Authors: David Stukas
Biceps Of Death (10 page)
“I dropped my membership there a long time ago, but I kept my sexual rendezvous with Cody for some time ... that is, until his partner, Eric, approached me and tried to extort money out of me.”
“Did he succeed, Mr. Bekkman?” Monette asked.
“Yes, yes he did—to the tune of fifty thousand dollars.”
I almost choked on my own saliva. Even Monette was surprised.
“Wow,” Monette commented once she had digested Bekkman’s response. “No wonder Eric had a expensive car.”
“And what kind of car did Eric buy with my money?”
“From what I hear, a Hummer.”
“Good car,” Bekkman responded.
Monette raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, so you have one too?”
“I’ve had one since long before they were popular. I use it to get me to places where an ordinary four-wheel drive won’t take me.”
“I see,” Monette said. “Mr. Bekkman, can I ask you why you paid the money to Eric when you seem to be independently wealthy? I mean, you have no employer or a business of your own to worry about being tinged by scandal.”
“True, but I have something you can’t put a price tag on: my image. I am known the world over as an adventurer, and outdoorsman extraordinaire. That image means more to me than any amount of money, which I have plenty of. Notoriety is the only currency that means anything to me.”
Monette nodded as if John’s answers made perfect sense—and to me, it did too. There are some things in this world more important than money. Offhand, though, there wasn’t anything I could think of at that moment.
“So you had these fantasy scenes with Cody, but Eric was the one who asked you for money to prevent the release of the pictures?”
“Yes,”
“Did Cody know about this blackmail arrangement?”
“I don’t know. I stopped seeing him after Eric demanded the money.”
“Interesting,” Monette said. “Mr. Bekkman ... John, where were you on the nights when Cody and Eric were killed?”
“I told Detective McMillan already. I was in the Sierras backpacking with three of my buddies ... days away from any town. He checked out my alibi and gave me the green light.”
Monette turned to me and asked me if I had any questions. I nodded my head. Just one, I remarked.
“Mr. Bekkman, are you single?”
My question provoked a great, riotous laugh, not at me, but at the question. It was funny seeing Bekkman laugh so hard when normally he seemed to be in control of his emotions. Not repressed, but in control. There was a profound difference. I guess you had to keep a level head when you faced the things John did: bears, crocodiles, raging rapids, blinding snowstorms, and the odd glacier.
John looked me straight in the eye and returned my serve. “Are you, Mr. Wilsop?”
“Semiattached.”
“Like a garage, huh?”
I liked this guy’s sense of humor. Of course, I had no sooner said what I did than I got hit by a thunderbolt of guilt. I felt that I had betrayed Marc all the way back to Palm Springs.
“I guess that’s all, Mr. Bekkman,” Monette finished.
As John was showing us out of the apartment, he said one last thing.
“I guess that money I paid to Eric was all for naught. Now you have the pictures. I suppose I have to pay you next?”
Monette turned to him and said, “As long as you give us the answers we’re looking for, the pictures will remain with us safely at Robert’s apartment. No charge.”
“Thanks,” Bekkman replied.
Bekkman smiled and closed the door gently behind us.
As we were waiting for the elevator, I spilled my guts to Monette.
“Why do I feel so sorry for a guy who’s got more money than anyone could possibly use?”
“Strange ... I feel the same way, probably because he was the victim of an unscrupulous blackmailer. It doesn’t matter that he has scads of money, because money doesn’t seem to mean much to him. He’s afraid of losing a reputation that means a lot to him. He’s right, you can’t put a price tag on that.”
“Speaking of price tags, did you see the view from his apartment?”
“Right over the Metropolitan Museum and into the park.”
“Monette, I’d kill for a view like that.”
“Perhaps you’re not the only person who thinks so, Robert.”
8
Riding Miss Daisy
T
he next day at lunch, we pounced on Chet Ponyweather, a man with an address on upper Madison Avenue and an affinity for wearing a fox-hunting getup and having a riding crop used on his bare posterior. Getting in to see Chet at his office in Midtown was easy. I merely told his secretary that I wished to discuss the matter of his personal trainer and some portraits I had done of him in his apartment. The secretary, clueless as to what was really going on, commented how nice it was to see Mr. Ponyweather finally getting some portraits of himself done so that
his wife and children could enjoy them
. How much goes on right under our noses without us ever realizing what’s happening?
he next day at lunch, we pounced on Chet Ponyweather, a man with an address on upper Madison Avenue and an affinity for wearing a fox-hunting getup and having a riding crop used on his bare posterior. Getting in to see Chet at his office in Midtown was easy. I merely told his secretary that I wished to discuss the matter of his personal trainer and some portraits I had done of him in his apartment. The secretary, clueless as to what was really going on, commented how nice it was to see Mr. Ponyweather finally getting some portraits of himself done so that
his wife and children could enjoy them
. How much goes on right under our noses without us ever realizing what’s happening?
