side of her mouth into a sardonic smile. “I will try not to be offended by that.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What I meant is that you just look so tired and . . . Have you been back to the doctor?”

“Yes. And he said it was possible for me to return. Please, if you’ll excuse me. I must get back to work.”

“Well, what about changing locations? Working in another building or on another floor, at least?”

“Perhaps. For now, as my brother said, it is important to be strong.” There was a trace of bitterness in her tone.

Oh great. André clearly had little empathy for the emotional pain she was experiencing.

“Well, I’ll be here most days this week, so just let me know if there’s any way I can help, okay?”

“Thank you,” she said without making eye contact. She slipped by me, out into the corridor again. As she began to push the cart away, I hurried after her.

“Katya,” I said in a whisper, “is there something important that you haven’t told anyone? Why do you seem so frightened?”

“I am only frightened about not getting my work done,” she said dismissively. “If they fire me, then I will really be in trouble, won’t I?”

“The night I went to see you last week? Someone tried to attack me near your apartment building. It might have been a random mugging attempt, but I’ve wondered if someone was actually lurking near your building, keeping an eye on you. Have you sensed someone is watching you?”

Alarm registered in her eyes, but I couldn’t tell if it was because what I’d told her was a revelation or that I was putting too much pressure on her, adding to her anxiety.

“New York City is very dangerous,” she said, beginning to push her cart away. “We must all be careful.”

She hurried down the corridor, leaving me to watch her back. Did she know something or was she just still distraught from what had happened to her?

As I walked back into the pod, Jessie flashed me the thumbs-up sign.

“Good news,” she said. “We’re on for Soho House. It’ll have to be after nine, though. I won’t be done before then.”

“That’s fine. I won’t be, either.”

“There’s just one hitch. We’ve got to go with this sort of ditzy girl I know. She’s the member.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I said.

Over the next couple of hours, I worked in bursts of activity. My article arrived in first form with about fifty lines of run-over copy, and I made the necessary cuts. I also wrote the pull quotes and the captions for the photos. The main photograph was of Mona out one night at some event, flashbulbs popping behind her, which I think was supposed to suggest that it had been taken at the
Track
party, but I knew it hadn’t because of the clothes. There was also a photo of the crowd scene outside the building the night of the murder and one of Mona’s office, though mercifully the bloodstain in her carpet had been removed, either with a nuclear-strength carpet cleaner or from the picture itself with the aid of Photoshop. There was also a small photo of me, a head shot that they’d apparently had on file. I could see the point of it, since the story was in first person, yet it made me feel self-conscious. I wondered if I should write a caption like “Too slutty for her own good?” At least there wasn’t a shot of Robby. I’d had no choice but to mention briefly in the story that the police had questioned him, but running his picture would have been mortifying for him.

While I waited for my piece to return in the final fit, I picked at a platter of brownies and lemon bars in the conference room. The room had emptied out, and I was alone when Hilary strolled in. She was dressed in pink-and-yellow Lily Pulitzer-style pants and a white tank top, with a ribbed pink sweater knotted around her neck. She looked as if she’d just played eighteen holes of golf and was now making a beeline for a tray of gin and tonics. This was my first sighting of her today. The “Juice Bar” staff worked the phones like crazy on Mondays, their last chance to deliver truly salacious items.

“Well, if it isn’t Bailey Weggins, true crime reporter,” she said, her voice both sweet and sour.

What I should have replied was, “And if it isn’t Hilary Wells, part vixen, part vampire,” but I just nodded pleasantly. She clearly didn’t like me, yet I wasn’t going to try actively to piss her off.

“I guess I should add volleyball champion, too,” she said. “That’s such an . . .
unusual
talent to have.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Of course. How’s your story going, by the way? Am I going to find out who murdered Mona when I read your piece this week?”

“I’m afraid not. If the police have any ideas, they’re not saying at the moment.”

“But
you
must have some ideas, no? I hear you’ve been
very
busy looking into things.”

“I’m just trying to stay on top of what’s going on with the investigation. Can I ask you a question?” It had just occurred to me that if Mona had gotten wind of the hermaphrodite revelation
before
her phone call with Jed, Hilary might know about it.

“Let me guess. You want to know if Brad Pitt is as well hung as everyone says. Unfortunately, I don’t think Brad would approve of my sharing that information.”

“Blind items,” I said, ignoring her. “I know you guys have been running them lately. Had Mona mentioned that she hoped to run one on Eva?”

Her eyes widened and the edges of her mouth curled up almost imperceptibly. I might have been wrong, but it didn’t seem to be a look that said, “How do
you
know?” It was one that said, “What do you know that I don’t?”

“Maybe if you’d be more specific, I could help you,” she said. Man, she was cagey.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have much more to go on.” I was afraid if I led her any more, it might get back to Nash that I was stirring up interest in Eva when he’d asked me to keep my trap shut. Plus, I was pretty sure she didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Well, if you get any more, do tell. Maybe I could be of more assistance.”

“Sure, thanks,” I said, beginning my retreat. “Talk to you later.”

I headed to my desk with my brownie and nibbled at it as I leafed through almost a week’s worth of newspapers that I’d saved. I wanted to be sure before my article closed that there was nothing of importance I’d overlooked.

At around eight-thirty I walked over to Nash’s office, needing to make certain he didn’t have any final questions. He was standing in the middle of the room with the art director, staring at about ten variations of this week’s cover that were strewn across his small round table.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, backing out of the doorway. “I just wanted to touch base with you before I took off for the night.”

“Here, take a look,” he said, beckoning me back into the room. I crossed to the table and stood with him and the art director, inspecting the batch of covers.

