Killer Heels (26 page)

Cassady growled and drove all ten fingers against buzzers like the Phantom of the Opera attacking the organ. She leaned into it, the buzzers shrilling together. “Somebody’s got to fall for it!”

The buzzers made such a racket we almost didn’t hear the front door open. By the time that sound registered, the resident who was exiting had almost let the door close again behind her. She sneered at Cassady and reached as though to push the door closed, but Tricia darted past her and grabbed it.

“Thank you,” Tricia smiled, manners perfect in any situation.

The resident, a woman a few years younger than the three of us, was dressed in baggy khakis, a Tori Amos T-shirt, and a heavily pilled brown cardigan. She carried an armload of books and her hair was caught up in a bun fixed with pencils. A denizen of Columbia University, no doubt. She barely acknowledged Tricia, preferring to glare at Cassady. Cassady took her hands off the buzzers and put them on her hips. “What?”

Ms. Columbia assessed our midtown dress and demeanor, then dismissed us with a shake of her head, which infuriated Cassady. “So I forgot his apartment number,” Cassady hissed.

“Did you get his name?”

Ms. Columbia had no way of knowing how rare Cassady’s look of surprise was, so she didn’t linger to enjoy it. As she walked away, Tricia and I made supreme efforts not to laugh and gave Cassady a moment to compose herself. “Women’s Studies. Graduate level. Bet you fifty bucks,” Cassady huffed as she marched into the building.

We walked through the squeaky front door, down a hallway with threadbare carpet and once-green walls that smelled of fabric softener and browning onions. Apartment 14 was at the end of the corridor with a cheerful little decal of a smiling angel stuck next to the peephole. We could hear a woman’s voice, speaking in rhythmic tones too low to understand through the door.

I knocked and the woman’s voice didn’t stop, it just moved closer to the door. The closer it got, the more we could hear it. It was difficult to reconcile the image of a woman walking to answer the door with a sultry voice saying, “Yeah, right there, baby. Oh, that’s so good. Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah!” As she screamed in climax, the door opened a little.

The safety chain permitted us a glimpse of a gangly but attractive redhead in her early 20s, dressed in a Rhode Island School of Design T-shirt and low-rise jeans. Holding a paintbrush and wearing a hands-free telephone headset, she held up a finger for us to wait as she finished her phone conversation: “Oh, baby, that was fantastic. You’re amazing. You call me again soon, you promise? I’ll be right here waiting for you.” She purred and disconnected the call, then looked us over and frowned. “You’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” I answered.

“Sorry, through the peephole you looked like you had to be selling something and that was my first guess. I figured I’d give you a little taste of what I was selling and scare you off.”

“Didn’t work,” Cassady noted.

“Worth a shot,” the painter shrugged. “What can I do for you?”

“I think there’s been a mistake,” Tricia began, but Cassady shushed her.

I was inclined to agree with Tricia, but I pressed on, just in case. “Ms. Cervantes? We need to talk to you about Nachtmusik.”

Her lip curled like she’d just taken a swig of coffee with rancid cream. “Oh, crap,” she said, leaning her forehead against the edge of the door. “You guys Charlie’s Angels or what?”

“We’re not law enforcement, but we can bring them into play if necessary,” Cassady promised calmly.

“We’re just trying to find someone, that’s all,” I told her.

“Yeah, I bet,” she said and closed the door. I started to get frustrated, but then I heard the safety chain drop off and the door opened again before I could get too worked up. Ms. Cervantes gestured for us to come in.

It was more studio than apartment. There were canvases on easels, leaning against what little thrift shop furniture there was, and stacked against the dull lemon walls. The piece she was working on was on an easel in the middle of the room and appeared to be a naked woman wringing the neck of a swan. It was powerful and unsettling and we all stared at it in appreciation for a moment.

“I call it ‘Leda’s Revenge,’” the painter shrugged. “I just got out of school, I got a ways to go.”

“And the phone sex?” Tricia asked politely.

“Helps pay the rent. Occasionally inspires me. Different strokes, pardon the pun.” She put her paintbrush behind her ear and I could see from the multi-hued streaks on her temple that she did it often.

If we were about to uncover a major conspiracy as Tricia suspected, we were being lulled into a false sense of comfort and being lulled well. On the other hand, there was a chance she was as nervous about us as we were about her. She took the plunge first. “So tell me why I’m going to regret ever getting involved with Nachtmusik.”

