Lethally Blond (11 page)

Though there was a sofa and two armchairs at one end of his office, he motioned to a chair on the opposite side of his desk and then skirted behind to his own chair. I felt as if I were on a freakin’ job interview and that any minute he was going to start discussing the company’s 401(k) plan.

“I finally managed to get hold of the sheriff’s office,” he said. “I know a bit more than when I spoke to you last night, but not much. You found the body in the main house?”

“Yes, in what I think must have been the master bathroom.”

“What can you tell me about how Tom was killed?”

“It was pretty horrible. It appears he was stabbed or bludgeoned—there was a fair amount of blood—and then he was set on fire in the tub.”

“Good God!” he exclaimed. “What kind of
animals
live in this world?” He turned right to gaze out the window—a view of nothing but windows of other buildings—and pulled on his chin. There was an oddly monochromatic quality to him: sandy blond hair with a hint of red, yellow brown eyes, a slightly ruddy face. I sensed I would forget what he looked like ten minutes after I left.

“Because the crime occurred upstate, I don’t know how much time the police will devote to checking out matters down here,” I told him. “I worry this case may fall between the cracks.”

“Matters down here?” he said, narrowing his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, unless Tom pissed off somebody in a town he rarely went to anymore, his killer had to come from his sphere of acquaintances down here.”

“Are you saying that the motive wasn’t robbery?”

“If it was, his murder is the biggest case of overkill I’ve ever seen—if you’ll excuse the expression. Why would a burglar need to go to that much trouble?”

He raised his eyes and leaned back in his chair, one of those aerodynamic models that allowed him to put his whole weight on the back.

“Okay, I see what you’re driving at,” he said. “Any ideas who?”

“No, not at the moment.” I certainly didn’t feel comfortable sharing my suspect list with him.

“How is it that you ended up in Andes anyway?” he asked.

I explained how I had pieced it together after Chris had requested my help. He listened intently, watching me, it seemed, with a hint of skepticism, as if there were an element of my story that struck him as odd. He could prove to be a valuable resource, and I didn’t want to alienate him. I decided to try a little stroking.

“Of course, you’re a big part of the reason I found Tom,” I said.

“How do you mean?”

“If you hadn’t put a fire under the missing persons department, we might not have learned that Tom had headed north.”

“Fortunately I was able to pull a few strings. After I learned from this kid Chris that Tom was AWOL and that the cops don’t generally take action for missing young males—
despite
what we see on TV—I phoned one of my clients in media, and he made the call to the right person. It didn’t get us more than a cursory effort—but at least you took the initiative to follow up on it. I want to thank you for what you did. As horrible as the outcome was, you must feel relieved to have all this behind you.”

“Well, I’m not done yet,” I said. “I’m still poking around.”

“Is that really wise?” he asked. “It sounds like we’re dealing with a real monster.”

“Well, like I said, I don’t know how much time and effort the sheriff’s office will give the case down here. Besides, I plan to be careful.”

I didn’t point out to him that the night before, I’d spent six hours upchucking along the streets of Chelsea with no memory of having done so.

“Well, I hope so,” Barish said. He studied me for a few seconds before rising. I’d just been signaled that we were through.

“Actually, I have a question for
you
, if you don’t mind,” I said hurriedly.

“All right, but I do have that conference call coming up—so if you could kindly make it quick.”

“You dealt with Tom about money matters. Did he ever mention that someone from the crew of the show, a grip named Deke, had borrowed several thousand dollars from him and not repaid it?”

“You mean
recently
?” he exclaimed, sounding taken aback.

“No, earlier in the summer.”

“Yes, I was aware of that incident. Tom was quite upset about it and called me to discuss whether he had any recourse. I told him that unfortunately he had no legal leg to stand on. Now that I think of it, that must have been one of the last conversations I had with Tom. It was in July I believe. Do you know if he ever got the money back?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“That’s actually a nice little motive, isn’t it?” he said, cocking his head.

“Possibly,” I said. Suddenly another question rammed itself against my brain, something I should have thought of earlier.

