Killer Riff (15 page)

“Why?” I protested, but I sat back down.

“You crossed the line.”

“With him? How?”

“A man never likes to think about, much less talk about, his mother having sex.” Kyle squinted, as though he were banishing a relevant thought from his own head. “It’s just wrong.”

I smoothed the napkin back in my lap. “How about thinking about your mother committing murder?”

Kyle’s squint intensified. “Not as common an issue. You believe his mother did it?”

“If the election for murderer were held today, I think she’d win. Do you think he did it?”

“Why would I have an opinion?”

“Because you were questioning him.”

Kyle pulled one of those lopsided-smile expressions men make instead of rolling their eyes. “I was asking him a few questions. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t think he could tell. I’m not sure I could, either.”

Kyle picked up his knife again. I wasn’t sure if he was thinking about questioning Adam or about to start questioning me. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “Guess I’m just wired to ask questions.”

“Yeah, so am I.” I hated how defensive it sounded, one of those comments that you wind up hoping maybe someone else said and it just bounced into your conversation through a trick of acoustics so it can be laughed off and moved past.

But Kyle wasn’t laughing. He was looking at me with such intensity that for once I wasn’t thinking about the color of his eyes, I was just hoping he’d blink. “Yeah, I know,” he said slowly and regretfully.

My stomach started to slither toward my toes. Were we going to have this conversation now? Here? Yes, we needed to have it, but I’d been hoping that somehow we’d get away with squeezing in a few fun and carefree dates and enjoy being back together before we had to confront the nitty-gritty of where things had gone wrong between us previously and how/if we were going to be able to avoid those land mines this time around.

But this was difficult territory. I was more than caught between a rock and a hard place, I was pinned between the man of my dreams and the job of my dreams. And while I have no problem apologizing for something when I genuinely feel I’m at fault, I couldn’t apologize for being in a position that most women I knew would envy. Yet I felt as though Kyle were waiting for me to say I was sorry or that I’d been wrong or stubborn or prideful or any of those other lovely things women get called when they stand their ground. Not that I wanted to turn this into some sort of political manifesto, but—

“I’m sorry.”

It took me a moment to get the lobbyist in my head to stop ranting and listen to what Kyle was saying. I was tempted to ask him to repeat it, just to be sure I’d heard it right, but I didn’t want to appear to be enjoying it too much. “For what?” I asked.

The waiter came then, with that exquisite timing waiters have. I’ve long suspected that even the most elegant restaurants have an infrared surveillance system that runs back to the kitchen, so the waiters can gather around the monitors with glee and watch until, “Table six is about to propose! Get their soup out there now and spoil that moment!”

At least our waiter presented our salads with a special flair and a bright smile, but maybe that was because he was trying to figure out how important we were, given that both Crowley boys had shown up here because of us. I half expected him to take a demo CD out of his shirt pocket and ask us to get it to Adam or Jordan or both, but I was anxious to return to the conversation. I even refused the freshly ground pepper, though I was sure my salad would benefit.

“For what?” I reminded Kyle gently as the waiter finally moved away. I’m usually on the offering end of apologies, so I don’t have much practice at eliciting them gracefully from others.

“For telling you to leave this alone, then nosing around in it myself.”

I’d been expecting something slightly more profound that reflected on the state of our relationship, but this was still a very positive step. Our central problem was that he didn’t approve of what I did and I didn’t want to stop doing it. While I’d apologized for stepping on his toes or the toes of his colleagues, this was the first time he’d seriously acknowledged the irresistible pull of an unanswered question.

“Thank you,” I said. It would have been gracious to stop there, but yeah, like I was capable of that. “How much nosing around did you do?”

“Just took another look at the file.”

I felt a little thrill, vaguely victorious. Was he actually getting drawn in to a case he had sworn was not a case? Had I persuaded him, or was he caught by information I didn’t have yet? I took a moment to poke at my salad so I didn’t appear too eager to ask, “And …?”

He frowned. “Some of the statements were a little odd. No one could pinpoint any indication that Elliott was suicidal, but no one seemed shocked by the possibility, either.”

I leaned in, my enthusiasm getting the better of me. “But don’t you think that’s an instance of people accepting the reason that’s presented in the moment, because there’s no overt sign of foul play?”

His smile stiffened. “You talking about the police or the family?”

“The family.” I took a deep breath, trying to pace myself. “I mean no disrespect to the officers involved. And I see how it looked like suicide to them and it was polite to call it an accident so everyone could save face. But the family—they buy into that explanation in their grief, then when their heads start to clear, they’re doing the same thing we’re doing, looking at who had access and motive and opportunity and—”

Kyle held up his hand, and I skidded to a stop. I wasn’t sure what I’d said wrong, so I forced myself to stay quiet until he finally asked, “We?”

I could have kicked myself for poor pronoun selection. As delightful as the image was, “I know we’re not going all Jerry Bruckheimer here and teaming up,” I said with an overly bright smile. “I was just pointing out that we’re both responding to the same things. Great minds and all that.”

