On the Avenue (19 page)

“I didn't do anything wrong,” he said. “I'm just as innocent as them.”

“I never said they were innocent.” Mullen's voice was firm.

“Oh! The
nerve
of him!” Madison snapped, glancing at Park and Lex as she pointed at Detective Mullen. “And to think
our
tax dollars pay
his
salary …”

Jeremy cleared his throat nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“What made you come here this morning?” Mullen asked.

For the first time, Lex found herself posing the same question. In the ensuing panic and mayhem of finding Chicky Marsala's body, she and Madison hadn't thought to question Park about Jeremy. Why
was
he here? She glanced at Madison, whose eyes also registered quiet confusion.

Jeremy licked his lips. He cleared his throat again. He tightened his grip on Park's shoulder and responded quietly, “Park called me and asked me to come over.”

Mullen shifted his gaze. “Park? Why did you ask Jeremy to come over?”

“Because I wanted to talk about what happened last night,” she said evenly. “And because I …I missed him.”

Bullshit,
Lex thought.
I can see right through you.
She and Madison and Park were excellent liars, but not when it came to lying to each other. They had shared the same limelight for too long.

Mullen didn't seem to be buying it either. His eyes narrowed, and his silence was nothing short of scary. “When was the last time you were in the Hamilton penthouse, Mr. Bleu?”

Jeremy shook his head. “Never. I've never been in the Hamilton penthouse.”

Mullen laughed. “This isn't the time to try to keep your girlfriend outta trouble, Mr. Bleu. Even
if she isn't supposed to be bringing boys home after school.”

“He's telling the truth,” Park said stiffly. “And just for the record, I've never brought a boy home
after school
. I'm usually very busy after school.”

“Uh-huh.” Scratching his chin, Mullen turned around and pushed past the three crime scene technicians who were still collecting evidence. He studied the body of Chicky Marsala closely. Then he walked back to Jeremy's side. “Give me your jacket, Mr. Bleu.”

“Excuse me?” Jeremy's voice broke.

“Your jacket,” Mullen said forcefully. “Give it to me.”

Stepping away from Park, Jeremy hesitantly handed over his leather Chip & Pepper jacket.

Mullen grabbed it by the collar, holding it out as though preparing to examine it under the light. He looked at Lex. “Miss Hamilton, would you care to do the honors?”

Lex leaned toward the jacket and gave it a quick once-over. “It's genuine leather,” she said. “And the lining is one hundred percent nylon.”

Mullen, holding the jacket open in front of him, stared down at the black lining. It was worn. And there, on the bottom right corner, was a diagonal rip. “Miss Hamilton, I'll need your expertise again—”

“I can explain that very easily,” Jeremy cut in
quickly. “That got torn last week in L. A., and my publicist saw it happen.”

Mullen ignored Jeremy's explanation and motioned Lex forward.

Frowning, Lex ran her finger over the tear, then bit down on her lip.

“Well?” Mullen asked.

“The filler of this jacket is polyester,” she said. “Black polyester.”

“That's crazy!” Jeremy blurted out. Eyes wide, he looked desperately at Park. “I paid eight hundred dollars for that jacket—there's no way the lining is man-made. I didn't do it. Please believe me. This guy”—he pointed at Mullen—“is just trying to set me up.”

Lex remained silent. Madison and Park followed suit.

“There's no reason to get so worked up, Mr. Bleu,” Mullen told him. “I'm just trying to figure things out.” With a smirk, he bunched the jacket in his big hands and slung it over his arm. As he did so, something tumbled from one of the pockets and hit the floor with a
ping.

It landed directly between Park's slippered feet.

Lex watched as Park bent down and picked up what had fallen. Then she watched as Park's eyes widened and lips parted.

“What?” Madison said. “What is it?”

Park raised her hand; pinched between her thumb and forefinger was something thick and silvery. “This is a key to our penthouse,” she whispered. Her wounded gaze found Jeremy. “And it was in your jacket.”

“I didn't do it!” Jeremy cried. “And that's not mine. I swear—it wasn't me!”

Detective Mullen reached for the handcuffs on his belt.