Monette and I were ushered into his office, which was decorated, naturally, in high-WASP. It looked more like a gentlemen’s club than an office. From what I could tell, the firm that Chet apparently headed had something to do with shipping.
Chet had all the markings of a bona fide WASP. The wiry red-blondish hair was combed to the right (never the
left
, mind you) with generous dabs of some hair mousse designed so that heterosexual men could look presentable without appearing too gay—the perfect cover for the closeted husband. The two blue eyes that sat deep down in his windblown face like pools of stagnant water at the bottom of a very wrinkled well said it all. They suggested years and years of exposure to the elements—on sailing boats, watching polo matches, and gardening with his wife on the extensive grounds of their country home in Litchfield, Connecticut. Everything about Chet seemed tightly controlled. From the gold, signature cufflinks (probably from Brooks Brothers) to the starched white shirts and the shoes that were probably polished daily (including the bottom soles—I noticed as he sat across from us), Chet was a man whose life was circumscribed by generations of rigid social structure and manners that promised severe punishment if broken. No wonder Chet liked to get his butt beat—it was just a sadistic metaphor of his everyday life. But despite the thick, insurmountable walls that separated Chet from the unanointed, unprivileged masses yearning to get inside, you could sense it wouldn’t take much to make those walls come a-tumblin’ down. The profuse sweat that appeared out of nowhere on Chet’s regal forehead and on either side of his WASPy, upturned, and diminutive nose said that this was one scared rabbit.
left
, mind you) with generous dabs of some hair mousse designed so that heterosexual men could look presentable without appearing too gay—the perfect cover for the closeted husband. The two blue eyes that sat deep down in his windblown face like pools of stagnant water at the bottom of a very wrinkled well said it all. They suggested years and years of exposure to the elements—on sailing boats, watching polo matches, and gardening with his wife on the extensive grounds of their country home in Litchfield, Connecticut. Everything about Chet seemed tightly controlled. From the gold, signature cufflinks (probably from Brooks Brothers) to the starched white shirts and the shoes that were probably polished daily (including the bottom soles—I noticed as he sat across from us), Chet was a man whose life was circumscribed by generations of rigid social structure and manners that promised severe punishment if broken. No wonder Chet liked to get his butt beat—it was just a sadistic metaphor of his everyday life. But despite the thick, insurmountable walls that separated Chet from the unanointed, unprivileged masses yearning to get inside, you could sense it wouldn’t take much to make those walls come a-tumblin’ down. The profuse sweat that appeared out of nowhere on Chet’s regal forehead and on either side of his WASPy, upturned, and diminutive nose said that this was one scared rabbit.
“So,” Chet started off, “you said on the phone that you have some pictures of me?”
“Yes,” Monette answered. “Taken by Cody, your personal trainer.”
“Cody Walker? Good God,” Chet sputtered. “Messy business, that.”
(The guy even talked in a syntax that no one spoke anymore.)
“Yes, we just wanted to ask you a few questions, Mr. Ponyweather,” Monette stated.
Chet looked like he was about to burst into tears at any moment, had it not been for the fact that a man in his social position couldn’t cry, especially in front of proletarians like Monette and me.
“Okay, okay, Mr. Wilsop and Miss O’Reilley, how much do you want for the pictures?”
Monette shot me a glance that, no matter how fleeting it was, told volumes. It said, “This could be it, our ticket to early retirement, the end of money worries, substandard apartments, and the beginning of long, Caribbean vacations.” At the same time, however, it also said, “We can’t—it wouldn’t be right. It’s not a moral issue, really. It’s more the fear of getting caught.”
Fortunately or not, reason—and fear of jail time—prevailed.
I spoke up, ending the uncomfortable silence. “Mr. Ponyweather, we’re not here to blackmail you by asking for money. We’re here to ask you some questions.”
“Are you with the police?” he asked.
“No, but we are involved in this matter—and we do have possession of the CD with the pictures of you on it. Robert has them safely stored at his apartment.”