Five or so of the covers featured two hot young male stars in a split-screen effect, but there were others with three or four guys and then one with just a single photo and lots of little pictures ringed around it. The headline on all of them was
HOLLYWOOD LOVE RATS.
Underneath, there was a deck that announced, “Former girlfriends and wives reveal how these guys cheated, lied, broke their hearts—and then begged to be taken back.”

But obviously what Nash had wanted me to see was what’s called the roof, the big bar that runs above the logo. One-half of it was devoted to Jessica Simpson and the other half to Mona. The headline read,
BUZZ
EDITOR MURDERED IN OFFICE,
and underneath that was, “The Inside Story.” The little head shot they’d included of Mona showed her more in profile, so that you really couldn’t tell she’d been wall-eyed.

“It just seems surreal,” I said. “Mona on the cover of her own magazine. But I like the way you set it up. It works.”

“Wanna vote on your favorite love rat cover?” Nash asked with a grin.

“I like the split-screen one—with the two heads. How about you?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m leaning toward,” he said, arching his back in a stretch. He seemed like the cock of the walk, totally thrilled to be calling the shots.

“I’ll let you two get back to work,” I said. “The final on my piece should be coming through any second, and then I’d like to head out if it’s all right with you. There’s a lead I want to pursue downtown for the follow-up on my story.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“It’s nothing concrete, and it may not amount to anything. But I need to check it out. I’ll have my cell phone on, so if you have any questions on my piece, just call me. I can come back if you want me to.”

“I’ll call if I need you,” he said. “One of the first things I want to do is straighten out the hours here.”

“Great. Oh, by the way,” I said, trying to sound real casual. “How did the profile turn out? Ryan’s piece?”

“It’s good. It will be a nice companion piece to yours. He’s working on a follow-up, too, for next week.”

“A follow-up to his
profile
?”

“Yeah, he says he’s got some good stuff he couldn’t fit into his story this week. We’ll have to wait and see what it amounts to.”

I wondered, too, what could possibly make up a part two of a profile—“Mona Hodges: The Early Years”?

In the end the final didn’t come through until nine-fifteen, and it was nine forty-five by the time Jessie and I were finally in a cab barreling downtown. It was hot again, and the driver had the AC cranked up so high, I was soon shivering.

“Look, I need to talk to you about something,” Jessie said after giving the driver the address of her friend. “I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Is it about the sauna?” I asked, thinking she may have discovered something.

“No, it’s Ryan. I think he may be trying to horn in on your territory.”

“How do you mean?” I asked, alarmed.

“When you were out of the office earlier, ambushing Kiki, he was on the phone to some pal of his, and he was trying to keep his voice real low and secretive. But I heard him say, ‘Big, man. It’s gonna be really big.’ Like he’s sitting on the scoop of the century.”

“But that might relate to something totally different from the Mona story.”

“That’s what I thought at the time. But then tonight, when I was having dinner, I sat with that guy Harrison—you know, the art guy you were looking for last week. I know he’s kind of a loser, but he’s really into music and I was picking his brain. At one point we started talking about Mona’s murder and he mentioned that you’d interviewed him about it. And then he mentioned that
Ryan
had interviewed him, too. I almost spat out my chicken.”

“Shit,” I said. “Did Harrison say what questions Ryan asked him?”

“All about the night of the murder. He wanted to know exactly when Harrison left and what was happening then. Of course, Harrison just thinks you two are doing some sort of team coverage.”

As the city flew by us, I could feel my stomach start to prick with anxiety. In the last few days, Ryan had acted so weirdly that I’d wondered if he might be the killer, if he’d doubled back from the party and confronted Mona on some matter, knowing that she was at her desk. I thought he’d been trying to find out what I’d dug up on the case. But maybe the reason for his odd behavior toward me was that he had made a discovery about the murder and was going to trump me.

What could he have stumbled on? When I was quizzing him on Friday, he’d seemed to remember a key detail—there’d been that telltale flicker in his eyes. But he’d refused to come clean. Had he recalled something Mona said to him before going into her office to take the call from Jed? Or something he saw or heard, which, after chatting with me, suddenly seemed significant, something that might identify the killer? I remembered what I had just asked him: Had he seen anyone on his way to the back door to
Track
?

“What are you going to do?” Jessie asked, pulling me from my thoughts.

“There’s not much I
can
do. I’m not going to garner any sympathy from Nash if I go charging into his office and announce that Ryan’s on my turf. Nash isn’t going to care where the scoop came from as long as he has it. Is there anything else you can think of that might indicate what Ryan’s up to? My copy of the invitation list for the party was lifted off my desk one day last week. I bet Ryan took it.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. The only other thing I can think of is that he’s seemed hyperinterested in anything you’ve been working on. Like today, when you were talking to Leo about Brandon, you had your back to him but I could tell that he was eavesdropping.”

“Great.”

“I’ve got one other interesting tidbit, though it’s totally unrelated. Remember how Hilary was out at Dicker’s house early, ahead of the bus? Guess who she probably hitched a ride with?”

“Count Dracula?”

“Nash.”

“
No.
How did you find this out?”

“Like I promised, I’ve been doing a little snooping about events on Saturday. In the process I found out that Hilary unexpectedly ended up taking the bus
back
with everyone. Which means that her ride fell apart. Then I heard that Nash was apparently asked to hang around for dinner in East Hampton with Dicker. My guess is that Nash gave her the ride, and then when he had to stay, she was forced to find other transportation. I bet she was pissed. She’s not exactly the Peter Pan Coach Tours type.”