Sporting his usual baseball cap and Prada sunglasses, Theo stood just inside Central Park, a few feet from the Seventy-second Street entrance. He had a clear view of Fifth Avenue. More specifically, he had a clear view of the building where Madison, Park, and Lex lived. And as his eyes took in the unfolding scene, he kept repeating the mantra that comprised his whole freakin' life.

Stay cool. Don't call attention to yourself.

The front of the apartment building was flashing
with lights—police cars parked one after another, two ambulances, a fire truck, three unmarked vehicles sporting sirens in their windshields. The corners that encompassed the building were sealed off. Traffic had ground to a halt, and now the crowd of curious onlookers was thickening.

Theo couldn't quite believe his eyes. He knew he should have felt fear in his blood, but he was actually experiencing a strange sort of calm, something akin to peace. It felt a lot like the euphoria that accompanied an Ecstasy high. He was floating, and yet his heart was beating quickly. He was seeing the chaos erupt just across the street, and yet the reality of it wasn't registering. If there had been strobe lights above him and a dance floor beneath his feet, everything would have made perfect sense. But that wasn't the case. Nothing about the moment was enjoyable.

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his Zegna coat and unfolded the newspaper tucked beneath his arm. He had read the main stories. He had expected the front-page headlines and the first whisperings of a major scandal. But in truth, he was surprised the scandal hadn't broken
completely.
That was what he had prepared himself for. All night long he had lain awake in bed, imagining his own face plastered across the pages beside Madison's. And yet, here he was, as inconspicuous as any dogwalking passerby.

Could it be that no one had discovered the truth yet?

The park was growing more crowded by the minute. It was a bright sunny morning, the air fragrant with spring, and the Manhattan fitness buffs were on the streets for their customary three-mile jogs. The second they hit Fifth Avenue, however, they all stopped to stare at the crazy scene unfolding in front of the building. It resembled something straight out of a movie.

Theo kept casting sidelong glances to make sure no one was staring at him. The last thing he wanted was to be noticed. And eventually, someone
would
notice him. The shameless curiosity of the general public never ceased to amaze him. No matter where he was or what he was doing, people asked him bluntly about his family's corporate empire and which new business deals were on the horizon. They asked him about the publishing division West International owned, about the two buildings his father, Richard, had recently purchased on the Hudson River, and whether the Wests would be erecting those long-awaited high-rise luxury condos. And sometimes they even asked him personal questions—such as how it felt being in the same school with the Hamilton sisters and knowing that the Hamilton empire was always threatening to bust up West International in a hostile takeover. To that, Theo rarely replied politely.

Right now, though, he was calm. The baseball cap and sunglasses disguise had worked well for him in the past, and he felt confident that no one had seen him making his way across town in the chill blue of dawn. He had walked the long distance from his fam-ily's town house on West End Avenue. All the while, he'd reviewed the details of his plan, going over every last word, every last action. It was necessary. The truth would have to come out. Last night, at the gala, he thought he'd done the right thing with regard to Zahara Bell. Now he knew it had been a stupid move. As always, his rage had gotten the best of him and his big mouth had taken over. And although he had snuck beneath the radar unseen, he was certain the truth would be revealed soon.

He thought back to the night before, to the fight that had erupted between him and Annabelle. Defending Madison—even talking about her—had been wrong and stupid, but his emotions had won out. Feelings of a romantic nature, coupled with a big mouth, didn't mix well. Seeing Madison in such a delicate state had grated against his heart. Standing so close to her in that buzzing and crowded corridor, surrounded by cops and a brewing scandal, he had yearned to throw his arms around her, to whisper sweet words in her ear. She'd wanted that too. He had seen the fire in her eyes. But he'd been smart and kept his emotions in check. It was the
hardest thing he'd ever done, especially with his nerves wound so tight.

Where were you, Theo? What did you do?

Annabelle's voice echoed in his head. He forced it away. He didn't want to think about those awful ten minutes in question, when his heart had raced and his blood had run cold. That wasn't any of Annabelle's business. And besides, she wouldn't understand. Only Madison would understand.

Why can't you tell me where you were, Theo? What are you hiding?

