Killer Riff (19 page)

“They were supposed to get together that day.”

“The day your father died.”

“Yes.”

“And you never thought to mention that.”

“Because it doesn’t mean anything. I told you, Adam wouldn’t hurt my father.”

I could hear Peter Mulcahey laughing in the back of my head. “You can believe it of Claire, but not of Adam?”

“Claire’s a bitch. Adam’s wonderful. You don’t know.”

“Maybe you don’t know. Maybe Adam’s hidden things from you.”

Olivia pushed her chair back from the table, poised for flight. “How can you talk about him that way? He’s let you in, he never does that, and you’re going to turn around and say these terrible things about him?”

I could hear the creaking gears as the drawbridge was being lifted and I dove across the moat, digging my fingers into the wood to hang on. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to make sure we’re not overlooking anything. Your father deserves that.”

That mollified her for the moment and we sat in silence, no doubt thinking the same thing: Turn away from Adam and you were looking right at Claire. Which Olivia had been saying all along and I’d been resisting, not understanding why Claire didn’t just take Russell to court if she wanted the tapes so badly. Of course, I also didn’t understand why Scott Petersen didn’t just file for divorce, so I was willing to acknowledge that people make poor choices for terrible reasons.

Olivia had afternoon patients, so I told her she could go and I’d take care of the check. Picking up her coat and purse, she paused for a moment. “Thank you for caring this much. And for bailing me out.”

“No problem, but I am curious. Why hadn’t you called anyone?”

“Who do I have to call?” She smiled sadly and slipped out of the restaurant.

Working and living where I do, I come in contact with a lot of people I envy. When I’d first met Olivia, I’d envied her, growing up among brilliantly talented musicians, hanging out with other celebrities, traveling, partying, being a cool kid on a global scale. I never would’ve guessed that she saw herself as the outsider, not good enough for her father’s inner circle, no family and no friends she could turn to when she was in trouble.

Almost four o’clock. It was late enough and I had survived sufficient public encounters that I felt justified in hiding/working at home the rest of the day. I even chose to walk and see what that which passes for fresh air in New York City might do toward clearing my head. It’s strange how invigorating the cacophony of city noise can be, like a grand, symphonic backdrop to your thoughts,
Rhapsody in Blue
swelling around you while you try to make sense of your life and resolve all its crazy chords.

But even as I strove to lay out the pros and cons of Adam being involved in Russell’s death, my thoughts kept straying back to Olivia and her friendless state. So, preferring to think of it as appreciation rather than schadenfreude, I called Tricia as I walked, one more rude Manhattanite having a private conversation as she marched down Lexington Avenue. “Thank you for being my friend.”

“A little early in the afternoon to be buzzed and sentimental, isn’t it?” she asked cheerfully. “Where are you? I’ll come join you.”

“I’ve had nothing but caffeine and chocolate today.”

“Oh, one of those moods. PMS or your story?”

“Way to stomp all over a heartfelt expression of gratitude.”

“Okay, I’m guessing, PMS
and
the story.”

“I’m guessing I’m hanging up and calling Cassady.”

“No, wait, you can’t do that until I tell you the most amazing thing that happened today.”

“Yet another embarrassing picture of me is bouncing around the Internet and you haven’t given me a hard time about it yet?”

“Let me rephrase that: The most amazing thing that happened today that doesn’t have anything to do with you. Except in a very peripheral way because you introduced us.”

“What happened?”

“Jordan Crowley wrote me a song.”

“Wow. Rock muse is a role that suits you,” I said, impressed both by what had happened and by what I must have missed. “How much time have you two been spending together?”

“He wants to do this party tomorrow, so we’ve been joined at the hip all day. It’s going to be great, and you’re invited, by the way. Nine o’clock at Pillow.”

“Where?”

“An after-hours club in TriBeCa. Jordan hangs out there a lot and says it’s a great space. I’m running over for a quick tour.”

“So the song is an homage to your event-planning skills?”

“No, it’s about how he can’t stop thinking about me.”

