On the Avenue (8 page)

“Mads?” he whispered. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.” She tore her eyes away from him and shrugged.

“We're
all
fine,” Lex chimed in, butting her head in between them. “Thanks for asking.”

“Jesus, Lex, you don't have to be so cold.” Theo stared at her. “I was just about to ask if you were all okay.”

“I'm
totally
sure you were.” Lex rolled her eyes.

“Hey,” Park said, stepping in between them. “Theo, you knew Zahara Bell personally, didn't you? I mean, wasn't she at a magazine owned by the publishing division of your father's company a few years ago?”

The silence that fell between them was palpable.

Theo's cheeks grew red. “I never met her,” he said with a sneer. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get going.” And with that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving the girls in a tense group.

“Listen,” Coco said nervously, “I'm gonna bounce. I have to get home and call my folks.”

“Go,” Lex told her. “We'll call you later.”

Madison and Park were already facing the crowd. Lex joined them, all too aware that they would have to walk through it with their heads held high. Side by side they went forward, into the storm, and a dozen cameras started flashing. Against the glare of the white lights, people eyed them curiously and began to whisper.

The Hamilton triplets. A murder. Front-page news.

It was official: the biggest scandal of their lives had broken wide open.

Exhaling the last smooth, smoky stream of his Cuban cigar, Clarence Becker leaned up against the driver's-side door of the Mercedes limousine and stared across Fifth Avenue. The Met was always lit up at night, but right now it looked like a runway strip at the airport. Police cruisers lined the west side of the street. News vans waited in the shadows of Central Park. The scene was chaotic, and little packs of reporters kept popping out of cabs and news vans to cover the big story unfolding inside the museum.

Clarence had heard something about it on the radio an hour ago—a fashion lady found dead. Big fucking deal. She was probably one of those bitchy types with a stick of dynamite up her ass. Media was making it into headline news just because she had a couple of bucks. Hell, where he came from, crimes were
really
violent. Clarence had been born and raised in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, the only non-Italian kid in a neighborhood of mobsters. He was seven the first time he heard gunshots booming in the night. Nine the first time he saw a body. He remembered it like it was yesterday: old man Randazzo sprawled on the pavement in front of DeCicco's Restaurant, riddled with bullets and practically floating in blood. Lots of wiseguys had ended up on the meat rack back in the neighborhood, and more than half of them never even made the papers, let alone the television.

Clarence shook his head. It was all about dollar signs in this world. You could buy anything if you flashed the greens. Being a chauffeur for the Hamilton family these past few years had proven that much. Clarence had seen Trevor Hamilton slide his way out of a hundred sticky situations by simply reaching into his wallet. Same for the girls, although Lex was more prone to use money to get her way than Madison or Park. Thinking of them now, Clarence smirked. They were a handful, but they could also be a sweet and cute little trio. They had never uttered a
nasty word to him or acted like bitches. They had never made him feel like the poor schlep he was. In fact, they seemed to actually
respect
him in a fatherly sort of way. It was shockingly pleasant. As far as he was concerned, Madison, Park, and Lex were more than just his bosses. They were more than just celebutantes too. In that hidden and totally unmacho corner of his heart, Clarence felt a certain fondness for them. Playing the role of bodyguard wasn't in his job description, but he couldn't help being overly protective of the girls. He looked out for them. He kept their secrets. And he knew every one of their crazy antics.

He scanned the front steps of the museum again. He was parked across the street, directly in front of the Stanhope, and had a bird's-eye view of the activity. What the hell was going on in there? He didn't like the idea of the girls being in the middle of all this chaos. Lots of crazy people walking around. If the girls didn't come out soon, he was going to have to push his way inside and kick some serious ass. He knew they weren't in any imminent danger, but a few more minutes and one of these nosy reporters would figure out who he was and start badgering him. It always happened that way. Got a question about someone famous? Ask the chauffeur! Clarence scowled at the very thought of a microphone being shoved in his face. Any of those pencil pushers so much as approached him, they'd have his fist for dinner.

