In the Club (12 page)

“Don’t start with me, Emmett,” Jessica snapped. “I’m really upset. I’m not in the mood for a fight.”

Julian stepped in front of Emmett. “You still didn’t answer my question,” he said angrily. “What are you doing here?”

Emmett shook his head and flung his man-purse onto the leather sofa. “Are you really
that
stupid, Julian? You haven’t put two and two together yet?”

Julian’s sweaty face went dark. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times—outside of the Chamber, I’m just myself. So the answer to your question is
no
—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I see,” Emmett replied with a smirk. “So I guess when the cops come a-knockin’ at your door in a few hours, you’re gonna deny everything that Concetta told them, huh?”

Jessica heaved a sigh and hung her head down. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

Julian started as though he’d been pricked by an electrical current. He raced across the living room and pulled the plug on the music. Then he whirled around and stared at Emmett, a crazed and nervous look on his face. “What are you talking about?” he screamed. “What did Concetta tell the cops?”

“Aren’t you even gonna offer me some tea?” Emmett asked, sounding purposely nonchalant. He sat down on the edge of the sofa and crossed his legs.

“Cut the crap, McQueen, and
don’t
piss me off!” The huge muscles in Julian’s forearms flexed. He had begun sweating again, despite the fact that he’d long since stopped exercising. “Tell me!” he shouted.

“Concetta probably spilled the beans about our whole little club,” Emmett said. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if she told the police everything about what goes on in the Chamber.”

“You don’t really believe that,” Jessica said desperately. She ground the cigarette into an ashtray and reached for another one.

“That’s just stupid!” Julian fired back. “Everyone already knows she’s guilty. All the papers are saying it. So are the news channels. Why would the cops give a shit about us?”

“A girl will probably say anything to muscle her way out of going to prison,” Emmett said. “And that would include dirt about us.”

Jessica shot to her feet and started pacing the floor. “Dangerous dirt. Stuff that could get us into a lot of trouble.”

“Uh-huh,” Emmett said as he took the cigarette from Jessica’s fingers. He inhaled, blew out a trail of smoke, and handed it back to her.

Julian folded his arms across his pumped-up chest. “I’m completely innocent, and that’s what I’ll tell the cops. It’s as simple as that.”

“That’s all sweet and pretty, but how about when certain
details
get out into the public?” Emmett flashed a quick look at his nails, then slowly raised his eyes. He glanced at Jessica. He glanced at Julian. “Won’t be very flattering.”

“It’s true,” Jessica said quietly, not bothering to hold back her tears. “And you know what? I wouldn’t blame Concetta for dropping the bomb. We all ran out of Cleopatra last night like a bunch of wimps.”

“What were we supposed to do?” Julian shouted. “The cops came and started hustling us out!”

“But she’s probably mad at us. She’s probably
furious.
” Jessica puffed hard on the cigarette, her whole body shaking.

“Holy shit,” Julian whispered. He smoothed both his hands over his bare scalp and began pacing the floor. He looked like an animal narrowing for a midnight kill. He set his eyes on Emmett. “You and Concetta said something like this would never happen! You both
promised
!”

“Well, how the hell was I supposed to know that she was gonna up and kill Damien!” Emmett yelled back. “Until now, the whole club’s been a secret, so we kept to our side of the promise.”

“We swore an oath!” Julian said desperately. “A
sacred
oath that what goes on in the Chamber would remain secret. No one is ever supposed to know. That’s what you and Concetta said when I joined.”

“When I joined too,” Jessica cut in.

“—and that’s what I’ve always believed!” Julian flung his arms up. “I swear, from here on out, I’m done with it—done with the whole club! Screw you
and
the Black Cry Affair.”

“Hush up, Simmons.” Emmett waved his hand in the air. “You’re losing control, and that’s the first thing the coppers wanna see.”

“Well, maybe Julian’s right,” Jessica said. “Maybe we should all just forget it and move on. Maybe we should—”

“Is that what you really want?” Emmett’s voice was flat and sharp. “Is that what either of you really want? You want to give up the power and control of being in the club?”

The question was like a double-edged sword. And Emmett knew it.

“Of course not,” Jessica admitted. “But it’s inevitable. If Concetta blabbed to the cops about everything, we’ll be forced to confess, and that’ll be the end of it anyway.”