“Well, Ms. Cervantes—”

“Alicia.”

“Alicia, we need to contact the corporate officers of Nachtmusik and that’s proving to be a little difficult,” I explained.

She snorted. “Yeah, I bet. Corporate officers. They wish.”

“What’s your connection to Nachtmusik?” Cassady asked.

Alicia fidgeted with her paintbrush, readjusting its position behind her ear. “You aren’t IRS either?”

Trying to mask her offense, Tricia smoothed her Dolce & Gabbana skirt. “Do we look like civil servants?”

“I wanna be careful,” Alicia explained.

“And we appreciate we may be putting you in a difficult position. But a friend of ours who was doing business with Nachtmusik has run into some pretty serious problems,” I tiptoed, “and we’re just trying figure out what might have happened.”

“These aren’t heavy hitters, trust me,” Alicia said. She seemed sincerely distressed by the notion that the company was involved in anything shady or sinister. Then a thought occurred to her. “Wait. Did they borrow money from your friend and not pay it back? That I’d believe. But they’ll pay the minute they can. I swear to you.”

In championing the underdog, which Gretchen had so proudly proclaimed Teddy was wont to do, had Teddy gotten in over his head—borrowing money from the wrong people or kiting or skimming? And had he been about to take Yvonne down with him, which is what homicidally provoked her?

“What exactly is your connection to Nachtmusik?” Cassady asked again.

“A phone line.” Alicia pointed to a telephone and answering machine unit on a small formica table jammed into the far corner of the room. “I’m more or less their receptionist.”

“Why do you take their phone calls?” I asked.

“Because even if they were a real company, they don’t have enough money to rent an office. They call it ‘startup mode,’ but it’s more ‘ain’t-got-squat mode,’ far as I can tell.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“My cousin Will and some friends of his. They’ve got Big Plans, don’t we all.” She did a spare-me eye roll.

Cassady said, “So you answer their phone for them and then what?”

Alicia shrugged. “Not much. It hardly ever rings. Except this one magazine’s been calling, all frantic about an ad they supposedly placed.” The three of us refrained from looking at each other, but we all looked at the floor at the same time instead, which probably looked even more suspicious in the long run.

“What’ve you been telling the magazine?” I asked when I looked back up.

“That Mr. Cervantes—that would be my cousin, the dreamer—will get back to them as soon as possible. And then I call Will and tell him to take care of it, because these people are driving me nuts.”

Well, at least Gretchen was doing her job and hounding them. If Mr. Cervantes wanted to hide from her, there was only so much she could do.

I took a chance. “Do you know a Teddy Reynolds by any chance?”

She shook her head. “I don’t deal with anyone but Will.”

“What do you get out of this?” Tricia asked.

“Dinner,” Alicia admitted. “Will buys me dinner once in a while. Besides, he may be a nut, but he’s my cousin. I’d want him to help me out if I had a lunatic scheme.”

“What’s his lunatic scheme?” I asked. “Is he trying to break into advertising?”

Alicia shook her head. “He worked for an agency when he first came to town, but said it didn’t feed his soul. He says this is an interim step to something big, but he also enjoys being mysterious. And in case it turns out to be less than legal, I’d rather not know a lot of details.”

“You have any reason to believe it’s less than legal?” Cassady’s lawyer antennae sprang up.

“Secrecy’s a lot of hard work, so why put yourself through it if you don’t have to,” Alicia posited.

Tricia pointed to Alicia’s headset. “Some people just find it more exciting.”

“As I said, different strokes,” Alicia shrugged.

“How can we get in touch with Will?” I asked.

“I’ll call him for you,” she offered a little too quickly.

“Like I don’t have enough men dodging my phone calls. You can’t warn him off, I really need to talk to him, Alicia. It’s very important.”

Alicia looked us over carefully, weighing our sincerity as we had been weighing hers. After careful consideration, she shook her head. “I can’t. I gotta have his back, you know?”

I wasn’t sure what to do next, but Tricia was. “Would you like Jasmine Yamada to see your work?”

“Don’t jerk me around, girl,” Alicia breathed. Alicia obviously knew that Jasmine Yamada ran Galleria Mundial on West 57th and could make her career with a couple of phone calls.

