Is the Bitch Dead, Or What? (3 page)

“Do you have any leads?” Tracee butted in.

“There were some witnesses. We may have a partial plate and description of a vehicle. But that's it. Miss Harper's level of celebrity and notoriety actually makes this case harder.

The shooter could be literally anyone— a fan, a disgruntled guest, a friend or family member of a caller, or even someone she worked with. From what I hear, she wasn't very nice.”

Tracee shot him an angry look.

“You don't know her. And I would appreciate it if you would keep your opinions to yourself!”

“It's not my opinion, ma'am,” Detective Pelov said. “These are just the facts. You asked me a question. I simply answered you.”

“Is there anything else we can help you with?” said Chas, looking at his watch. “I have a few things to tie up.”

“Okay, that will be all,” said Detective Pelov. “But please keep your cell phone on. I may need to contact you with some follow-up questions. Thank you both for your time.”

Pelov put his notebook in his jacket pocket and walked away. Chas gave Tracee a hug and told her that he had to head over to the studio to prepare some sort of program to put in Ritz's time slot.

“You're leaving me here?” she said.

“I'm just a phone call away,” said Chas, holding his Treo up. “If you need me, just call me. Besides, Ritz's family will be here soon.”

Tracee's eyes were bloodshot from crying and lack of sleep. She was tired from the inside out and confused. She grabbed Chas's forearm.

“Do you have any idea who did this?” She looked him in his eyes.

“Baby, I wish I did. Don't worry, the cops will find whoever
it is. And look around at all the security. No one is getting in here to do it again.”

Tracee hadn't noticed, but there was a police officer at every entrance and exit of the hospital. No one could get in without having their bags checked and signing his or her name in a book. But was it enough? Would the shooter come back and try again?

The building that housed WHOT was abuzz. Reporters from every single news outlet— from television to print— flooded the lobby. They couldn't get by security in the lobby because everyone needed a pass to reach any floor. A few clever reporters managed to sneak their way to the thirty-eighth floor of the building with the hopes of finding a staircase leading to the thirty-ninth floor. It was a good plan, except that WHOT was prepared with its own security on the thirty-ninth floor, providing a dead end.

Many of the reporters even tried to bribe the security officers, hoping to just talk to anyone about the notorious Ritz Harper. They had already combed the neighborhood looking for witnesses, or anyone who could shed light on what happened the night before— the night Ritz Harper was shot on a New York City street.

“What are we going to do, Ernest?” asked Abigail Gogel, the station manager of WHOT. WHOT was started by Abigail's grandfather. The Gogel family was black but had passed for white until very recently. Abigail's grandfather was able to build an empire as a white man. Abigail was about five-three and very plump, with pale, white skin. She dyed her hair a reddish color that looked very unnatural. She could pass for a Jewish
bubuLa
. But every now and then, when it was convenient, Abigail would let people know she was black— like when there were minority grants or awards to get.

The station her grandfather built was bought out eight years before by a major media conglomerate that had affiliates in fifty markets. The one stipulation of the sale was that there had to be a Gogel in a well-placed position in the company. Abigail had been married twice to white men and had two sons, but she had never changed her last name.

“My family worked hard for this name and I am never going to give it up,” she said to her second husband. That marriage lasted only three years. She had been single for twelve.

Abigail wasn't the most bright or savvy businesswoman. She had power because of her family legacy. The only hope of restoring any dignity to the Gogel name would be her son, Jonathan, a recent graduate of the New School who was working at the station in production. He wanted to learn the business from the bottom to the top. He wisely wanted to understand every aspect of radio. But for now, his mother was in charge. Well, sort of.

“Ernest, what are we going to do?!”

Ernest Ruffin, whom everyone called Ruff, had the title of
program director, but he was really the general manager. He handled the day-to-day issues, from the sales department to dealing with the interns to making sure the transmitter was functioning.

“Miss Gogel, don't worry. Ritz's producer has put together two weeks' worth of
Best of
shows,” said Ruff. “Those will do very well, because there's so much attention right now around Ritz and the shooting that her fans are salivating to hear her voice. We have a meeting planned for later today to discuss what happens after the two weeks.”

