What's a Girl Gotta Do (28 page)

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
dispassionate 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.
We’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.

Without waiting for him to answer, I turned
and ran out the door and up the stairs to the street. I stole
another man’s cab, just as it was pulling up, by flashing my press
pass and shouting, “News emergency!”

“Eighth Avenue and Thirty-third Street,
please,” I said to the driver. “I’m in a rush.”

“Everybody’s in such a big hurry.” The Sikh
cabbie said, and chuckled. “You should take time to look around,
enjoy the moment.”

Jeez, and I thought Sikhs were martial and
aggressive. What a rotten time for a stereotype to fail.

“This is a life-and-death thing,” I said.

“Oh sure, I know,” the driver said, inching
through traffic, not seizing those miraculous traffic opportunities
most cabbies do – the left-handed turn from the far right lane,
making a lane where there isn’t one, skirting around traffic by
driving in the oncoming lane.

Fifteen thousand cabbies in New York, and I
have to get the one who drives defensively.

“It was life or death for me too, last
spring,” he continued. “Triple bypass. You know, before that
operation, I didn’t know how old my grandchildren were. Now I know
the meaning of life.”

Fifteen thousand cabbies in New York, and I
have to get the one who speaks English. I took down his medallion
number. I don’t know why. What was I going to do? Complain? Yes,
Mr. Singh insisted on driving safely and being charming and wise!
See that it doesn’t happen again.

As we crept towards my destination, Mr. Singh
went on and on about trees, flowers, birds, children, all that
wonderful stuff until I was nauseous with anxiety. He did a long
riff about the Empire State building as we were stalled in traffic
beside it.

“Took my grandchildren up to the top a few
weeks ago. Most New Yorkers don’t think to do things like
that.”

I had half a mind to jump the seat and yank
the wheel away from him.

“You must have passion in your life, and a
passion for life!” he said, with gusto.

“Yeah yeah yeah, can we cut over on
Thirty-third, please.”

He let me out right in front of the Farley
Post Office, a Greco-Roman monument to the postal gods, with
twenty-five steps up its broad face and twenty stone columns
standing guard. Zip code 10001. I had seven minutes. I ran through
the long, tunnel-like hall looking for the General Delivery
counter. But there wasn’t one.

“Excuse me,” I said to a security guard.
“General Delivery?”

“That’s 390 Ninth avenue, other side of the
building,” he said. “You have to go back out to get to it.”

I ran out of the building and down
Thirty-third Street. There was nothing much on this street –
parking lots and the Glad Tidings Tabernacle on one side, the long
granite expanse of the post office on the other. The “other side of
the building” was a full block away.