“I don’t
know
that Concetta blabbed to the cops,” Emmett said. “I’m just assuming she did. And if that’s the case, we have to be prepared. I don’t want stuff about the club made public either. But maybe if we play our cards right, we can stop it from happening. That’s why I’m here, kitty cats.”

“Concetta’s the one who’s guilty!” Julian yelled. “And that’s the first thing I’ll tell the cops. She should’ve known from the beginning that Damien didn’t like her. It’s her own damn fault.”

“Julian,
please.
” Jessica shook her head. “Concetta’s still a member of the club. And I hate that she did this—that she killed Damien—but I still feel bad for her. She just lost control. She didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“That’s not my problem!” Julian answered. “
I’m
not gonna lose everything I’ve worked for just because
she
couldn’t keep her mouth shut! I’m gonna tell the cops everything about her—how obsessed she was with Damien, how she resented that he didn’t like her—”

“Watch your mouth, muscle boy.” Emmett fixed Julian with a hard, unforgiving stare. The comment was meant as a threat, and Julian knew it.

Silence descended over the room.

“We could
all
turn the tables on each other if we wanted to,” Emmett said. “But I’m not about to let you go and disgrace Concetta more than she already has been. All those newspapers. All those stories calling her fat and cherubic and everything else. You best keep your mouth shut and play the game right.”

As the words settled over him, Julian looked at the ground and took another deep breath. He sat down on the opposite side of the sofa, clearly defeated. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Fine. What do you think the cops are gonna ask me about?”

“For starters, they’re probably gonna ask you why you don’t look a shred upset that Damien’s dead,” Emmett snapped. “Workin’ out with the music blastin’ and the plasma on like you’re in some Vegas hotel! Doesn’t look to me like you’re upset Damien’s gone.”

Julian’s brows knitted together. His muscles flexed again. “That’s probably because I’m
not
so upset that Damien’s dead,” he whispered. “And you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Oh no I don’t!” Emmett said. “All I know is what Concetta knows.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jessica let out a strangled sob.

Emmett leaned into the plush cushion supporting his back. He said, “Yesterday, after the club finished up with our usual Friday-afternoon session, Concetta and I heard you and Damien arguing. Loudly. Some might even say dangerously.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Julian said. “So what are you trying to say? That I’m the one who killed him?”

Emmett shrugged. “You might’ve had the motive. At least that’s what the cops will be thinking.”

“Well, screw that!” Julian shouted. “Concetta and Jessica and you
all
had the same motive! You know damn well why I was arguing with Damien. You would’ve argued with him too. That little prick was starting to get on my nerves!”

“And is
that
what you’re gonna tell the cops, Einstein?” Emmett sniffed. “They’ll be snappin’ cuffs on you like a pit bull in a playground.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to say?” Julian screamed. “That I was Damien’s best friend? That I liked the way he’d been acting lately?”

“Hush
up,
” Emmett snapped. He leaned forward and cut Julian a serious stare. “You be angry all you want with Damien, but the truth is the truth—he was an important part of the club, and we got a whole hell of a lot done because of him. The Black Cry Affair has given us all a lot.”

Jessica sat down again. “It’s true. I’ll be the first one to admit that.”

“I know,” Julian replied, his voice softening. “I love being a part of the club. You know that. But none of us expected it to get to this point.”

“Sometimes bad things happen,” Emmett said. “That’s just life. You have to accept it and deal with it and, if you can, figure a way out of it.”

Julian stood up, walked across the wide living room, and threw on a tattered black T-shirt. He stood there for a long moment, staring out the window with his arms folded across his chest like a beefy bodyguard on the lookout.

The pose almost made Emmett laugh. It never ceased to amaze him how much of a meathead Julian Simmons really was. “There’s nothing to do now but continue,” he said. “My nerves are fried, but now’s not the time to start going crazy on each other. We have to stick together. It’s the only way to protect our own asses.” Emmett stood up and swung the man-purse over his shoulder.

“You mean meet in the Chamber tomorrow, like usual?” Jessica asked, panic-stricken.

Emmett nodded. “I’m pretty sure that’s what Concetta will want. And it’s what we all have to do anyway. In case we need to get our stories straight about our little club.”

