In the Club (7 page)

“You’re right,” Madison agreed. “That has more to do with fashion than anything medical. That stiletto has to be a size twelve.”

Still squatting, Lex swept her eyes over Damien Kittle’s body, stopping when her gaze found his face. His eyes were open but unseeing. His lips were parted in a grimace. The hives on his forehead dotted his face now, looking more like bright red welts. Lex couldn’t stop herself from letting a fresh wave of tears spill over her cheeks. For the first time in her life, she didn’t bother wiping away the black streaks of mascara swirling almost to her chin.

Madison kneeled down beside her. “I know,” she whispered, her own voice breaking. “Our crazy English bad boy. What are we gonna do without him?” Then, forgetting about the onlookers and the continuous stream of whispers—forgetting about any stray paparazzi—she reached out and tenderly stroked Damien’s cheek. It was ice cold.

“All those ugly welts on his skin,” Lex said. “Where’d they come from?”

Madison shook her head. “I don’t know. But there were blotches on his forehead the last time we saw him. I remember that.”

Park leaned over them. “I think I hear sirens outside,” she said gently.

Lex stood up.

Madison, however, stayed kneeling. As she stared down the length of Damien Kittle’s body, something caught her eye. There, in the palm of his right hand, was a dark mark, clearly visible through his splayed fingers. She leaned in closer to inspect it. “Damien had a tattoo?” she asked, confused. “I don’t remember seeing that before.”

Park hunched over, pulling her hair out of the bun as she did so. “That’s weird. But it doesn’t look like a tattoo. It looks like a…stamp of some kind. Like ink. The edges are smeared a little.”

“Like it’s fading,” Madison said. Slowly, carefully, she grasped the wrist of Damien’s right hand and drew it forward. The stamp was a perfect circle, and in it was a small but clearly defined human profile.

“What is it?” Lex asked.

“It looks like a Roman coin.” Madison leaned over until her face was less than two inches from Damien’s palm. “I’ve seen this image before, in one of the Roman collections at the Met. Yes, it’s definitely a Roman coin. The human profile in the stamp—it’s wearing a Corinthian helmet.”

“What the hell does it mean?” Lex sounded impatient.

“I don’t know,” Madison said. “But why would he have a stamp like that on his palm? I didn’t notice it when I saw him today in the student lounge.”

The question hung on the air as a burst of noise echoed across the main floor of the club. A line of uniformed police officers stormed in through the entryway, all of them ordering guests outside. In minutes, the upper levels were being cleared as well.

Madison, Park, and Lex stepped out of the cage but remained standing beside it. They didn’t budge as a tall, well-dressed man came striding toward them. He looked to be in his forties, with thinning blond hair and stylish rectangular glasses. He wore a navy suit and tie.

“Detective Aaron Connelly,” he said as he approached them. He reached into the pocket of his blazer and pulled out his badge. “Homicide.”

“We assumed as much.” Park offered him a cool smile. “Our father, Trevor Hamilton, owns this club.”

“Yeah, I know,” Aaron Connelly said. “It’s been all over the news for weeks.” He stared up at the high ceiling, at the waterfall, at the elaborately decorated levels. “Never thought I’d be in here tonight—or ever, for that matter. This is one amazing piece of architecture.”

Madison cleared her throat. “Thank you. All the marble was imported from Europe.”

“And most of the art on the second level is priceless,” Lex added. “You should totally see it. You like Egyptian art?”

“Yeah, actually, I do. My wife and I went to Egypt last year.” Connelly flipped open a small notepad, then reached into his blazer pocket again, this time pulling out a pen.

“You must’ve had a great trip,” Lex said. “The sunsets in Cairo are
so
romantic.”

“My wife is actually a professor of Egyptology,” Connelly said proudly.

“Really?” Madison tried to sound totally interested. “If only I’d known. I could have employed her as a consultant.”

“Eh, maybe next time.” Connelly smirked. He turned and stared through the bars of the cage at the body of Damien Kittle. “So what happened here?”

Park gave him a synopsis of the morbid events.

Connelly took notes furiously, turning one page after another. Several minutes passed before he looked up. “Tell me about Damien Kittle,” he said.

“There’s not much to tell,” Madison replied. “He was a wonderful guy. Everybody loved him.”

“Well, not
everybody,
” Connelly said. He gestured his head at the trail of blood. “Were most of the guests here tonight from your school? St. Cecilia’s Prep on the Upper East Side?”

“No,” Madison said. “There were a lot of students here from St. Cecilia’s, but the guest list was long. Why?”