I could feel her beaming over the phone, and as much as I wanted to warn her about the craziness I was encountering in this group, I wasn’t about to rain on this parade. “Smart guy. He should keep you around. Adam keeps talking about how Jordan can’t finish his new album. You’re the influence he needs.”

“He and Adam don’t like each other very much, do they.”

“Why?”

“Jordan told me Adam’s unstable. Even attacked Gray once.”

I stopped, trying to reconcile this with my own experiences with Adam, until the not-so-gentle nudges of my fellow pedestrians reminded me that I was in a crosswalk and I hurried to the other side before zipping taxis could slice me in two. “Apparently, Gray provokes that reaction in a lot of people,” I said, thinking of Olivia more than trying to justify Adam.

“According to Jordan, Bonnie won’t be in a room alone with Adam, but Claire won’t admit anything’s wrong, so he’s not getting the help he needs.”

Risa had commented on his bad temper, too. Could it be bad enough to be deadly? Peter Mulcahey was laughing again. “Did Jordan accuse him of killing Russell?”

“Oh, no, no,” Tricia said hastily. “He was probably just trying to make himself look better by comparison, but I thought I should mention it.”

“Yeah, thanks.” The storm cloud had passed right over her parade and dumped on mine. Tricia and I had both spent the day with rock stars and what did we have to show for it? She had a song. I had a murder suspect.

13

Dear Molly
,

What makes bad boys so captivating? Why will good girls who know much, much better make stupid decisions based on the behavior of a bad boy? Do we really think we can save them, or do we actually want them to break us down? Or is it that we know that chances are, it’s going to go badly no matter what and it’s easier to walk away from a scoundrel than a saint?

Signed
,

Quivering Quandary

“Hey, Molly, are things serious with you and Adam Crowley?”

For a moment, I thought it was Peter again and I considered making a pointed hand gesture to underscore my annoyance with his joke. Thankfully, I hesitated just long enough to see that the silhouette in front of my apartment building entrance was far rounder than Peter. And seemed to be wearing a bush jacket and carrying a camera.

In midflight, my gesture morphed into an awkward wave, saving me from the third installment in my Triptych of Humiliation. “Hello,” I said as he stepped out from under the awning, giving me a clear look. “I remember you. You spoiled my breakfast yesterday.”

He lifted the impressively complex camera to his eye. “Where’s Adam?” he asked as the shutter
whooshed.

Of course he was going to take my picture. I’d just walked over twenty blocks in a wind strong enough to make my hair, which normally won’t do anything, twist itself into balloon animals. “I’d make a ridiculous face to try and ruin your picture, but that’s the one you’d try hardest to sell, right?” I turned my back on him, but he circled around in front of me, snapping away.

“You’re not answering my question.”

I had too many questions of my own to answer anyone else’s, which was the main reason that, while Adam had called my cell six times since I’d left the school, I hadn’t returned a single one. Men always pick the wrong time to get talkative.

I covered my face with my hand. “Because you didn’t ask the right one, which is: May I take your picture? How ‘bout I ask you one: How did you find out where I live?”

“You must pay those assistants at
Zeitgeist
lousy.”

I dropped my hand. “Who was it?”

He stopped snapping for a moment and frowned thoughtfully. It was a pleasant enough face when there wasn’t a camera in front of it, apple-cheeked with a scruffy beard, warm brown eyes. A sort of Santa-needs-some-time-in-rehab charm. “Do you reveal your sources?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

“Not quite the same thing.”

“No difference from where I sit.”

“May I suggest where you should sit, then?”

“Come on now, I thought we were going to be friends.”

“Are your photographs as creative as your thought processes?” I said with a frown that he instantly photographed. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Kenny. Kenny Crandall.” He wiped his hand on the thigh of his jeans before he offered it to me, which struck me as very thoughtful. As was the fact that he didn’t crunch my hand when he shook it, though his hand was large enough to easily inflict injury.

“So be honest with me, Kenny Crandall. My own mother wouldn’t find my comings and goings this interesting. You’re after something specific.”

“A shot of Adam Crowley leaving here in the early morning with a big smile on his face.”

“You weren’t planning on holding your breath, were you?”

“My editor said to sit on you until I got something, and no way I’m gonna tell him no.”