“There’s one other thing,” I said as Barish moved toward the door.

“Of course. Why don’t we talk on the way out.” He led me back through the empty workstations. As I glanced to the right, I saw that there were several offices along the wall, and a young woman, her pale blond hair in a bob, sat in one of them, staring at a computer screen. She glanced up as we walked by. Must be fun to be holed up in an office on Saturdays.

“When you were talking to Missing Persons, why didn’t you mention the fact that Tom might be in Andes?” I asked to Barish’s back.

He stopped in his tracks and swung around to me. “That’s easy to explain,” he said, crisply. “Tom had told me he’d
sold
the house. The closing was supposed to be in July. I only found out when I spoke to the sheriff that the sale had fallen through.”

“That wasn’t something Tom would discuss with you? Or the fact that he was withdrawing money for work on the house?”

“As I said previously, Tom wasn’t my client, and he handled his own bank account. As a courtesy, I would occasionally answer a financial question for him—like when he’d foolishly loaned someone money who wouldn’t repay it—but that was really the extent of it. Of course, as executor, I keep an eye on the trusts.”

“Who gets the money now that Tom is dead?” I asked.

Barish looked at me with what almost amounted to pity, as if he felt sorry for the fact that I was capable of asking such a crude question.

“As you might imagine, I can’t discuss such things.”

“My interest isn’t prurient. I’m looking into Tom’s murder.”

“Understood,” he said, and then offered a tight smile. “Between the two of us, the bulk goes to charity—his parents arranged the trusts that way. And please do understand that I appreciate all your efforts. I hope you will keep me informed.” Of course, as executor, some money would go to him.

In turn, I asked to be informed of any funeral plans.

I had thought I’d just hop on the Lex at Grand Central, but as I rode down in the empty elevator, I felt overwhelmed by both fatigue and a weird malaise, as though the hangover from my experience in Chelsea had resurrected itself. I took a cab instead, and as soon as I was home, I poured a hot bath with a huge glob of bath gel and nearly fell into it. I laid a warm wet washcloth over my eyes and tried to clear my brain for a few minutes, but thoughts kept shoving their way in there. Who had killed Tom, and why? And was that person now after
me
? I hadn’t learned very much from Barish, but his confirmation of Deke’s debt had been important. That and the fact that Tom, a guy known for his live-and-let-live attitude, had been extremely agitated about it. As an old reporter I used to work with once said, money burns a hole in the gut no matter
who
you are.

My guess was that Tom hadn’t let the issue die. It might have been uncomfortable for Deke to see Tom on the set, and the situation would have really heated up if Tom had threatened to go to management. Deke looked like a guy with a short fuse and a big temper—I remembered the hostile way he’d rubbed his hard thigh against me in the Half King after I’d tried to pump him about Tom—and I suspected that rather than allowing himself to be guilted out by Tom, he would have felt cornered. And mad. Had he turned violent when Tom had refused to back off? If he was the one who had driven to Andes and killed Tom, there may have been a nice bonus in it for him—the $7,000 Tom had brought with him. I wondered if the sheriff had found it or if it was missing. Maybe Deke had even gotten wind of the fact that Tom had the cash on him, and that had been part of the motive for killing him.

I was nearly positive Deke wouldn’t be at the party tonight—I couldn’t see him making Locket’s list of power players—so I would have to find another way to check him out further. Tonight, instead, my plan would be to speak to Harper, observe Locket and Alex, and also grill Amy, who hopefully had answers about my lost hours. I stared down at my naked body, which had started to go all pruny around the edges. Where
were
you last night? was all I could think. Every time I considered my amnesia, I felt positively morose. Maybe a night with Chris would help chase away my gloom.

As soon as I was dried off from my bath, I called Jessie and asked if she’d be willing to meet about half an hour before the party started so I could fill her in on everything that had transpired. If she was going to be a second pair of eyes for me tonight, she needed to be in the loop. She was game and suggested a wine bar on a side street in the East 80s just a few blocks from Elaine’s. The forecast promised cooler night weather again, and I ended up wearing a miniskirt, leggings, and a boxy short jacket over a low-cut top—I figured it said summer and fall at the same time.