Connelly cut her a wry stare. “Pretty pricey school you got there. All you famous kids can’t have everything in common.”

Madison cut him an equally sharp stare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that there are a lot of suspects to consider,” Connelly said.

“You don’t actually think anyone from
our
school is guilty of this crime, Detective?” Park’s tone was incredulous.

“It’s possible, isn’t it?” Connelly asked. “So many of your fellow classmates were here tonight. Maybe one of them who hated Damien Kittle took the right moment and killed him.”

Madison gasped. “That’s completely impossible. We’re a united student body at St. Cecilia’s Prep.”

“It’s a family environment,” Park added.

Lex shook her head at the detective. “Our uniforms are even color-coordinated. There’s no way Damien was killed by one of our own. He was too well liked. He was fun and fun-loving.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been my experience that even the fun-loving types have their enemies.” Connelly stepped into the cage and squatted over the body. He began taking more notes. He waved at one of the younger men standing by the club’s main entrance, a crime scene photographer who approached the cage and immediately began snapping pictures.

“I can’t think of a single enemy Damien might have had,” Lex whispered to Madison and Park. “Can either of you?”

They both shook their heads.

“So, now, I guess none of you girls saw who was in this cage dancing with Damien, huh?” Connelly asked.

“No,” Park replied. “We were all here on the main level. The cages were suspended way up in the air. And the strobes were spinning and the music was really, really loud.”

Connelly shook his head. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and reached for the stiletto. Turning it over to stare at the steel-tip bottom, he said, “Poor guy got clocked in the head pretty hard.” He stood up. “I’ll need a list of the people you invited to tonight’s event—and I mean the
full
list, before RSVPs.”

“I have that at home,” Madison said, sniffling again. “But I can totally assure you, Detective, that none of our guests did this.”

“So you’re telling me you think someone—the killer—got past the door guy, got around security, snuck in here, got into the cage, killed Mr. Kittle, and just
left
?” Connelly twisted his mouth in a bemused expression.

“It’s possible, isn’t it?” Park said.

“You tell me,” Connelly snapped. “I was under the impression that security was tight here. A stranger couldn’t have just waltzed in unnoticed. The killer is someone who knew Damien Kittle. And probably someone who knows all of
you.
”

“We don’t know
anyone
who would own a pair of stilettos that ugly.” Lex’s voice was adamant, sharp. “The fact that you would even try to tie us to this whole thing is offensive.”

“It’s
sickening,
” Madison whispered.

“I mean, really, Detective,” Park said calmly. “Do we look like we’d condone a piece of footwear like that? Something so…plastic?”

There was a brief silence as Connelly looked at the huge ceiling of the club, at the other suspended cages and the long catwalk leading to them. The staccato murmuring of voices echoed from outside as more chaos ensued. The reporters were obviously going crazy, clamoring for dirt.

Then Connelly nodded to the team of forensic technicians and said, “Okay, boys. Wrap the vic up and transport him to the morgue. We’ll have him autopsied first thing in the morning.”

“The
morgue
?” Madison snapped. “You’re not just going to take Damien Kittle’s body to a city morgue, are you?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Connelly asked. “It’s procedure.”

Park stepped forward. “Detective, are you sure you know what you’re doing? Damien Kittle is the fifth duke of Asherton. He’s—or at least he was—English royalty. As in blue blood.”

“Like, related to the queen of England,” Lex chimed in.

Connelly shrugged. “So?”

“So you can’t just bring him to some smelly old morgue!” Madison screeched. “There has to be some sort of official procedure to follow when English royalty is murdered in the United States!”

“Oh, really?” Connelly sniffed. “Whataya want me to do—find a crown to put on his head?”

“Well, maybe not a crown,” Park replied. “But you can’t just drape a white sheet over his body. Maybe something more…”

“For God’s sake—something more royal!” Madison ranted.

“That’s enough!” Connelly shouted, his voice echoing across the main floor and the empty upper levels. “I’m not gonna stand here and listen to your craziness! All of you, go on outside and let us do our jobs! You’re on the verge of interfering with justice. In case you didn’t notice, I have a killer to catch!”

At that precise moment, a ruckus erupted from the long, dimly lit hallway beside the cascading waterfall—two arguing voices, two bodies seemingly locked in mortal combat. A male uniformed police officer was tugging a reluctant female onto the main floor; their arms were entwined as they stumbled into the light.

“I found this little lady hiding in one of the bathrooms!” the officer said, shoving the girl forward.

