Lethally Blond (22 page)

We were done by one o’clock, and the girls told me to keep the car for the rest of the afternoon. I directed the driver to
Buzz
and told him I’d be several hours.

Nash was chomping at the bit for an update.

“At this point, I don’t have anything more than I gave to the Web site,” I told him. “It’s a high-profile case, and everybody’s being pretty tight-lipped.”

“Who do you think did it?” he asked, peering over his black reading glasses at me.

“Someone who knew her, that’s for sure.”

“But
who
?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Like hell you’re not. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Let me dig just a little deeper.”

He shook his head in mock disgust. “Bailey,” he called as I was walking toward the door.

“Yeah.”

“You look damn cute in a suit. When this is over, I’m buying you a celebratory dinner.”

Oh great, that’s all I needed.

Back at my desk, I brought Jessie up to speed on everything that was going on, leaving out my night with Beau. I wasn’t sure why exactly, because I liked her and trusted her and had shared lots about Beau with her. Was it, I asked myself, because I didn’t want her to go all pouncy on “Tad Hamilton”?

For the next few hours, I trolled for info about Locket’s death, did several more radio interviews from my desk, and kept checking my BlackBerry to see if Harper had responded to my goosing—but there was nothing from her. When I had a spare moment, I called Beverly, something I’d never gotten around to doing yesterday, and asked her to call Barry and determine the exact amount that Tom was due to advance him.

At around five, I finally headed home, almost cross-eyed with fatigue. I still had the town car at my disposal, and I took full advantage, telling the driver to drop me right in front of my apartment building. It was nice to play Cat Jones, my former divalike boss at
Gloss
, but there was an additional advantage to sitting behind those tinted windows: I felt safe, something I doubted I was going to experience at home. I had called Bob from the office and made certain he had warned the other doormen to be extra cautious. I probably should have involved the super, too, but I was loath to throw poor Bob under the bus for failing to follow all the rules earlier.

My door was still double-locked, a relief, and I pushed it open slowly, letting my eyes search through the foyer into the living room. They fell finally to the floor, and I jumped. Just inside the door near my feet was a plain white envelope marked “Bailey.” But on closer inspection, I saw that the handwriting was Lan-don’s. There was a note inside, saying he was home and to drop by no matter what time I returned or who I’d “dragged home” with me.

After checking through my apartment and cleaning off surfaces smudged with fingerprint dust, I knocked on Landon’s door.

“Dear Lord, Bailey, how could you go totally incommunicado at a time like this?”

“Sorry, sorry,” I said as he ushered me into his apartment. “It’s been absolutely insane, and I’ve had to do all these interviews. You didn’t catch any of them, did you?”

“Yes, last night. It was on a news show, but they were showing a clip with you from earlier in the day. It took me about sixty seconds to realize it was you because I’ve never seen you in a
suit
before. You looked stunning, by the way. Do you want an espresso?”

“No, I’ve got to split in a minute to meet up with Chris. So you know all about Locket’s murder, then?”

“As much as I can know from being forced to buy the
New York Post
rather than talk to
you
. I hadn’t realized when you first told me about her that she was a former soap star. She wasn’t on one of those shows with a title like
One Life to Live
, was she? That would be ironic.”

I shot him a mock withering look. “That was not her show, no.”

“Well, who do you think did it? Was it a simple mugging that escalated?”

“No way. I’m almost certain that she was killed by a nonstranger who followed her into the park—and that it somehow ties into Tom’s death. But there’s so much more to tell you. And one thing that’s pretty serious.”

I described the intruder’s visit to my apartment. Landon had gone almost ashen by the time I reached the part about the steak knife in the sink.

“That’s absolutely horrifying,” he said soberly. “Weren’t you nervous staying there last night? You should have called me.”

“Well, I was on the verge of doing that, but then lo and behold, Beau Regan phoned and basically announced he wanted to go steady with me.”

“
What?
That’s—but—but what about Chris now?”

“That’s a whole other story, and I need to have about two hours with you to take you up to speed on everything. But let’s get back to my intruder. The police are going to be watching the building, and the doormen know to be careful, but can you keep an eye out, too? She was about five nine, average weight, blond hair.”

“What time did this all happen, anyway?”

“About six-thirty.”

His jaw slackened. “Good God, I was here then. I
heard
her.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“I was sitting at the desk in my bedroom, and then I heard you—or what I
thought
was you—going through your closet. Your closet, you know, backs up against mine. There was a fair amount of activity in there, so I just assumed you were reorganizing. I was dying to talk to you, so after the noise quieted down I called your home phone, but there was no answer. I assumed I’d just missed you.”