Jessie had also opted for a mini and leggings, which made us both snort with laughter as she strutted over to greet me in the small wine bar. I saw that she’d really glammed herself up—coral lips and lots of black mascara. Pieces of her thick brown hair fell with perfect dishabille from a sloppy bun on top of her head.

“You look pretty darn gorgeous for a
book
party,” I said. “Are you going to try to help me and get lucky at the same time?”

“I admit it—I’m in the mood for a new man. Though don’t ask me
why
. Have you heard the age theory about New York men? They have their chronological age and then they have their New York age, which is about four to five years younger. You meet a guy who’s thirty, but the age he acts is
twenty-five—
and his idea of a good time is telling his buddies about the time some chick gave him road head while he was driving eighty miles an hour.”

“Gosh, Chris is only in his early twenties, so that makes him, like, seventeen. Does that mean I could get arrested for sleeping with him?”

“So what’s the latest?” she demanded.

I told her everything that had happened since we’d spoken the day before, including the drugging. A couple of times she opened her mouth to ask a question, then shook her head, as if she were too spellbound to break the flow.

“Oh, my God,” she said when I’d finished, ending with my futile search for my memory along the streets of Chelsea. “It’s like one of those awful good news/bad news jokes. The good news is that you’re knocking boots with a total hottie who’s starring in a major TV show. The bad news is that you’re being stalked, drugged, and possibly marked for death.”

“Yeah, and that’s why I need your help,” I told her. “Flirt your butt off tonight, but I want you to keep your eyes open and your ears perked. I want to know if you see anything weird going on between Locket and Alex. I’ll keep my eye on them, but I won’t be able to hover for too long.”

We strolled into Elaine’s at seven-thirty, about half an hour after the party had officially started. There were at least fifteen paparazzi out front, and though a couple of them snapped our picture just in case we might be
somebody
, most lowered their cameras as we walked past, the boredom registering on their faces. I wondered if within weeks Chris would be making his way into events with flashbulbs popping in his face and photographers screaming his name.

Inside, the place was already mobbed. Elaine’s, one of those old-style New York restaurants referred to sometimes as a watering hole, is a favorite haunt of both celebs and literary types. The dark walls are crowded with old posters, black-and-white photos, and framed covers of books written by regular patrons. Which, along with the amber glow from the wall sconces, gives a clubby feeling to the place. I squeezed through a group of people bunched up at the door (including Mary Kay!) and cast my eyes around the main room. There was no sign of Chris, but Alex and Locket were stationed farther along to the left by the bar with a dozen fawning sorts ringed around them.

“That’s them up there, holding court,” I said, leaning into Jessie.

“Yeah, I know,” she replied. “I actually used to watch her soap—until her character got kidnapped by terrorists and then decided to become a doctor.”

I told her that she was free to patrol if she wanted because I’d take the first watch. We broke apart, and after grabbing a glass of wine from a passing waiter, I headed toward the end of the bar, making sure I didn’t catch Locket’s eye. She was busy regaling her admirers with a story, and I found a spot not far behind her and Alex, buffered by several other guests but close enough to hear snippets of their conversation.

“I’m doing a luncheon for beauty editors, but Alex thought this would be fun, too. A real old-fashioned book party.”

Someone asked her a question I couldn’t make out.

“The most important?” she said, rolling one shoulder forward coquettishly. “No sun
whatsoever
. This summer I practically wore a burka in East Hampton, even when I went to the farmer’s market.”

Alex scanned the crowd, looking bored with the bonus beauty tips, and cupped Locket’s elbow as if anxious to change locations. “Ready for another drink?” he asked, almost like a demand.

“Please, darling, yes,” she said.

A waiter passed by him with a tray of white wine and champagne, but Alex shook his head and turned instead to the bartender.

“A glass of Veuve Clicquot,” he demanded.

There was a good two-second beat before the connection caught up with me, but when it did, I felt my blood go icy. Veuve Clicquot was the brand I’d spotted in Tom Fain’s cottage.