He was about to get back into the limo when something caught his eye. There was activity up near the entrance of the museum. One set of wide doors yawned open, and out came several uniformed cops. They strolled down the front steps into waiting cruisers without so much as glancing up at the reporters screaming after them. Other people came streaming out the doors too, well-dressed people who were being ushered down the south side stairs to waiting cabs. Damn reporters were calling out questions and flashing pictures.

And then Madison appeared way up at the top of the stairs, followed by Lex and Park.

The reporters began shouting in a frenzy.

From where he was standing across the street, Clarence could just make out Madison's gown. He squinted and watched as they began descending the stairs. They looked confused, exchanging glances as they navigated their way out of the museum. Whistling, Clarence went and stood directly in front of the limo. He waved his hands in the air. But it was no good. The commotion had reached a fever pitch, and his signals disappeared behind a wave of flashes. One more minute and the girls would be swarmed by the media vultures.

Whirling around, Clarence jumped into the limo, gunned the engine, and skidded across the avenue in a diagonal line. He jumped out onto the street and motioned for the girls.

It was Lex who saw him. Her face lit up and she grabbed Park, who in turn latched on to Madison. They flew down the steps in a sloppy, stumbling chain. But just before they hit the sidewalk, four reporters cut a path in front of them and started belting out questions.

“Shit,” Clarence muttered, instantly angered.

“Lexington!” one of the reporters screamed. “Did you see the body?”

“Did you see Zahara Bell before she was killed?”

“Madison, what do you have to say about the gala?”

“Lex, is it true that Zahara was found dead in a dress
you
designed?”

“Park, did you and Jeremy Bleu come to the gala together? Are you a couple?”

On and on the questions came, circling on the air like a bad smell. Just hearing them made Clarence's blood boil. He stomped onto the sidewalk and, in one swift motion, shoved the first two reporters out of the way. “Watch it!” he growled. “Move your asses!” He grabbed ahold of Lex and pulled her forward, elbowing another reporter in the ribs as he did so. He popped the back door of the limo and ushered the girls inside as cameras flashed in his face. Then he ran around to the driver's side, climbed in, and slammed the door shut.

It was silent inside the limo. Clarence took a deep breath. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He turned around slowly.

The girls were staring back at him, breathless and stunned.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked.

The reporters had pushed up against the tinted windows, their voices muffled but determined.

Madison sat up, her eyes wide. “Becker!” she cried. “Bust it out of here!”

“Yes, ma'am!” Throwing the limo into gear, Clarence slammed his foot on the gas and shot into traffic. He kept his eyes trained on the busy stretch of Fifth Avenue that lay ahead. Too many cars. Too many red lights. The paparazzi were probably already trailing the limo in one of their vans.

“Don't take us back home!” Lex said. “They'll all be waiting for us there!”

“I know,” Clarence shouted back at her, keeping his hands on the wheel. “Girls, fasten those seat belts! Looks like we've got company.” He shot a glance in the rearview mirror and spotted two vans cutting crazily through the traffic.

“Here we go,” Park said with a sigh.

“Becker, you have to lose them!” Madison yelled. “We can't answer any more questions or appear in any more pictures. This is insane!”

Clarence nodded. Just ahead, a bus was pulling away from its stop, veering quickly into the middle lane. He floored the accelerator.

The limo shook.

The girls screamed.

Champagne barked and yipped in Lex's arms.

Gripping the wheel tightly, Clarence shot past the bus, narrowly missing its bumper. In the rearview mirror he saw one of the vans skid to a stop. “Ha!” he said. “We lost one of 'em. One more to go!”

“I'm gonna be sick,” Lex mumbled. “I
hate
highspeed chases.”

Clarence watched in the mirror as the second van, still two blocks behind, cut into the left lane and gained speed. He kept his foot heavy on the metal. He weaved through the traffic smoothly, dodging cabs and cars and a horse-drawn carriage. At the corner of Sixty-eighth Street, he swung a right and sped across Central Park. The narrow lane cutting across to the West Side was mercifully clear. Clarence checked the rearview mirror again and smiled when he didn't see the gleam of the van's headlights. Goddamn photographers. Little shits would sell their own grandmothers for a snap of the lens. He continued driving way above the speed limit, not slowing down until he reached the West Side and the busy intersection at Broadway. He turned right and eased into the traffic. Then he cleared his throat and said, “You girls mind telling me what the hell's going on?”