“Concetta!” Lex cried. “Oh my God! What happened to you?”

Concetta Canoli looked totally wrecked. Her face was streaked with wet mascara. The left side of her Missoni gown was torn. Her hair was matted to her forehead in a ring of sweat. Instead of answering Lex’s question, she heaved a sigh and began sobbing. Her whole body trembled, and the gown lifted and fell with her heavy breaths.

That was when Madison and Park noticed her feet—her right one was tucked into a hot pink stiletto, and her left one was bare.

Detective Connelly’s jaw dropped.

“Oh, heavens to Saks,” Madison whispered.

Park simply stared, unable to believe what she was seeing.

And Lex, seeing the second half of the hideous pair of shoes, let out an ear-shattering scream.

“Your—your shoe,” Park stammered. “Concetta, did you…?”

Concetta’s swollen eyes shifted to the cage. To Damien Kittle’s body. Her sobs grew louder and more strained. “I…I don’t know what happened,” she cried. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“What’s going on is pretty obvious,” Detective Connelly said, walking over to Concetta. He pointed at her bare foot. Then he pointed to the hot pink stiletto beside the body. “Do you remember taking off your shoe, young lady?”

Slowly, she shook her head.

“Do you remember maybe arguing with Damien Kittle? Getting mad at him?”

“No.”

“Do you remember whacking him in the head and
killing
him?” Connelly yelled, the question a clear accusation.

“No! I didn’t do it!” Concetta cried. She looked pleadingly at Madison, Park, and Lex. “Tell him I’m innocent. Tell him! Please—
tell him I didn’t kill Damien!
”

But as Detective Connelly snapped handcuffs on Concetta Canoli’s wrists and led her out of the club a few minutes later, Madison, Park, and Lex could only watch.

6

Where Smart Girls Keep Their Secrets

T
hey dove into the waiting limo. Heads bent. Backs hunched. Arms thrust out like swimmers racing across a pool. It was the only way to avoid a sudden media backlash.

The short walk from the club’s front doors to the sidewalk had been totally hazardous. Police officers and extra security guards had managed to keep the screaming reporters at bay, but the barrage of camera flashes had persisted, cutting through the night with blinding force.

Madison was the first to fly into the limo. Her butt hit one end of the cushioned leather seat, and she had to steady herself to keep from slamming against the side door. She dropped her purse and reached out her arms, yanking Park in beside her. Lex, agile and quick as a cat, didn’t need any help: she did a little tuck-and-roll move, using the magic purse as a pillow, slamming into the seat and simultaneously pulling the door closed.

“Monsters!” Madison screeched, waving her fist at the tinted windows. Cameras couldn’t penetrate the dark glass, but the flashes continued.

Park and Lex leaned their heads back and sighed.

Their new chauffeur, Donnie Halstrom, was a twenty-seven-year-old medical school dropout from Virginia. Tall, beefy, and painfully introverted, he had paid his way through college as a racecar driver. Speed was in his blood. He’d been working for the Hamilton family for less than two months, but he already knew the routine.

Everything was about making a fast getaway.

Donnie didn’t wait for Madison, Park, or Lex to tell him to slam down on the accelerator. The moment the back door clicked shut, he took off.

“The beginning of a nightmare,” Lex said quietly. She reached into her purse, found a lavender velvet eye pillow, and slapped it over her forehead.

“I can’t take any more,” Madison cried. “My nerves are totally shot! We’ve probably aged five years in the last hour!” She turned toward the bar and mini-refrigerator beside her and frantically searched for the small bottle of champagne. She found it, and then began looking crazily for a carton of milk. Her special—and very strange—antistress concoction was completely in order right now.

But Park leaned forward, snapped her fingers to get Madison’s attention, and said, “You won’t find milk in there. I got rid of it.”

“You
what
?” Madison yelled.

Park shook her head. “That disgusting little brew you mix isn’t healthy. It’s full of fat and empty calories. And I won’t have you burping up the limo all night.”

“You had no right to do that!”

“Listen to yourself, Madison,” Park told her calmly. “You’re hysterical. And what’s the point of that? Nothing good comes out of it. Just sit back, take a few deep breaths, and maintain.”

Unwilling to give up, Madison stared at Lex—and at the bottomless magic purse.

“No milk in there,” Lex murmured. “The last time you made me carry around a pint, it spoiled.”

Madison dropped her face into her hands. “I just want to go home,” she sobbed. “I want to forget that this happened and wait until someone tells me Damien isn’t dead.”