I could feel goose bumps on my arms and neck.

“Oh boy,” I said. “I wonder what the hell she was doing in there. Look, I better check it out before I meet up with Chris. But I promise to call later.”

I opened the door of my apartment, feeling even more wigged out than I’d been earlier. Using a flashlight in addition to the overhead light in my closet, I pawed through my clothes, half expecting another nasty leave-behind, but I didn’t find anything. I made another discovery, though. Two of my tops were missing. Though there was a chance they were hanging in a plastic bag at the dry cleaner’s, I didn’t think so.

It was now almost time to meet Chris. I scrubbed off the layers of makeup I’d worn for my interviews and changed into jeans. The renewed dread I felt about the intruder blended into my dread about meeting with Chris like two water spills converging on a glass tabletop, and it was hard to know which one was worse. As I was swiping on lip gloss, Beverly called me back.

“I have the information you requested,” she said. “Tom was going to advance Barry exactly seven thousand dollars.”

“Ummm. Okay, thanks.”

“Do you mind my asking why it’s significant?”

“I was just trying to piece some information together. Someone who borrowed money from Tom claims he paid it back, and I thought if he had, Tom might have included the cash in his payment to Barry. But he took out exactly seven thousand from the bank.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. I wonder what will happen to the house now.”

“The parents’ financial manager, Mr. Barish, will most likely get involved.”

“Mr. Barish? Ugh!”

I froze. “Why do you say that?”

“Tom was upset with him. He wouldn’t let Tom handle his money the way he
wanted
to. When Tom wanted to mount the play, for instance, he told this Barish fellow that it was something his parents would have wanted for him, but Barish wouldn’t advance him the money. I almost mentioned this when I was telling you about the play, but I hate to tell tales out of school.”

That would explain why Barish hadn’t had much contact with Tom in recent weeks. Interesting that Barish had not given even a hint of the tiff. I had only his work number, and when I tried him after signing off with Beverly, no one picked up. I left a message asking him to call me immediately. As I broke the connection, I realized that there’d been no word from Harper. Clearly my message hadn’t flushed her out as planned.

Leaving my building, I glanced up and down the street. There was no one skulking about, at least from what I could tell. Up the block, two men sat in the front seat of a dark blue car, and I wondered if they might be the police—but they seemed deep in conversation, oblivious to my presence.

By the time I was headed in a cab toward TriBeCa, it was six-forty-five, and by the time I reached Chris’s place I was nearly thirty minutes late.

“Hey,” he said as he swung open the door. “I was worried—considering everything that’s happened.”

“Sorry, I should have called,” I told him. He leaned down and kissed me on the mouth, and I instinctively jerked my head away ever so slightly.

“Are you about to blow me off, Bailey?” he asked, eyes quizzical after he’d pulled back to look at me.

“No, no, I—I just need to talk to you.” I was suddenly a jumble of emotions, the dominant one being anxiety. I was going to demand the truth from Chris, but I wasn’t looking forward to hearing it.

He turned and walked into the apartment, expecting me to follow. It was a large loft-style studio apartment, really nice, with high ceilings, exposed water pipes, big windows, and pumpkin-colored wood floors. The kitchen, dining, and living areas were all one room, and a small staircase led to a sleeping area. The only furniture was four bar stools by the kitchen counter and a large cranberry-colored sofa—and there wasn’t a lick of art on the walls.

“Great place,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied, smirking. “If you love the really, really
spare
look. I just need to spend a day at Pottery Barn. Maybe this is finally the week to do it.”

“Well, it takes time to pull things together,” I said, a hopelessly dull observation that reflected how freaking awkward I felt.

“I’ve got a great white wine,” Chris said, striding toward the counter. “Why don’t we go up to the roof. There’s a kind of terrace-garden thing up there.”

That wasn’t at all what I was up for considering the topic of conversation we were about to embark on—plus, I was supposed to talk to Beau at seven-thirty—but I didn’t know how to refuse. After Chris pulled a white Burgundy from the fridge and filled two glasses, I trailed him back through the apartment and up a flight of stairs from the hallway to the roof garden. It was simple but well done, with several boxed trees and weatherproof teak tables and chairs. The lights had come on in the buildings all around us, and in some of the windows I could see people moving about, but we were the only ones on the roof. A light wind lifted my hair from the back, making me shiver.

“So what’s on your mind, Bailey?” Chris asked. “Something’s clearly eating at you.”