“So you’re
associated
with Eric, are you?”
associated
with Eric, are you?”
His inflection on the word
associated
made even me feel slimy.
associated
made even me feel slimy.
“No, no we’re not,” I answered.
“Then why aren’t you trying to blackmail me like Eric?”
Monette’s face lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. “Eric was blackmailing you?”
“Yes,” he replied in low voice designed not to carry any farther than our ears.
“Mr. Ponyweather, we know you’re a member of Club M. When did you begin training with Mr. Bogert?”
Chet looked perplexed. “I’ve never trained with Eric. My personal trainer was Cody Walker.”
Confirmations for our theory about Eric doing the blackmailing and Cody unaware of it were flying left and right. Monette spoke first.
“You made these pictures with Cody, correct?”
“That’s correct,” Chet said promptly.
“So how did Eric get his hands on them?”
Chet blew his nose, stifling back a sudden case of the sniffles. “That, Miss O’Reilley, is something that I’d like to know. I suppose that Cody was working with Eric in this messy business.”
It was my turn to ask a question. “Mr. Ponyweather, did Cody ever approach you asking for money in exchange for the pictures he had taken of you?”
“No, just Eric.”
Chet sat quietly in his chair, the leather squeaking occasionally as Chet shifted his weight ever so slightly. What struck me about Chet at this point was no matter how comfortable his surroundings seemed (and believe me, they did look comfortable—even sumptuous), Chet never seemed to be at ease. This state, I felt, wasn’t brought about by the recent events facing Chet. I think his whole life was uncomfortable, ill at ease. Having been raised Catholic, I knew intimately how he felt.
Chet took a different tack. “So you say you have possession of these pictures?”
“Yes, yes we do,” Monette answered for the both of us.
“For the love of God, please don’t release those pictures—it will ruin me, my marriage, my family.”
“We’re holding on to them for now, Mr. Ponyweather,” Monette said, carefully choosing her words. She didn’t want to give too much away right now. “I need to ask two more questions.”
“Go ahead, you hold all the cards,” Chet conceded.
“How did Eric let you know he wanted money in exchange for the pictures of you and Cody?”
“Why, my dear, he came up to me in the locker room and just plain told me.”
“He never sent you a letter?”
“No letter. Just brazenly walked right up to me and told me. Oh, he did give me a manila envelope and told me to open it.”
“And what was in the envelope?” Monette queried further.
“A picture of me and Cody, printed out on paper. He said he wanted there to be no mistake that he had all the pictures of the two of us. ‘Just an example of what I got on you,’ he said. And your second question?”
“Where were you on the night of Cody’s murder and Eric’s?”
“When Cody was killed, I was having dinner with a business partner at the Four Seasons. The night of Eric’s murder, I went out for a walk.”
“A walk?” I asked.
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?” I inquired.
“Yes, not the kind of thing that gives you a perfect alibi, considering that Eric’s apartment was only a few blocks from mine.”
“Interesting,” was Monette’s only comment. “Mr. Ponyweather, I think those are all the questions we have right now. Thank you for your time.”
I got up and followed Monette out of the office and into the reception area. The receptionist smiled grandly at the two of us.
“I hope that you capture the true spirit of Mr. Ponyweather in your portrait!” she gushed as if her life revolved around her restrained boss, which it probably did.
“I think someone else already
beat
us to it,” Monette told the perky woman—the double entendre sailing clear over her head.
beat
us to it,” Monette told the perky woman—the double entendre sailing clear over her head.
9
I’ll Fight You for That Dress
D
ay three of our lunchtime interviews took Monette and I to the epicenter of the fashion world: Seventh Avenue. Next on our list was one of the hottest fashion designers around: Frank Addams. In true designer fashion, Frank had been working for years relatively unknown, turning out tight-fitting, colorful, unisex Lycra jumpsuits that were probably snapped up by people far too out of shape to wear them. Then, 9-11 happened, followed by the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq. Frank, seeing a golden opportunity, jumped on the militarization of the United States and began turning out military-inspired clothing in bright colors. His brilliant marketing ploy, coupled with the hiring of a hot publicist, made Frank an instant success. The fashion press—as usual—screamed in headline type sizes usually reserved for World Wars that Frank’s embrace of all things military would change the way men and women dressed in the twenty-first century. Instead of merely going to work or dinner, people would storm offices and restaurants with fashion bravura, decimating hostile bosses and haughty hostesses in a victory guaranteed by leather cargo pants, Desert Storm cammies in silk, and Ultrasuede flak jackets. As usual, the call of the fashionistas went unheeded by the masses, but Frank had managed to tap into the deep-seated feeling of insecurity and helplessness that characterized the trendy and monetarily foolish strata of society and they began paying huge sums just to be the first on the block with a real Frank Addams. No, Frank had his finger on the pulse (or was it the jugular?) of America. It would, however, be a cold day in hell before we would be seeing Baptist housewives in Dallas, Texas, donning Frank’s creations to wear to the local Piggley Wiggley for groceries. But no matter how you looked at it, Frank was as hot as hot can be.