Jessica shook her head. “But…Concetta’s a killer! I’m—I’m scared! And there’s no way in hell my mother will let me out of the house—especially if she knew I was heading over to
Concetta’s.
”

“Stop being an idiot,” Emmett snapped. “Y’all know Concetta’s not gonna kill anyone else. It’ll look worse if we all start to disband. Just swallow your fear and get on with it. And why does your mama have to know you’ll be going to Concetta’s? Tell her you’re goin’ someplace else.”

“My mother knows me better than that,” Jessica choked out. “She’ll know I’m lying. She’ll see right through me and then we’ll end up fighting.”

“Well, how’d you get away from her to come on over
here
?”

“She went for her usual spa appointment,” Jessica explained. “She doesn’t know I’m here. She thinks I’m in my bedroom reading.”

Emmett gave her a devilish smirk. “Well, you’ve been lying to her for months already, Paderman. Why stop now? Julian’s parents are away, and my mama will be too drugged up to know anything. But
you’ll
have to find a way there.”

Julian didn’t move from his place at the window. “In the club?” he whispered. He turned around and stared at them. Wiped a line of sweat from his forehead.

“In the club,” Emmett and Jessica responded in unison.

11

Dynamite News

I
t was a Saturday ritual: massages at noon.

Once a week, the library of the Hamilton penthouse was transformed into something of a spa. The huge mahogany desk was pushed back against the windows, the leather chairs were moved into the front hall, and three padded massage tables were assembled in the very center of the room.

Madison, as usual, made the appointment on time. She walked into the library wrapped in a towel and smiled at three female masseuses. She set her cell down on the windowsill, then climbed onto the first table.

A minute later, Park and Lex came strolling in. Park had a manila file folder in one hand, and Lex was cradling Champagne in the crook of her left arm and a bunch of newspapers in her right.

“
Must
you bring the dog?” Madison snapped.

“My baby was alone for half the night,” Lex said, kissing Champagne and setting him down to run freely though the library.

Park dimmed the lights as one of the masseuses lit several scented votive candles. The room immediately filled with the aroma of lavender and eucalyptus.

Lex climbed onto her table, still clutching the newspapers.

When they were each settled and the massages began, Madison sighed. “Okay, what’ve we got? Give me the news first.”

“All the stories basically have the same facts,” Lex began, “and they all end up going into detail about Damien’s life and the fact that he was a duke. Thankfully, we’re only mentioned briefly, so at least this time it doesn’t look like we’ll have to fight off being suspects.”

“Thank God for that.” Madison moaned as warm hands kneaded the muscles in her shoulders. “Is that all? Nothing about Concetta’s arraignment?”

“According to one of the papers, she should have been arraigned at nine o’clock this morning.” Lex stretched her neck out and up, giving the masseuse a clear signal of where she was hurting.

“What was her bail set at?” Park asked.

Lex sighed loudly. “The newspapers say her bail was set at three million. Oh, right there. My muscles are sore from dancing so much.” A pleasurable pause. And then she said, “But I did find one thing strange.”

“What’s that?” Madison asked.

“All the newspapers said Damien’s body would be autopsied this morning, but they didn’t allude to the cause of death being blunt impact trauma, even though Concetta’s stiletto is mentioned as the weapon.”

Park’s head popped up. “That’s bizarre.”

“It is,” Madison agreed. “It looks like we have to prepare ourselves for a short road trip. Concetta should be released from police custody in about an hour or so. We’ll have to pay her a visit.”

“Do you think she’ll see us?” Lex asked.

“She’ll have to. We won’t go away unless she does.” Park stretched her left arm out and the masseuse gave it a gentle circular tug.

“What did your research uncover, Park?” Madison let out a series of happy moans as her masseuse’s hands worked down to her lower back.

Park reached for the manila file folder sitting on the edge of her padded table. She flipped it open. “According to the ATF Web site, the chemicals found in Mother Margaret’s office aren’t necessarily difficult to come by, but they’re mostly confined to offshore rigs and fairly remote areas. You can have it trafficked if you pay enough money. In most cases, dynamite is used to blast through mountains or for demolition purposes, for mining and underwater blasting. Like when a bridge needs to come down. That’s all legal, so the dynamite is purchased through proper channels.”