I wandered over to one of the tables, and Chris followed behind me. We both took seats. As I stared across the table at him in the waning light, I felt a swell of sadness. Up until now, I’d allowed myself to be mostly angry about what he’d done, but it was more complicated than that. I cared about Chris, we’d had sex together, we’d forged a bond because of Tom—but I’d discovered that he’d done something morally reprehensible. It meant that he wasn’t the guy I’d thought he was. And there didn’t seem to be any way I could forgive him.

“There
is
something bothering me,” I said after taking a sip of wine for fortification. “I found out that it was your agent who leaked it to the show that Tom had been in rehab.”

“Who told you that?” he demanded, sounding shocked that I knew—but not surprised at what I’d said.

Suddenly something clattered behind me, and instinctively I spun around.

“It’s just the wind rattling one of the planters,” Chris said.

“Someone in the know told me,” I said, turning back. “So please don’t try to deny it.”

“I won’t deny it,” he said, his voice hard. “My agent told Alex Ottoson—and that’s how Tom got knocked out of the running for the role I ended up with.”

“I can’t believe it,” I said. “Part of me was hoping that you
would
deny it, that it hadn’t happened that way.”

I rose from the table, just wanting to get the hell out of there. Chris reached out and grabbed my wrist.

“No,” he said. “You’re not leaving.”

CHAPTER 18

W
hat?” I said sharply. “I’ll leave if I damn well please.”

“You can’t, Bailey. You have to let me tell you the whole story.”

He relaxed his grip, and I tugged my hand away.

“You mean, you had a good reason for what you did,” I said sarcastically. “That your success was more important than Tom’s?”

“No, it didn’t happen like you think it did. I swear.”

To my utter amazement, tears began to well in his eyes.

“Okay, shoot,” I said, sitting down again.

“When I tried out for the part of the morgue desk assistant, Tom supposedly already had the part of Jared, the one I have now. I hadn’t tried out for that myself because it looked like I’d been cast in another pilot for the season. When that pilot fell through, it seemed I’d be
lucky
to get the assistant part and so I agreed to read for it. Plus, my agent kept saying maybe they’d expand the part once they saw my test. He asked me about Tom at the time—like, why he hadn’t heard much about him. It seemed purely out of curiosity—a ‘Who
is
this guy?’ kind of thing. I told him about Tom doing mostly theater and how he went off the radar for a while after losing both parents. I mentioned the rehab just in terms of explaining the low profile.

“Later, when they ended up giving
me
the big role, my agent told me that it was because they’d rethought the part a little, and I was more the physical type they now had in mind. I felt like shit, but Tom seemed to take it in stride. Then late this summer, this lackey who works for my agent spilled the story to me. My agent had apparently told one of the producers under Alex about the rehab. I couldn’t believe it. I told my agent to try to fix it, but it was too late.”

He heaved out a long, sad sigh and let his head drop into his hands.

“Is that the truth, Chris?” It
sounded
real, but how could I be sure? He was a goddamned actor, after all.

“Yes,” he said, looking back up. “I’m as ambitious as the next dude in this business, but there’s no way I would have hurt Tom.”

“Why didn’t you tell Tom the truth once you found out?”

“I couldn’t bear to. Plus, I was afraid if he learned what had really happened, it would send him into a tailspin and he might even start using drugs again. This is partly why I was so crazy to find him. I thought maybe he’d heard what had happened from someone else and just bolted because of it.”

In the dim light of the terrace, I saw Chris clench his fists on the table.

“Now, of course, I could kick myself for
not
telling him. If Tom had known what had really happened, maybe he would have just bailed on the show. And he and Locket wouldn’t be dead.”

I felt an emotional jab as I watched his face, faintly illuminated by the two wall-mounted lights. I’d accepted Alex Ottoson’s words as the truth. I’d allowed my anger to bloom without ever first asking for Chris’s side of the story—and I’d used the info as a reason to sleep with Beau with a clear conscience.

“Chris, I think you probably made the right judgment call at the time. Tom
could
have gone into a tailspin, and he might have bagged the part—which would have been a lost opportunity for him.”

“I was looking out for myself, too. I didn’t want to rock the boat. It’s the same reason I took Locket’s note. I didn’t want to make any waves that would affect the show.”

“Have you called the police yet about the note?”

“No. But I will. I swear.”

I took a long sip of wine as I gathered my thoughts.

“Why don’t we grab some dinner?” Chris suggested. “We could do take-out here if you want.”