“To give you the abbreviated version, we're suspects in a murder investigation,” Park told him calmly.

Clarence gasped and nearly lost control of the limo. “What? Are you shittin' me?”

“Only about fifty percent,” Madison said. “But it's
obvious the cops are going to try and pin some of this on us.” She gave a quick rundown, telling him about Lex's dress, the scarf around Zahara Bell's neck, and the psycho photographer.

“Wait a minute,” Clarence cut in, panic rising in his voice. “You mean someone broke into the penthouse and went into Lex's closet? That's
impossible
!”

“Apparently it isn't,” Lex replied. “I
never
leave my pieces anywhere but my bedroom closet. How the hell it got on Zahara Bell's body is anybody's guess.”

“Do any of you even
care
that the Avenue diamond is missing?” Park nearly wailed. She threw her arms up in a gesture of desperation, then sighed dramatically.

Glancing in the rearview, Clarence saw that her eyes had gone glassy. God knew, he had heard the story of the Avenue diamond and its almost mythical connection to the Hamilton family a dozen times. He wished there were something reassuring he could say, but words eluded him.

“Of course we care,” Madison said softly. “But the diamond isn't really our biggest concern here.”

“The hell it isn't!” Park shot back. “Do you know what'll happen to this city if the diamond isn't found? Do you know what might happen to
us
? It's the reason the three of us even
exist,
let me remind you.”

Lex rolled her eyes. “We don't need reminding, thanks.”

There wasn't a single person on earth who needed
reminding. Everyone knew the story of Venturina Baci and the Avenue diamond. The night she'd worn it in public—one of the few celebrities ever allowed to do so— was the very night she and Trevor Hamilton had conceived their daughters. While pregnant, Venturina spoke publicly about the diamond's unimaginable beauty—and its mystical powers. It was no ordinary rock. The legend, she told reporters, was absolutely true. Just before her twentieth birthday, doctors had told Venturina that she would never be able to have children because of a rare genetic defect, but then she wore the diamond to a premiere and got a little frisky with her husband and
bam:
babies on the way. Coincidence? She thought not. And in honor of the triple blessing the Avenue diamond had bestowed upon her, Venturina promised to name her daughters accordingly.

It was a glittery, dreamy sort of story. Madison and Lex enjoyed hearing it every so often, but they didn't really believe it. Besides, who would even want to
think
about anything having to do with your parents and sex?
Eeewww.
The thought was totally rank. Unlike her sisters, however, Park accepted the story as the gospel truth; this had everything to do with her innate love of jewelry, not fantasy. She recited the tale to anyone who would listen and took pride in the fact that she was inexorably linked to something so powerful and so beautiful.

Now she was sitting tight in her corner of the limo,
arms crossed over her chest. “I mean …
really,
” she snapped. “The two of you should be ashamed of yourselves. What do you think Mom will say when she finds out the diamond has been stolen?”

“Personally, I think she'll be more concerned that one of my dresses was found on a murder victim,” Lex shot back. “
That's
what's really important right now.”

“Like hell it is!”

“Both of you,
stop it.
” Madison exhaled loudly, and her tone went tight and terse as she assumed her nononsense businesswoman persona. “Now, let's talk seriously. We're going to have to mobilize our publicists and our attorneys as soon as we get home,” she said. “This is the kind of terrible publicity that leads to financial damage. Hamilton Holdings' stock will plummet at the first mention of the word
murder.
And with the fiscal reports due in two months, we just can't have that.”

Clarence smiled. He got a kick out of listening to them shift gears. He eyed Park and Lex.

They both knew to follow suit. It was time to forget about their carefree lives as rich famous girls and assume their roles as well-trained miniprofessionals. They were, after all, the future vice presidents of Hamilton Holdings, Inc. Trevor Hamilton had made certain to expose his daughters to every piece of the empire he had built from scratch, and there wasn't a single aspect of his dealings the girls didn't understand.