“You’ll need a Ouija board if you wanna talk to him,” Lex snapped. “He’s gone. And his murder is only the
beginning
of the story. Can you imagine what’s gonna happen at school when word gets out that Concetta Canoli killed him? St. Cecilia’s Prep will never live this down.”

Madison stole a glance through her fingers. “You don’t really think Concetta killed him,” she said.

“I don’t
want
to think that,” Lex replied, exasperated. “But what other choice is there? The evidence stared us right in the face. And who knew, by the way, that Concetta had such horrible taste?”

“An open-and-shut case,” Park said. “And for the record, I’ve known about Concetta and her shoe thing for a long time, but a pair that ugly really is scary.”

“But how did she do it?” Madison asked, finally sitting back and taking a deep breath.

“Maybe she didn’t.” Park shrugged. “Like Detective Connelly said before Concetta was brought out of the bathroom—anyone there could’ve killed him. The club was filled with people.”

“Will you please make up your mind?” Lex shook her head. “You just said it’s an open-and-shut case!”

“It could be,” Park said. “I’m just posing theories. Concetta was supposedly dancing in the cage with Damien, and plenty of people probably saw them in there. But did anyone maybe see her exit the cage at some point? Think about it. The spinning strobes, the craziness of the dance floors—it was pretty wild. I mean, aside from Theo, who else did
we
see dancing close to
us
? The only person I remember is Julian Simmons.”

“Theo!” Madison suddenly wailed. “Oh my God—I completely forgot about him.” She reached into her purse, pulled out her cell phone, and tapped out a text message.

Lex crinkled her nose. “Theo probably ran back home to avoid negative publicity. That loser wouldn’t want anything to do with this.”

“Shut up!” Madison waved the cell phone at her. “He was nothing but nice to you tonight.”

“Both of you, be quiet.” Park clapped her hands. “Can either one of you answer my question? Who else did you notice dancing close to us on the main floor?”

It was silent for a few seconds. Then Lex said, “I saw Emmett with Rebecca Franklin. And Chloe Marx and Penelope Renton.”

“And I saw Billy Wright,” Madison added.

“So that leaves six St. Cecilia’s Prep students out of the equation,” Park said. “No one who was dancing with us on the main floor could’ve killed Damien.”

“Yeah, but there were about fifty other kids from school at the opening tonight.” Lex threw up her hands. “And how would we know where any of them were when Damien got clocked in the head? I mean…the evidence against Concetta is circumstantial right now, but maybe it
is
as simple as it looks. Maybe she did kill him.”

“A crime of passion,” Park whispered.

“Or maybe even something more than that,” Madison offered. “I mean, Damien was our friend, and so is Concetta. But when you think about it, how much do we really know about either one of them? We all have secrets. I just can’t bring myself to believe that Concetta would be
that
stupid—stupid enough to kill him right then and there.”

“When you think about it, though…it wasn’t a sudden violent act,” Park said. “It wasn’t a homicidal impulse. Planning went into this. Think about the Mozart Requiem—that didn’t come from one of the DJs. Which makes me think—the DJs must know something, or they must’ve seen someone suspicious. I
so
wish we could’ve stayed at the club and questioned them ourselves. The Requiem was all part of the production.”

“That’s
totally
true,” Madison said. “I hadn’t even thought of that. Everyone knew Damien had a passion for classical music, especially Mozart. So it
was
premeditated.”

Lex ran both her hands through her hair, then reached up and turned one of the air-conditioning vents toward her. “People do pretty sick things in the heat of passion,” she said. “Concetta had probably been burning up about this for months. Maybe she told Damien she had the hots for him and he kept turning her away. And Damien was always flirting with everyone. It probably drove Concetta nuts. What if she finally just snapped? She seemed happy to see him tonight, but what if that was all part of her plan? We were witnesses to that—how giddy she acted when we were all standing together. So then they go into the cage and start dancing, and at the right moment she takes off the stiletto and
wham.
Turns his head into meatloaf.”

Madison placed both hands on her stomach. “Please, don’t mention food. Especially meatloaf.”

“You pretty much constructed a good crime there, Lex.” Park gave a nod of approval. “It’s absolutely plausible. But if it was so planned out, why would Concetta leave the shoe in that cage for everyone to see?”

“Because she panicked,” Lex said. “Because in that awful moment, she freaked out and went into shock herself. Or maybe she just got dizzy and ran. I don’t know, but she obviously doesn’t have a brilliant criminal mind. So what it really all boils down to is a botched crime of passion.”