“What's her status? Is she expected to make it?”

“Um, we don't know. But it doesn't look good,” said Ruff. “She took a lot of bullets in some vital places. We have a few prospects who can take her spot if that's what needs to happen.”

“To be honest with you, she always made me nervous. And now with the shooting, even if she survives, perhaps we should think of replacing her,” said Abigail. “She's got too much— what do the young people say?— drama around her. My grandfather built this station with a dignified vision, and I'm not about to let some loose cannon take it down. Let's seriously look for her replacement. What about Vivica Fox? Or Mo'Nique. I saw her filling in on The View and she was bold and had a lot to say. She has a name, and I think she could handle this job.”

Ruff didn't show any expression. He was a master at wearing masks. It's why he was able to survive for the last fifteen years as program director. That was considered a lifetime in a business that was changing quickly and where program directors were beginning to take a backseat to “the talent.”

Ruff was firmly in power. Everyone thought he was on their side and confided in him. He knew where all of the skeletons were buried at WHOT. That alone made him invaluable to Abigail Gogel. Ruff was also smart enough to never let her know how powerful he actually was. He pretended to defer to her on everything.

“Yes, Miss Gogel. That's a great idea,” he said. “I will contact Mo'Nique's agent and see if she can fill in. If she rocks it, we should move forward with your plan. As a matter of fact, let's have Vivica Fox do one week, Mo'Nique do another week, and that hot-ass columnist Michelle Davis, the one they use as a correspondent on Fox all the time, let's try her one week. She's feisty. I think she and Ritz are friendly, too. She did a couple of pieces on Ritz, so I know she'll do Ritz a favor.”

“I love it!” Abigail said. “We can promote these divas to death.… I mean, you know what I mean. We can get some real publicity for all of this. The best thing Ritz Harper could have done for us might have been getting herself shot.”

“That's cold, Miss Gogel. That's cold.”

Ruff had a smile on his face, but he didn't like Abigail. In fact, he couldn't stand her. He thought she was a dumb, fat bitch. But she never knew it. He had no intentions of replacing Ritz. Unless she died. He wanted his star back in her seat, making him look good. He knew if Ritz ever did come back, she would be bigger and better than before. He was pulling for a full recovery.

As Ruff retreated to his office, he noticed that a huge box had been delivered. He opened it to find twelve bottles of

George Vesselle champagne. It was a rosé that sold for two hundred and fifty-nine dollars a bottle. A note inside read:

Michelle Davis? Speak of the devil!

“What a classy lady,” Ruff said to himself. “Now if she's half as good on the radio as she is on television, we may be onto something.”

And
what an opportunist
, he thought, shaking his head. Michelle Davis already had Ritz dead, buried, and replaced— by Michelle Davis.

Ruff hadn't really thought that far in advance. He was just hoping Ritz would make it. They had enough material to do
Best of.
shows. But for how long? They would need a fill-in— maybe a replacement if Ritz didn't pull through.

Michelle Davis?

Ruff tucked her card into his daily planner, put one of the bottles of George Vesselle in his office refrigerator to chill, and smiled.

She was definitely more than a possibility.

Tracee was on hour number twenty. Twenty straight hours of no sleep, no food, and very little information.

The first two hours, Tracee hadn't even seen Ritz. She wasn't allowed in because she wasn't next of kin, but she called Ritz's aunt and uncle and waited for them to drive up from Virginia. Chas was with her for a bit, but he disappeared. Then there was the detective— homicide detective— who scared the shit out of her, having her think Ritz was dead. He was, however, one of the few bright spots in her evening, because he came back to the hospital and stayed with her and comforted her. At least he was trying to get to the bottom of this mystery.

No one knew anything, and if they did, they weren't telling Tracee anything about Ritz's progress or condition. It was frustrating.

When Madalyn and Cecil arrived, Tracee immediately
noticed how haggard Aunt Madalyn looked. She gave them both a huge hug and they sat down in the waiting area, hoping a doctor would come by.