“Um, gee, I’d like to, but I still have a few leads to follow on the case.” I wasn’t lying. I needed to swing by the Chaps Theatre before I met up with Beau. “Maybe we can get together tomorrow sometime.”

“What kinds of leads? Are you still thinking Harper might have done it?”

“Yes, she’s a definite suspect, but I’m just trying to turn over every stone regardless of whether they seem directly connected to her or not. What I’m hoping to find out tonight is whether that line Tom used from
Taming of the Shrew
meant anything.”

“Just be careful tonight, okay? Promise me.”

I opened my mouth to tell him about the intruder but decided against it. He seemed pretty shaken up by our discussion, and I didn’t want to make things any worse.

“Promise. Look, I better fly now.”

Downstairs, by the elevator, Chris hugged me and kissed my forehead. It was a relief, knowing the truth now, but I also felt like a heel.

“Tomorrow, then?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I said.

As soon as I was on the street, I tried Beau. To my chagrin and annoyance, I reached only his voice mail. True, I was phoning later than I was supposed to be, but why wouldn’t he be available?

I gave the cabbie the address to the Chaps Theatre. As I sank into the saggy leather seat, my thoughts raced back to Chris. He hadn’t betrayed Tom after all. He
was
the same person I’d always thought he was. Though we certainly hadn’t gone to bed with any promise of exclusivity, there’d been an undeniable connection between us, and if he knew what I’d been up to last night, he’d see it as a real breach of trust. I felt the flames of ho hell licking at my ankles. Speaking of which, what the hell was I going to do? Beau was the guy I’d been pining for, and now, finally, I had him, and the thought of that made my heart pound like crazy. But I also felt an attraction to—and bond with—Chris. I had tried chasing him from my brain after the revelation from Alex, but he was there again, after our talk tonight.

The theater was all lit up, and I felt hopeful of finally picking up what I needed. But as I tugged at the door, I found that it wouldn’t budge. I glanced at my watch: 8:25. The lobby was empty, and from this angle, at least, I couldn’t spot anyone in the box office. I leaned my head toward the door and pressed my ear against the glass. I was pretty sure I heard the rustling sound of muffled laughter from an audience. My guess was that the door had been locked after the last stragglers had arrived, perhaps so the box office person could hit the restroom or take care of another duty in the theater. I would just have to wait until signs of life appeared. There was a small café diagonally across the street, and I headed for it. While I was stepping off the curb, my cell phone rang. Beau, I figured.

But my guess was wrong. The number was unrecognizable. I answered and discovered Harper on the other end. The pheasant had finally been flushed from the woods.

“Do you want to explain that cryptic message you left me?” she demanded.

“I think you know what I was referring to,” I said.

I’d wondered if my message might infuriate her, regardless of whether she was guilty, but what I’d never imagined was what happened next. Her voice caught in her throat as if she were about to cry.

“Do you have something
against
me?” she asked quietly. “You keep hounding me, and I don’t know why.”

“I don’t have anything against you. I just want to know the real story.”

It sounded as if she choked back a sob. Was it all a damn
act
? I wondered.

“Let’s talk, then,” she said. “Do you want to come to my place? I don’t feel like traveling far. It’s supposed to rain tonight.”

Not on your freaking life,
I was tempted to say. There was no way in hell I was going to be alone in an apartment with her.

“You’re in the Gramercy Park area, right?” I asked. “Why don’t we meet at the bar at the Gramercy Park Hotel. Twenty minutes from now.”

She sighed as a way of agreeing to the location, and I flagged down a cab. I wanted to be sure I was there ahead of her, safely in my seat in the bar.

The Gramercy Park Hotel is on Lexington Avenue, just where it meets the legendary park. The hotel had been totally refurbished into an extravagant, enchanting place with two bars, each opening onto the other. I went to the larger one in the back, a cross—with its velvet armchairs, high, wood-beamed ceiling, sawtooth chandelier, and massive stone fireplace—between Barcelona, a medieval gallery, and
Citizen Kane
.

I found a chair by the fireplace and plunked down, scooting it slightly so I could see the door. Was this going to be it, I wondered, the moment I learned the truth? Was Harper unraveling enough to finally spill everything? Or was this a trap set by a woman so wily that she’d been able to hoodwink my doorman?

Harper was late, and as the minutes ticked by, it occurred to me that she might not be coming, that this was indeed a trap of some kind. But at nine-ten she finally stepped through the doorway dressed in jeans, black boots, and a black turtleneck sweater. She looked spent, like someone who’d been trying to rescue people from rising floodwaters for several days. Her skin was splotchy and broken out, suggesting she was a major stress mess, and there were deep blue and yellow circles under her eyes, like old bruises. Either her grief was getting the better of her, or she was being eaten alive by guilt.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” I asked, pulling over a chair for her. I had ordered a glass of wine myself but was taking baby sips so my head would be clear.