The possibility, while all too sad and shocking, couldn’t be discounted. Concetta Canoli was a well-liked member of the St. Cecilia’s Prep student body, but she’d had a very public crush on Damien Kittle.
Everyone
knew that much.

Suddenly, Donnie Halstrom cleared his throat. “Uh, girls? I’m taking you home, right?”

“No.” Park’s voice was firm. “Take us to school, Donnie.”

Madison sat up straight. “What?”

“Whatever you say,” Donnie said. The limo picked up speed as he steered it onto the FDR Drive.

Park looked at Madison and Lex. “Personally, I think there’s more to this crime than meets the eye,” she told them. “I don’t know if I believe Concetta killed Damien just because he might’ve rejected her. For all we know, they could’ve been having a little relationship already. Concetta obviously has some secrets, and there’s only one place a smart girl keeps her secrets.”

“Her locker,” Madison and Lex said in unison.

“Exactly.” Park clutched her purse tightly to her stomach. “Donnie, step on it a little, will you? I want to get to school before the cops do.”

The limo smoothly picked up speed.

Lex sighed. “I
hate
breaking into school after hours.”

Ten minutes later, the limo came to a stop on the west side of Fifth Avenue and Seventy-ninth Street. The Gothic façade of St. Cecilia’s Prep glowed like a jewel in the night. Madison, Park, and Lex reached into their purses and pulled out black silk scarves; reserved for emergency purposes, the scarves were long and wide and fringed, perfect for avoiding the press at a moment’s notice or, in this case, for breaking into a building. They tied the scarves around their heads and across their chins.

Park leaned forward and stretched her arm over the limo’s partition. She tapped Donnie on the shoulder and said, “Wait here. If Dad calls, tell him we’re safe, and that we’re trying to comfort our friends.”

Donnie nodded in his usual, quiet way.

Park popped the door and stepped out onto the pavement. Traffic was blessedly light. She led the way across the street, past the front entrance of the school and along the side of the building. Trees shadowed them as they stared up at the zigzagging fire escape that spiraled up to the roof.

“You’re both
insane,
” Madison said. “I can’t climb up there! I’ll get sick if I look down.”

“Then
don’t
look down,” Lex replied sharply. “And stop being such a baby.”

Madison pursed her lips and shivered.

“Hurry,” Park said. “Give me a boost.”

Lex cupped her hands together and gestured her head at Park’s feet.

“Wait!” Madison cried. “What floor are we climbing to? How are we gonna get in?”

Lex sighed. “The same way we’ve all snuck
out
—through the science lab window. It’s been broken for centuries, and it’s only two stories up. Now be quiet!”

Park slipped out of her shoes and dropped one of them into the magic purse, holding the other under her arm. Then she stepped into Lex’s cupped hands as Madison supported her from behind.

“Nice and easy,” Lex said.

Park hoisted herself high, looking like a ballerina as her right leg stood rigid and her left leg kicked up behind her to balance herself. She stretched as much as she could. The ladder to the fire escape was still a few inches out of her grasp. Carefully, quickly, she grabbed the shoe from under her arm, held it up and out, and hooked the heel around the first rung of the ladder. She gave a hard tug; the ladder creaked once, then slipped down and locked into place.

“That’s it!” Madison said happily. “See? You can totally do your own stunts when you start filming the movie!”

Her weight unsteady in Lex’s hands, Park eased herself onto the ladder and climbed up to the first landing. The steel was cold beneath her bare feet. She waited until Madison and Lex were beside her before mounting the stairs to the second level.

They took fast, quiet steps, ignoring the few cars that drove by the building. But when one of the cars slowed suspiciously, headlights gleaming, they each froze in place and struck statuelike poses.

Lex put her left hand on her waist and lifted her right one into the air, looking like a mannequin.

Park assumed the rigid posture of a soldier in salute.

Madison, panicking for a split second, went down on one knee and folded her hands as if in prayer.

The car kept moving.

“That was close,” Madison said. “What if someone calls the police on us?”

Park shrugged. “The three of us forgot our homework and didn’t want to wake the nuns by ringing the bell of the convent,” she said, again using her nonchalant, unaffected tone. “Who could blame us for wanting to be good students?”

“Okay,” Madison whispered. “I guess that could work—if we’re unbelievably lucky.”

At the landing to the second level, Park ignored the secured door and went instead to the window a few feet to the left. She placed her palms flat against the glass pane and pushed it up.