“Come on, Kenny. Who’s your editor and what did I ever do to him?”

“Jeremy Berkinholtz.”

“Oh.”

Pop
went the balloon of righteous indignation. Yes, I knew Jeremy Berkinholtz. Worse, I knew exactly what I had done to him. We’d worked together at
Bottled Lightning
, a quirky magazine with the lofty aspiration of “examining the creative process,” and I’d had much better luck getting ideas approved by the editor than he had, a fact that Jeremy attributed solely to the editor’s desire to sleep with me. A theory he chose to espouse in front of the editor. So the editor chose to fire him.

To this day, according to the publishing grapevine, Jeremy blamed me for derailing his career and exiling him to tabloids like
Slice
, his current domain. His whining wouldn’t have bothered me at all except that he turned out to be dead on about the editor’s intentions, so I wound up quitting the job Jeremy had so coveted. He’d been a first-class jerk about the whole thing, but he’d also been on to the truth while I’d been in complete denial. Maybe it wasn’t guilt I felt as much as embarrassment.

“How is Jeremy?” I asked.

“A pompous cretin, but he’s the boss. So when’s Adam coming over?” Kenny looked at his watch. “Do I have time to grab a burger?”

“Adam’s not coming here. The picture this afternoon was a mistake, I’m not involved with him.”

Kenny stroked his beard as he analyzed me. “You’re actually telling me the truth.”

“Yes.”

“I tried to tell Jeremy that the dude was already hooked up, but he saw that shot of the two of you and just lost it, wanted to slap you and Adam all over the paper.”

“Adam’s hooked up?” I asked, then quickly clarified, “I’m asking for professional reasons, not personal. He hadn’t mentioned that.”

“Really?” Kenny asked with a tantalizing hint of how shocking I’d find the name once I’d heard it.

Given what Risa had said about Adam’s romantic history, his current attachment was probably fashionable but disposable and had no bearing on my investigation. Except that he’d hidden it from me, along with his penchant for roughing people up, and the thing I need to know most is whatever people won’t tell me. Kenny was going to enjoy this more than I was. “Go ahead. Tell me who it is,” I said, letting pride fall before a story.

Kenny smiled so broadly that his cheeks nearly obscured his eyes. “What’re you gonna give me?”

“Hey! What happened to our being friends?”

“Guess you were right, I didn’t have enough imagination.” I deserved that one, so I couldn’t do anything but laugh. Pleased, Kenny joined in for a moment, then said, “Seriously, what’re you gonna give me?”

I held out my hand. “You’re gonna give me your card, and I’m gonna get you a meeting with Connie Hamilton, our photography editor.”

Kenny’s shaggy brows drew down, casting a shadow across his jolly face. “That’s not funny.”

“Cross my heart and hope to stay on your good side. I know how difficult it is to get your break. I can’t speak for Connie, but I can get you in to see her. Unless moving from your rag to our rag doesn’t strike you as upward mobility.”

Kenny fumbled a business card out of his wallet, eyes on me the whole time, as though I would make a face or otherwise betray my insincerity the moment he looked away. Not until the card had been stowed in my wallet did he seem to relax a bit and consider trusting me.

“So, who’s he with?”

“Olivia Elliott.”

I felt like laughing again, but at myself this time. I should have asked a few more questions before buying into the concept that Kenny had worthwhile information. “No, he’s not,” I protested, ready to renege on my promise to bring him in to Connie.

“Friend of mine’s been watching the Crowley brothers for a while now, got this tip that Adam’s been spending quality time with Olivia Elliott. Checked out.”

“So they spend time together. That’s not a surprise, they’re practically brother and sister.”

“You meet your brother at the SoHo Grand? On a regular basis?”

What is it they teach you in driver’s ed about skidding on the ice—despite your instincts otherwise, don’t slam on the brakes, steer into the skid and pump the brakes? “I’d meet my brother for drinks there. The SoHo Grand has several nice bars.”

“So you’d think they’d stay downstairs and enjoy them now and then.”