“What else?” Madison held on to the table as the masseuse gave her right leg a tug.

“Nitroglycerin is the main ingredient in dynamite,” Park continued. “It’s three parts nitroglycerin, one part diatomaceous earth, and a little bit of sodium carbonate. But the nitroglycerin by itself is totally strong—it’s what they call shock sensitive, which means that physical shock can cause it to explode. So, like, if it’s transported, it can blow up.”

“Who the hell would have that kind of stuff that
we
know of?” Lex asked.

“Someone who has a clandestine laboratory,” Park answered. “And like Mother Margaret said—they’d have to be pretty good at chemistry. But the funny thing is that these days, the use of dynamite has been eclipsed by the use of water gel explosives, which are safer to handle.”

Madison sighed again as the masseuse applied pressure to the center of her back. “Oh, wow…that feels good. I didn’t realize how tense I’ve been.” She took a deep breath. “So now we’re supposed to believe that Concetta Canoli has some sort of laboratory in her house? That traces of nitroglycerin ended up in Mother Margaret’s office when Concetta broke in there to steal confidential documents that may or may not be related to Damien’s murder?”

“That pretty much sums it up,” Park said.

“And Concetta certainly has enough money to buy off the black market.” Lex’s voice sounded like a series of trembling burps as her masseuse did a number of karate-chop movements across her back. “Is there any chance that some of those chemicals used in the making of dynamite could look like glitter?”

“No, there isn’t,” Park replied. “The glitter is really the only thing that ties the theft and the murder together.
I
still think it was plain old glitter that we saw—either from a hair product or an arts-and-crafts kind of thing. Possibly a horrible eye shadow, but glitter that large would be dangerous to use around the eye—it could scratch a cornea.”

“Could’ve also been from cheap clothing,” Lex said. “And from the looks of those stilettos, we know Concetta owns some of that. Otherwise, we’re looking for a killer who makes dynamite and uses glittery hair products or wears cheap clothes.”

“That describes half the population of Greenwich Village.” Park stretched her other arm out. “Madison, what did you come up with?”

“I found the blueprints of Cleopatra,” Madison told them. “There are five suspended dancing cages in the club. Damien was killed in cage number one, which is closest to the catwalk that links all the cages. So if you want to believe Concetta is guilty, she would have easily been able to kill him and then make a fast exit. The staircase is only a few feet from where the catwalk begins. It’s staircase B, which, when you take it downstairs, ends right at the corridor that leads to the first-floor restrooms.” She yelped as the masseuse squeezed down on her shoulders. “I also found the guest list for Detective Connelly. We only had three no-shows. It would’ve been a spectacular event…if not for the murder.”

The three masseuses exchanged worried glances but kept quiet.

Park said, “I went through a lot of my new criminal psychology books, and I found some interesting things on this whole phenomenon of role-playing. It’s actually pretty common. But, from a psychological perspective, it differs entirely from acting or anything theatrical. Actors act a part or play a role creatively, and while they’re doing it they know that they’re ultimately doing a job—performing for an audience. Acting is also a creative process. Role-playing, on the other hand, springs out of a deeper psychological need. Role-players actually believe in the worlds they’ve thought up, and those worlds or the roles they choose to play are usually manifestations of deep, private fantasies. People who belong to role-playing groups have reported feelings of euphoria and pleasure and total freedom—most role-players love the whole process. But it
has
been known to go a little far. There’ve been a few killers who were into role-playing.”

“So then, what’s our profile of the killer?” Lex asked. “Assuming it’s not Concetta.”

Park folded her arms under her chin. “Someone very intelligent. Someone who’s pretty fearless and thinks she or he is above getting caught. Someone with control issues. And someone with a very creepy side, as evidenced by the Mozart Requiem.”

“And someone who doesn’t have an eye for fashion,” Madison added.

“I don’t really see how that’s relevant,” Park said.

Lex gasped. “The hell it isn’t! A killer with any shred of fashion awareness would
not
have killed using that shoe. The killer would’ve been totally repulsed by it.”

“Ya know, Concetta has never had an eye for fashion, even though she has a shoe fetish,” Madison pointed out. “Remember how she was dressed at commencement last year? She wore a black dress with those hideous white Minnie Mouse shoes.”