“How was your trip?” asked Tracee, straining to make small talk to keep her mind and theirs, too, off the serious issues before them.

“Oh, it wasn't too bad,” said Cecil. “There wasn't much traffic. We made it in just six hours, which is pretty good.”

Aside from Madalyn's appearance, another strange thing that Tracee noticed was the silence. Ritz's Aunt Madalyn was known for having the gift of gab. She could talk twenty-four/seven about any- and everything, but she hadn't said more than two words since she arrived. At first Tracee thought that Aunt Madalyn was taking the shooting really hard. But there seemed to be something else.

“Are you okay, Aunt Madalyn? What's the matter?”

“Oh, nothing, baby. Nothing for you to worry about,” Madalyn said, seeing the lines of concern etching their way across Tracee's brow.

“I'm going to go find a doctor, but I think you guys need to go someplace and rest. Ritz is going to need your strength,” Tracee said. “You're more than welcome to stay at my loft. I have plenty of room and I would love to have you. It may be a bit dusty, though. I haven't been there in a while.”

“Oh, we're just going to check into a hotel around the corner,” Uncle Cecil said. “No need to put you out.”

“You two could
never
put me out. I would be honored if you stayed with me. Really. I'd love the company.”

“You're so sweet, Tracee, but I want to be close to Ritz in case she needs us. I want to be minutes away,” Madalyn said.

The truth was that Madalyn didn't want Tracee to see her morning treatments and the sickness that followed. There was enough going on, and Madalyn wanted to make sure that everyone focused their attention and energy on Ritz, and Ritz only.

Tracee found a doctor and the three of them tried to see Ritz through a glass, but they really couldn't see anything behind all the machines and curtains. Dr. Paul Grevious didn't want anyone in the room. Not until she was out of the woods. It was too risky. Since they weren't able to spend any time with Ritz, Aunt Madalyn and Uncle Cecil decided to make their way around the corner and check into a hotel. Against their wishes, Tracee accompanied them to the hotel and insisted on putting the room on her credit card. She made sure they were comfortable and told them that she'd check on them later.

“Please get some rest, you two,” Tracee said. “I love you.”

“We love you, too,” Aunt Madalyn said. The three exchanged hugs and Tracee headed back to the hospital.

Tracee was determined to get in and really see Ritz. She needed to see for herself what was up. Tracee staked out Ritz's room and waited for the nurses' shifts to change. When a nurse finally left her post, Tracee saw her chance and took it. She slipped into Ritz's room.

What Tracee saw made her instantly burst into tears. Ritz was totally unrecognizable.

Her entire face was swollen. She looked like Mitch “Blood” Green after Mike Tyson busted his ass one night out-
side of Dapper Dan's clothing store in Harlem. She had tubes going in and out of what seemed like every orifice of her body. One of her eyes was swollen to three times its normal size and there was purple all around it. She was on a breathing pump and all kinds of gadgets monitored her heart and blood pressure. Ritz didn't just look bad, she looked dead, and that was what had Tracee spooked.

She let out a wail, and a moment later, a nurse came scurrying into the room.

“What are you doing in here?!” the nurse said in an angry voice.

“That's my best friend. Is she going to make it?” Tracee said through uncontrollable sobs. “She looks so bad. She looks so bad.”

“Miss, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Please come this way.”

The nurse grabbed Tracee by the arm. Tracee pulled away and got closer to Ritz's bedside. She just wanted to touch her to see if she was alive. Tracee grabbed Ritz's hand.

“Please, God, spare her life,” Tracee cried out. “Please, God, pleeeeeeeease!”

As the nurse was trying to pull Tracee away, Ritz's heart monitor began to quicken its pace.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

The nurse became a little more physical, pushing Tracee from the room, and then doctors and orderlies and nurses came rushing in with all kinds of equipment and trays and needles.

“Oh God, no! No! No!” Tracee screamed.

What the fuck?

That was all Ritz Harper could muster in her mind, which was racing at a million miles per hour. Amid the cacophony of thoughts, only one thought kept resounding, only one thought rang out like a gong inside her head:
What the fuck?
!