ay three of our lunchtime interviews took Monette and I to the epicenter of the fashion world: Seventh Avenue. Next on our list was one of the hottest fashion designers around: Frank Addams. In true designer fashion, Frank had been working for years relatively unknown, turning out tight-fitting, colorful, unisex Lycra jumpsuits that were probably snapped up by people far too out of shape to wear them. Then, 9-11 happened, followed by the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq. Frank, seeing a golden opportunity, jumped on the militarization of the United States and began turning out military-inspired clothing in bright colors. His brilliant marketing ploy, coupled with the hiring of a hot publicist, made Frank an instant success. The fashion press—as usual—screamed in headline type sizes usually reserved for World Wars that Frank’s embrace of all things military would change the way men and women dressed in the twenty-first century. Instead of merely going to work or dinner, people would storm offices and restaurants with fashion bravura, decimating hostile bosses and haughty hostesses in a victory guaranteed by leather cargo pants, Desert Storm cammies in silk, and Ultrasuede flak jackets. As usual, the call of the fashionistas went unheeded by the masses, but Frank had managed to tap into the deep-seated feeling of insecurity and helplessness that characterized the trendy and monetarily foolish strata of society and they began paying huge sums just to be the first on the block with a real Frank Addams. No, Frank had his finger on the pulse (or was it the jugular?) of America. It would, however, be a cold day in hell before we would be seeing Baptist housewives in Dallas, Texas, donning Frank’s creations to wear to the local Piggley Wiggley for groceries. But no matter how you looked at it, Frank was as hot as hot can be.
His offices said that he was hot, too. Some equally crazed interior designer had spent a lot of money to make the lobby look like Baghdad the day after it was invaded by U.S. troops. Large, simulated blast holes penetrated several walls, permitting visitors to get a glimpse of Frank’s
troops
furiously working to rush fresh supplies of his bellicose collection to stores everywhere. Equally disturbing was the fact that mannequins were poised climbing through the holes, raising defiant fists and dirty rifles and garbed in the latest Addams, conveying the unmistakable message that Frank wished to telegraph: Frank Addams is victorious in the war of designers.
troops
furiously working to rush fresh supplies of his bellicose collection to stores everywhere. Equally disturbing was the fact that mannequins were poised climbing through the holes, raising defiant fists and dirty rifles and garbed in the latest Addams, conveying the unmistakable message that Frank wished to telegraph: Frank Addams is victorious in the war of designers.
“Will you look at that?” I said, gesturing toward a mannequin that had apparently jumped through a plate-glass window in Frank’s lobby, her acid green paratrooper jump suit giving her all the protection she needed to leap unharmed through glass shards and smite the cunt-of-a-saleswoman at Bergdorf Goodman who looked at her sideways. “I’m afraid that all this belligerent fashion is going to lead to scores of people going postal. It’s like a license to kill. I mean, people are so angry already nowadays.”
“No doubt. Soon the news will be filled with stories about fashion rage,” Monette replied.
“You know, if Frank’s girly pictures get out, can you imagine what they could do to his image?”
“Now, Robert, are you hinting about the macho image he tries to convey on television?”
“Yes—quite over the top.”
“You mean like Ralph Lauren’s carefully cultivated image that he’s some kind of old-line WASP?” Monette replied.
“Yes, like that.”
“Oh! Listen to this, Robert!”
“What?”
“You know when we had the pizza delivered to my apartment a few days ago?”
“Don’t tell me it was poisoned,” I relented, figuring that life couldn’t get any worse.
“No, it’s better than that! Remember when I was surprised that Gino, the guy who regularly delivers the pizza, was replaced by another deliveryman?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it turns out I saw Gino delivering pizza last night in my neighborhood and I told him I hoped he was feeling better.”
“So?”