“If you tell us how to reach Will, I’ll get you a meeting with Jasmine next week.”

“Who are you guys?” Alicia wanted to believe us, but she didn’t dare.

“We look out for our friends, that’s all. Want to be our friend?” I asked.

She was weakening, but she wasn’t quite there. “I can’t put you on his doorstep.”

Tricia whipped out her cell phone, hit the speaker button and the speed dial, and held up the phone so we could all hear the conversation. The phone only rang once before a crisp voice answered, “Galleria Mundial.”

“Tiffany? It’s Tricia Vincent.”

“Hey, Tricia! How are you?” the voice on the phone enthused. Alicia looked impressed.

“I’m great, how are you?”

“Wonderful. You looking for Jasmine?” Now Alicia looked really impressed.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“She’s in Milan until next Wednesday, but she’ll be calling in.”

“I can talk to her when she gets back. I think I may have a new artist she needs to meet,” Tricia explained, looking into Alicia’s eyes.

“Oh, she’ll be so excited. She says one of these days she’s going to convince you to come work with us.”

“We’d have too much fun and wouldn’t get anything done.”

“True! I’ll have her call you next week.”

“Thanks, Tiffany.” Tricia snapped the phone closed. Even Cassady and I were starting to look impressed at this point.

Alicia was stunned. She pulled her eyes away from Tricia and started writing a phone number down for us.

“Of course,” I felt compelled to clarify, “if we don’t hook up with Will, you don’t hook up with Jasmine. So calling him and telling him we’re on our way would be a bad idea.”

I could tell it had crossed her mind and I could also tell that in a quick weighing of options, a showing at Galleria Mundial won out over a long and happy friendship with Cousin Will. Altruism is rarer than humility in this town.

Alicia gave me Will’s phone number and Tricia took down her non-900 number and promised to call her as soon as we had talked to Will. We thanked Alicia and beat a hasty retreat, lest she have second thoughts.

In a cab driven by a large Jamaican woman who must have spilled a gallon of patchouli in the front seat and mopped it up with pizza slices, we headed south again. I watched Tricia slide Alicia’s number into her wallet. “I gotta tell you—you’re a little too good at this.”

“You also gotta say thank you,” Cassady prompted.

“Absolutely. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I leaned back over to Cassady. “But this whole operator side of her—you’re not surprised?”

“It’s a big part of what I do all day, Molly. Just like you get people to tell you their problems, I get people to tell me what kind of deal will make them happy.”

“I guess I’m not used to having a front-row seat.”

Cassady nodded. “I love friends who maintain the capacity to surprise me.”

“They make Molly nervous,” Tricia smiled.

“I’m dealing rather well with the number of surprising things I’ve learned about friends this week. Aren’t I?”

“Actually, you are,” Cassady admitted. “I’d be drinking much more heavily than you are at this point.”

“Are you suggesting we start drinking? Three-martini lunch, anyone?”

“Maybe that’s what you should do. Call Will and ask him to lunch.”

That was the question of the moment, how to approach Will. I didn’t want to mention the magazine, not knowing where he stood on the whole non-payment question or on any other business with the magazine, Teddy, or Yvonne.

“If he’s seat-of-the-pants, maybe the way to get him is to offer him a new pair of pants.”

“You’re going to take him shopping?” Tricia asked.

“No, just fuel his ability to shop himself,” I said. I dialed Will’s number on my cell and got an answering machine that simply said, “This is Will. Sorry I missed you.”

“Hi, Will, my name’s—” In a split-second, I realized that if I was tracking a conspiracy at my own magazine, I shouldn’t give him my real name, since that could tip anyone left on the inside of the magazine that I was closing in. I looked at Cassady and said, “Cassie.” She grimaced, but it was done. I continued spinning my tale to Will’s answering maching. “I’m a friend of your cousin Alicia and I’m hugely jammed up and hoped you might be able to help me. I’ve got this ad that has to be done and fast, but good, and I will pay you
beaucoup
bucks if you can save me. Call me ASAP.” I left my cell phone number and hung up.

Cassady shot Tricia another look. “Talk about front-row seats.”

“It’s not lying, it’s creativity,” I insisted.

“Careful, next thing you know, you’ll be a lawyer,” Cassady warned.