Park sighed. “Here we are doing all this work when the real killer has probably already been caught.”

“But the motive,” Lex said. “I’m not sure if I buy the crime-of-passion thing. We really do have to find out what goes on in those Black Cry Affair meetings to figure out the whole truth.”

“Then let’s get to it.” Madison checked her watch, then glanced up at the masseuse. “A little firming lotion on my back, please. I don’t want to look eighty years old while I’m on the beach in Capri in two weeks.”

For the next fifteen minutes, the library sounded like a pleasure palace: high-pitched squeals and moans of delight, low groans of ecstasy as the masseuses worked their magic. Lex turned onto her back and assumed a yoga position, stretching her right leg up while her masseuse pulled both her arms. Park arched her neck as high as it would go, feeling every last bit of tension drain out of her muscles. Madison nearly slid off her table with a yelp when the masseuse applied too much pressure to her lower back.

Exiting the library, towels tied firmly around their bodies, Madison, Park, and Lex fixed themselves warm cups of green tea in the kitchen. Then Madison stood up and said, “We’ll meet in the living room in ten minutes. Hurry.”

Ten minutes later, dressed casually in Triple Threat clothing, they grabbed their purses from the hall table and started for the front door of the penthouse. That was when Lupe walked in, trailing several plastic shopping bags behind her.

“Nobody go nowhere!” she screamed, dropping the grocery bags to the floor.

“We have to, Lupe,” Madison said. “We’re late for an appointment. Sort of.”

Lupe shook her head. “No, no. Before he left, you father said you stay home this today, and you mother already call
three
times since last night.”

“We’ll call them later,” Park assured her, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Now go on into my bedroom and relax. They’re reairing the first season of
Sex and the City
on HBO, and there’s gourmet popcorn in the kitchen.”

Lupe frowned. “What I tell your father when he calls?”

“Tell him we’re out running errands,” Lex said. “And if Mom calls again, tell her we went bikini shopping for our trip to Italy.”

“Okay,” Lupe replied, sighing. She looked at Madison and pointed to one of the grocery bags. “I buy milk and champagne and chocolate syrup for you.”

Madison’s eyes widened. “Oh! Wait—let me fix myself a drink before we leave. Please!”

“Absolutely not,”
Park snapped. She ran a hand through her hair. “You drink that and you’ll have gas for the rest of the day. The answer is no.”

Madison grunted as they walked out to the foyer and into the elevator.

Donnie Halstrom was sitting in the lobby. When he looked up from his newspaper and saw the triplets, he shot to his feet. “Hi, girls,” he said.

“We’re only going a few blocks, Donnie, but we’ll still need a ride.” Lex smiled at him, then watched as he ran outside to the limo and held open the back door for them.

It took all of five minutes to reach the Canoli town house on East Sixty-fifth Street. There were two police cars parked out front and several news vans scattered along the block. Donnie cut the engine, then turned around and said, “Looks pretty bad here. You girls want me to walk you to the front door?”

“No, thanks,” Park answered him, already climbing out. “But wait for us, okay? I don’t know how long we’ll be.”

“Okay,” Donnie said.

Madison led the way to the town house, Park and Lex close at her heels.

A female reporter with short blond hair dashed out of one of the news vans and came bounding toward them, trailed by a cameraman. “Madison!” she called, already holding out her microphone.

“Damn,” Madison muttered. She threw a glance at Park and Lex. “I’ll handle this one.”

“Are you friends of the accused, Concetta Canoli?” the reporter asked.

Madison kept her eyes trained on the woman even as she felt the camera zooming in on her for a close-up. “We’re friends of Concetta’s, and we were also friends of Damien Kittle. We’re distraught by this tragedy and our condolences go out to Damien’s family, and to the citizens of England, who have lost an incredible young man.”

“Do you think Concetta’s guilty of the crime?”

“We cannot make any statements regarding the crime until a full investigation has been completed.”

“Are you girls investigating this one?” the reporter asked excitedly. “We can’t forget that you all solved the murder of legendary fashion editor Zahara Bell.”

Madison cleared her throat. “We are doing all we can to aid in the investigation,” she said simply. But as she started to turn around, instructing Park and Lex to do the same, the reporter stepped in front of her.