“Robert, Gino said he wasn’t sick. He told me some guy approached him and told him he was a good friend of mine and that he was going out for cigarettes. The guy said he was heading back to my apartment and would take the pizza back for Gino.”
“And I suppose that the next thing you’re going to tell me is that you think the mystery pizza deliveryman and our burglar/assassin were one and the same?”
“You betcha,” Monette said, nodding her head in affirmation of my conclusion.
“Okay, so the reason he came to the door was to case the joint for points of entry and gauge the resistance any occupants might offer,” I reasoned further.
“Probably. If he’d meant to attack us there, he would’ve done so. But there are two of us and only one of him.”
“And thank God I had the lesbian equivalent of Mike Tyson with me,” I joked.
Monette looked me straight in the eyes. “You know I’ll get you for that, Robert.”
“I have no doubt about that, my little Belle of Ireland,” I said, patting her on the shoulder.
Presently, a fashion victim posing as a secretary met us in the reception area and ushered us to Frank Addams’s office. Frank was seated behind a cobalt blue desk that was stacked high with fashion drawings, model headshots, and fabric samples. The walls were painted a bright orange with framed black-and-white photos of soldiers from World War II. The ceiling was a sunny yellow. Even Frank’s eyeglasses were tinted a deep red. There was no doubt about it—Frank’s father must have been Benjamin Moore. I looked down at my black pleated trousers, black shoes, and black T-shirt. I felt like a black hole.
Frank shuffled through stacks of papers, talking to us as if we were hidden in the papers he riffled through. “Sowhat-canIhelpyouwith?” he asked, firing words at us like a machine gun with a jammed trigger.
Monette cleared her throat and began. “Mr. Addams, we just want to ask a few questions about the murders of Cody Williams and Eric Bogert.”
Frank continued shuffling and talking at the papers. “Inmyopinionallbodybuildersandpersonaltrainersand-peoplewiththinmuscularbodiesshouldbemurdered.”
I could see both Monette and myself shoot a glance down at our toned bodies, wondering if we were going to be stabbed at any moment.
“Idon’tknowifIwanttotalkaboutanyofthis.”
Just then, there was a knock on the door and a woman with a figure that wasn’t made for Frank’s clothing entered with an envelope.
“Francis,” the woman pleaded, “Marakova backed out for the show. She said—and I quote—that ‘zhe von’t vear das ug-lee clothes dat da fuckhead Frahnk Addumz dezines. He insult me lahst time I vuz here for his assho fashion show ven he say Marakova need to vehr the deodorent cuz she smell like de Russian army.”
Frank put his head in his hands.
“Did you say that, Frank?”
“Eileenyou’veknownmeforyears—youknowIdid,” Frank admitted.
“Frank, I warned you to take a few Zolofts before the show,” Eileen reminded him. “You know how you can get a little wound up and you tend to fly off the handle.”
Eileen was being kind. Frank was like a badger on speed.
“Frank,” Eileen continued, “now the public relations department will be giving me shit because they’ll have to do damage control so the fashion press doesn’t get ahold of this. You know the trouble we had when the press found out your garments were being made in China by slave labor.”
“Eileenthereyougoexaggeratingagain,” Frank protested. “Theywerecriminalsworkingofftheirsentencesforreading bannedbooksbyDanielleSteel.”
Eileen huffed at Frank. “Some of them were shot when they didn’t sew their daily quota of capri pants.”
“CanIhelpthat?”Frank exclaimed. “Youcan’tdoanythingin thiscountryanymorewithoutsomeoneboycottingyou!PETA hatesmeforshowingfurlastyear.Lesbianshatemebecause thetunaservedatmyStopWorldHungercharitydinnerwasn’t dolphinsafeandtheNationalOrganizationofWomenhatesme becausemymodelslookedliketheyhadbeenbatteredwith clubs. OkayEileenwhatdoIhavetodotogethertoforgiveme?”
“She says you have to ... to ... stick your head ... uh ...” Eileen stalled, searching for a way to express what the three of us in the room already knew.
“ThatwillbeallEileeenthankyou.Iwillcallherlaterandthink ofsomething.”
Eileen left the room as exasperated as when she’d come in. I found myself fascinated by all the idiocy of the goings-on, but lunchtime was ticking away and we had gotten nowhere. Monette tried to get things moving again.
“Frank, could we get down to the bottom of things?” she asked.
“Ithoughtwehad,” Frank stated.