I was going to protest one more time, that the nicest bar at the SoHo Grand was on the second floor, but sometimes, no matter how hard you pump the brakes, you skid off the road and slam into a tree. Olivia and Adam? No. That would mean they’d both been lying to me. On multiple fronts. Which threatened the integrity of everything I’d constructed about Russell’s death. Could I have been that foolish, that starstruck, that taken in? There had to be some explanation we were missing. Didn’t there?

I tried to figure out what Kenny stood to gain by lying. Nothing. “You’re being straight with me.”

Kenny nodded. “Sorry.”

“No need, because there was nothing going on. But it does give me food for thought on a couple of other levels.” I shook his hand again. “Thank you, Kenny. I’ll talk to Connie tomorrow and give you a call.”

Kenny thanked me with a dubious smile and, after a moment’s hesitation, drifted down the street. I knew he didn’t believe I’d bring him in. I also knew there was a chance he was going to lurk around the corner for another couple of hours until he accepted that Adam wasn’t going to show up, but that was his prerogative, and I couldn’t spend time right now convincing him otherwise. I had work to do. More than I’d realized.

In my apartment, I got into research mode. I changed into my writing clothes—supremely broken-in Diesel jeans, a Washington Redskins sweatshirt, and bare feet—tore open a bag of cheddar-and-sour-cream Ruffles, poured two Starbucks DoubleShot Lights over ice, and put
Film at Eleven
in the CD player. With the groove dug, I slid in and began the teeth-grinding process of reexamining everything I thought I knew.

Suppose Kenny was right. I skipped right over what that said about Adam being manipulative and my being gullible and all the emotional issues that called up, and did my utmost to concentrate on the fact that it was now even less surprising that Olivia was upset at my suggestion that Adam was involved in Russell’s death: I’d accused her boyfriend of knocking off her dad.

But if they were seeing each other, why hadn’t either one admitted to it? Why hadn’t anyone else in the family mentioned it? Or didn’t any one of them know, either? Why would Adam and Olivia keep it secret?

Claire.

If Claire had so much control over Adam’s professional life, it wasn’t hard to believe that she watched his personal life rather carefully, too. Based on Claire’s low opinion of Olivia, she would not be Claire’s first choice as a partner for her little boy, so it made sense that they’d keep it to themselves. And since they all lived on top of one another on Riverside Drive, slipping away to a hotel did a lot to help maintain the secret.

But why not tell me? I wouldn’t have exposed them. At least until press time. Why lie to me? So he could flirt with me and she could befriend me and they could keep tabs on what I was figuring out about Russell’s death? They only needed to worry about that if they were concerned I was going to find out something that put them in a bad light. Then they’d be playing innocent so I’d think they were. What did they know? Worse, what had they done?

I answered the phone so automatically that it didn’t really register it was in my hand and I was talking until Cassady said, “He’s cheating on me.”

“No, he’s not, because we weren’t together and I’m not a hundred percent sure they’re together, but it does look pretty bad,” I said, feeling a queasiness exceeding the Ruffles-Starbucks combination.

“Hey, Molly? Let me try this again.
He’s
cheating on
me.”

The fact that there were other people in the world came back to me a little belatedly. “Wait. Aaron?”

“Yes, Aaron. He’s the only man I’m seeing right now because he’s the one who’s cheating, not me.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“Based on?”

“The fact that there’s got to be one good man in the world.”

“Sure, but you’re dating him, not me.”

“Let’s come back to that. What makes you think Aaron’s cheating on you?”

“I called him. At home. And the grad student answered.”

“She of the bogus results?”

“The same.”

“So he’s giving her a second chance. That proves he’s a marvelous and compassionate human being, not that he’s cheating on you.”

“She was in his house.”

“I thought his students hung out with him a lot. Weren’t you the one that said it was charming that he was so accessible to them?”

“I think his definition of ‘accessible’ might differ a bit from mine. And she was laughing.”

“She had a brush with academic annihilation and he snatched her back from the brink.”

“Why are you defending him?”

“Isn’t that why you called me? So I could talk you down?” There was a long pause. “Did you talk to Aaron?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“That the whole research group was there and they thought they’d found a way to salvage the paper,” she said, sounding as though I were forcing her to admit that she still believed in the Tooth Fairy.