The answer to that question actually made him chuckle.
A lot,
he thought.
A whole lot.

He wondered if the heat was showing in his cheeks right now. The plan he had pieced together only a few hours ago wasn't going to work. He realized that now. Coming over here had been a mistake, a notion motivated by fantasy. But how else was he supposed to get to Madison? How else was he supposed to explain this whole terrible mess?

Suddenly, a chubby woman in shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt came jogging through the crowd. She stopped when she saw the police cars and the sirens, the lights illuminating Fifth Avenue like a stage. “It's all over the news,” she remarked to the other onlookers. “There's been a murder in that building, and the Hamilton triplets are supposedly tied to this one too!”

Whispers fluttered on the air.

The calm feeling left Theo's body. He turned around and pushed his way through the crowd, heading back across Central Park to the West Side. When he rounded the first bend of shadowy trees, he broke into a run.

Through the long hours of the afternoon, reporters gathered on the sidewalk in front of 974 Fifth Avenue. The news of Chicky Marsala's murder had swept across the airwaves like wildfire, compounding an already sensational scandal. The day only got worse when it was released to the public that Jeremy Bleu had been taken into police custody for questioning.

Lex couldn't remember a single instance in her life when so many media people were gathered in one spot. Even from way up in the penthouse, she
could see the stretch of Fifth Avenue ablaze with lights. The building's security staff had been beefed up, and any residents who wanted to leave had to do so with an escort. One murder in the lobby was enough, thank you very much. After coming back upstairs with Madison and Park, Lex had finally found the time to peruse all of the day's newspapers. The headlines weren't as lurid as any of them had expected. It was clear from the tone of the articles that no one
really
thought they were guilty of committing any crimes, but ultimately, that didn't matter. The Hamilton name—and the billions of dollars attached to it—was being dragged through a big pile of horseshit.

Lex felt particularly odd when she saw the countless mentions of her Triple Threat line. It was gratifying. It was exhilarating. But it was also horrifying. She didn't want her designs revealed to the world this way. She had worked hard, and now the global fashion enterprise she had envisioned was synonymous with dead people. Where was the glamour in that? Where was the bright side in any of it? She couldn't help but wonder if she and Madison and Park would ever recover from this mess. It wasn't merely a scandal of the fleeting kind. It was a damn saga designed to sabotage them.

Now Lex was standing at her bedroom window, hundreds of thoughts churning in her brain. She
stared out at the purple sky. Night was falling slowly over the city, but the colors of twilight were lost in the glare rising up from the street. She knew the reporters and photographers and news crews wouldn't be leaving any time soon. Several hours ago, Madison had disconnected the phones in the living and dining rooms because of the sheer volume of calls flooding the apartment. No, she and her sisters didn't know why Zahara Bell had been murdered. No, they didn't have any connection to the dead photographer named Chicky Marsala. On and on it went, without a moment of quiet. Lex felt like climbing the walls. Her restlessness was too strong to contain. She wanted to go and comfort Park, but both she and Madison knew that Park dealt with difficulty on her own. Park didn't want a shoulder to cry on.

Adding insult to injury was the strange story that was also being covered on the evening news. In the last twenty-four hours, retailers all over Fifth Avenue had reported shockingly low sales and almost no customers. It was a mystery, a dark phenomenon. Nobody understood what was happening—except Park. She knew the legend of the Avenue diamond was taking hold. Park took the whole thing very seriously; it depressed her more than anything else, even more than what had happened this morning. And despite the blood on Jeremy's hands and the key in his
pocket, Park had yet to say that she thought him guilty of two murders.

For the record, Lex wasn't sure she believed Jeremy Bleu was guilty either. Even in the midst of the chaos earlier today, she'd caught the glimpses Jeremy had thrown at Park, and they were nothing short of steamy. He was hot for her. So if he hadn't killed Zahara Bell or Chicky Marsala, he had been framed. Lex believed that Jeremy's scarf could have fallen off his shoulders at some point during the gala. But it clearly didn't matter what she thought. Park hadn't had much choice but to reveal that bit of information to Detective Mullen, and now it would be used against Jeremy with crushing weight.