“I’ll take care of it,” she said, and after flagging down the waiter with a quick whip of her hand, she asked for a single-malt Scotch on the rocks. She wasn’t messing around.

I didn’t say a word, just waited. She’d indicated earlier that she wanted to talk, and I sensed that the best strategy was to just bide my time—and create a vacuum of silence that she would feel overwhelmed to fill. After her drink arrived, she opened her mouth.

“This is off the record, okay? I agreed to talk to you, but I have no intention of finding myself in that Web post of yours.”

“Okay,” I said.

She took a deep breath. “Believe it or not,” she said, “I really don’t respect myself for what I did. I wish I could take it all back.”

Oh boy. Was she about to confess to me that she was the murderer?

“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” I said softly.

Elbows tight against her body, she pressed the tips of her fingers to her mouth, as if trying to prevent the words from escaping. Her penny eyes began to gleam with water. Gosh, I was bringing half of New York to tears tonight.

“Okay,” she said, dropping her hands to the table. “I know I was the pursuer in the relationship, but from what I could tell, Tom came along willingly. Right before he disappeared, however, he suddenly seemed to cool down toward me—he was vague about plans, just sort of wishy-washy. I suspected there might be someone else, but I didn’t have any proof. Of course, now, thanks to your blog or whatever it is, I know
exactly
what he was up to. I have to hand it to Locket—I never thought she was much of an actress, but she disguised her fling with Tom brilliantly.”

The last line was delivered with total scorn, and she took a slug of her drink afterward, as if it would cool down her anger.

“The weekend he disappeared, I’d planned to stay in L.A.,” she continued, “but when Tom said his trip to the Hamptons got scrapped, I decided to take the red-eye back. I told him I could now see him earlier than Sunday, but when I arrived home there was a message on my machine saying he’d made other plans for the weekend. I was furious at him for taking off. And that’s why I did it.”

What?
I wanted to scream. But I sat there nearly motionless, an expression (I hoped) of knowingness on my face, as if I knew the truth but was giving her the chance to put it into words.

She took another sip of Scotch and straightened her back.

“I called Alex and used the excuse that we should have lunch that day to review the sweeps PR strategy. But Alex knew what it was all about. He’d been giving me these looks for weeks. So after lunch we went back to his place—Locket was away for the weekend—and fucked each other’s brains out.”

Oy. So
this
was the info she thought I was privy to. I hadn’t seen it coming at all.

“So you’re saying the last time you ever spoke to Tom was that Friday night phone call?” I said, pretending not to be nonplussed by her revelation.

“That’s right. Up until yesterday, I felt eaten up by guilt. I kept thinking that if I’d convinced Tom to be with me that weekend—and I hadn’t ended up with Alex—he might still be alive. Of course, then it turns out Tom had been with
Locket
that weekend. But I’m still disgusted with myself for sleeping with Alex.”

“Were you also with Alex Monday night?” I asked, remembering Alex’s alibi.

“Yes,” she said sullenly. “He came back to my apartment with me after a meeting. I kept thinking that maybe if I
felt
something for the man, I could excuse myself for what I’d done, but it’s just not possible. I can’t imagine what Locket saw in him.”

“Do the police know?”

“They do
now
. Alex gave me as his alibi. I bet it took about two seconds for him to decide to offer me up.”

“Was he unhappy in his relationship with Locket? Is that why he cheated?”

“Do you think he lay in bed with me sharing all his deepest feelings? Alex’s idea of being self-revelatory is to tell you he once had arthroscopic surgery on his knee.”

“What time did he leave your place on Monday?” I asked.

“Around eight-thirty.”

“And what time did the two of you split up that Saturday?”

“Midafternoon.
Why
? You’re not suggesting Alex killed Tom and Locket, are you?” She straightened her back again. “Or that
I
did?”

It was still a possibility. Locket hadn’t gone out until nine, which meant either one of them could have spotted her going into the park—and followed or joined her. The trip to Andes took two and a half hours. If they’d split in the afternoon, either would have had time to drive there that Saturday.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” I told her. “I’m just trying to learn the truth. I hear you had a heated discussion with Locket on the set the other day—after I’d hinted Tom had been seeing someone besides you. Did you confront Locket about that?”