“No, the only thing that was discussed here was that you would not stick your head up somewhere that would be physically impossible. My partner here and I want to ask a few questions.”
“Fineifitwillgetthetwoofyououtofhere.”
Monette began. “So which personal trainer did you have at Club M?”
“Personaltrainer?!” Franksnorted. “Honeydoyouthinka manwithafigurelikethisevergoestoagym?Incaseyoudidn’t noticeI’mfatfatfatfatfatfat!”
“So how did you meet Eric or Cody?”
“Idon’tknowanEric.JustaCody.”
“But if you didn’t belong to Club M, how did you meet Cody?”
“Oneoftheguyswhoworksformehererecommended him.HebelongstoClubM.”
“Could we talk to this person?” Monette asked matter-of-factly.
“Noyoumaynot.”
I tried a different tack.
“Frank, did Cody Walker talk to you about paying money in exchange for the pictures of you?”
“No,someotherguy.Bigguy.”
“Was his name Eric Bogert?” I hinted.
“Eric?” Frank said. “EricEricEric.Yes,thatwashisname. Nevermethimbeforethetimeheaskedformoney.Ifiguredhe wasworkingwithCody.”
“That’s something we’re not sure about,” I answered. “Did you pay Eric for the pictures?”
“Why?!”
Frank didn’t seem to care about anything except dealing with a furious runway model who was probably shooting up as we spoke.
Monette tried one last question.
“Frank, you haven’t tried to retrieve these pictures, have you?”
“Retrievethem? Whatdoyoumeanretrievethem?” Frank spat.
“Robert has the pictures on a CD in his apartment for safekeeping. You know, you wouldn’t break into someone’s apartment and take them back?”
Frank twisted his face in horror. “Breakintosomeone’s apartment?HoneyIcan’tevengetintomy
own
apartmentwith outthesuperhelpingme.Enoughquestions!Ihavetogettowork socouldyouleaveme?”
own
apartmentwith outthesuperhelpingme.Enoughquestions!Ihavetogettowork socouldyouleaveme?”
Monette and I got up, shrugged our shoulders at each other, then left the office wondering what the hell we had accomplished. Monette was looking particularly defeated.
“I fucked up,” she confessed.
“We did not, Monette.”
“Yes, I did. I had no line of questions prepared. I didn’t ask the right questions to test my theory.”
“What is your theory?”
“I don’t know. I thought Frank would give me an idea for one.”
“Monette, we’re just trying things out.”
“Well, I think we can safely assume that Eric got hold of the CD without Cody knowing about it and decided to blackmail Cody’s clients. In three out of three stories so far, Eric is the one who approached the clients. Cody doesn’t seem involved, except for the hustling part and the staged sex scenes. Cody probably got pushed off his terrace without knowing what Eric had done, then Eric was forced to do his own swan dive.”
“I have to agree with you, Monette.”
She scratched her flaming red mane. “I feel there’s more to come. What I don’t understand is why, if you want to get your hands on the CD, would you kill Cody or Eric? It’s like killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“Maybe our Mr. X was pissed ... pissed at Eric trying to extort money from him, whether he got the dough or not.”
“I don’t know. Revenge on top of retrieving the CD? That is weird, but maybe,” Monette commented. “Maybe if you can’t get to the CD, or you’re not sure if there’s a copy, you just kill the holder and hope that the CD and any copies get misplaced by a relative who inherits the possessions and throws the CDs away thinking Cody or Eric was into kinky sex.”
“It seems like a stretch, Monette.”
“You’re right, Robert. The killings don’t make sense—right now. That’s what’s bugging me. This is so different from many mysteries. See, we already know who the suspects are. We even know their most likely motives—to prevent a scandal. I just feel that we blew an opportunity to get some real answers. We’ve got to remember that we’re not just out to solve these murders. The main thing is that we figure out if someone is really after you, if they’re capable of causing you serious danger, and who is behind it all.”
“You don’t have to remind me, Monette. That fact is very much on my mind right now.”
As we stood on the corner of Thirty-Eighth Street and Seventh Avenue, a blue van came screaming out of nowhere and headed right toward us. Like a movie in slow motion, we watched the van jump the curb with its two right wheels and come scraping the sidewalk with its axles in a shower of sparks and screeching metal. It was the worst thing you could imagine. Well, not as horrible as watching the
Anna Nicole Show
, but it wasn’t pretty.
Anna Nicole Show
, but it wasn’t pretty.
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