“You’re good at what you do,” he said, which struck me as a hopeful beginning.

“Thank you.”

“And I’m good at what I do.”

“Yes, you are.”

“And they’re two different things.”

“Yes, they are.”

“And they should stay two different things.”

From discussion to negotiation in less than three seconds. I would’ve been impressed if it hadn’t made me nervous. Where was he headed? “Yes, they should,” I said this time, though I said it a little more warily.

“Cool,” he said, tucking into his salad.

I stared at the top of his head for a moment before it dawned on me that, as far as he was concerned, that was the end of the discussion. Only I’m genetically incapable of letting things go that easily. The fact that he felt the need to point out to me that there was a difference between being a police detective and being a journalist either meant that he was writing for
Sesame Street
on the side or that he felt I had not been respecting boundaries.

“Cool?” I asked, a little sharply.

He looked up at me with a worried smile. “Okay, if we’re going to argue, let’s not do it here.”

“I don’t want to argue,” I said, which was true. I wanted this to work. But not according to terms dictated to me. “I want to discuss. Reasonably. Maturely. Quietly.”

The smile slid up his face into an irresistible grin. “Man, you’ve changed.”

I had to laugh. “Now you’re being a jerk.”

“You only call me a jerk when I’m getting too close to the truth,” he pointed out.

“Imagine what I’ll call you when you get it completely right.”

With startling quickness, his hand shot across the table to take mine. “I’ve missed you, and I want this to work, but you’ve got to understand where I’m coming from, what was making me crazy, and it’s all about the jobs.”

I didn’t even realize how upset I was until my vision clouded. I opened my eyes really wide in the hopes that the tears wouldn’t spill over and nodded. “Okay, then. You do your thing and I do mine and never the twain shall meet.”

He released my hand so abruptly, I almost dunked my cuff in the boat of raspberry vinaigrette. “They will meet, I know that. Sometimes. But we don’t have to force them to. And we can put some extra effort into carving out a work-free zone in our lives. Starting now.”

As fabulous as this was, I was completely unprepared—emotionally or conversationally. Clearly, Kyle had put a lot of thought into this in the time we’d been apart; that alone was moving and exciting. But the fact that he was also willing to make elbow room for the chief sore spot of our first go-round, my journalistic investigations, was startling. Delightful, but unexpected.

Which meant I was totally unprepared for sitting here over a lovely dinner and talking about anything and everything but work. While we’d been apart, I’d thrown myself into my work more than ever, to keep myself busy. What else was there to talk about?

He seemed to have a similar problem, since he started the conversation by filling me in on his partner, Ben. I responded by bringing him up to speed on Tricia and Cassady. Then we progressed to the books we’d read and the movies we’d seen since we’d last seen each other. Slowly, we started to relax and move toward each other with a comfort that surprised and pleased me.

Two hours later, I drifted into my apartment, trying to sustain the feeling of comfort and relaxation and quell any sense of expectation. Still, my heart was racing as I turned to ask him if he wanted a drink. But he wasn’t right behind me. He was still near the door, watching me with an odd expression on his face.

“Aren’t you coming in?” I asked quietly.

He gestured for me to walk back to him as he asked, “Do you remember the first time we kissed?” I nodded as he continued, “Right here.” He pulled me to him, kissing me as I concentrated really hard on not swooning.

To steady myself, I snaked my arms around him and tried to draw him into the room, but he resisted. Reluctantly, I stepped back. “What?”

He ran his thumb along my cheekbone, and I could feel the flush rising under his touch. “We’re starting over. From this spot. And taking our time.” And he kissed me one more time, gently but tantalizingly and walked out. Leaving me there to marvel at his self-control. Which led me to examine my own lack of self-control. Which led me to consider what happens when people lose control or what they’ll do to maintain control. Which somehow led me to wonder where, at that moment, Adam Crowley might be.

9

What is at the
root of the American obsession with celebrity? We built a whole industry to create stars, and now we’ve built one to tear them down at every possible opportunity, critiquing their weight and their clothes, their lack of fidelity and their lack of underwear, their sexual orientation, the people they date, marry, and divorce (not necessarily in that order), the way they raise their children, the causes they embrace, even the pets they choose. We want them to be perfect and larger than life, yet we ache for the moments that they prove to be only human and we get to pounce and proclaim to the nation, “See, this one may be rich and beautiful and talented, but she has wretched taste in evening gowns and worse taste in men!”

And we don’t limit it to actors. Rock stars. Designers. Athletes. Politicians. Rich kids with no clear contribution to society. We blur the lines and offer them all intense scrutiny, scathing criticism, and gleeful satisfaction when they tumble from the pedestals we put them on. Why?

Somewhere around two a.m., half dozing in front of Turner Classic Movies, which was showing the Mason-Garland
A Star Is Born
, I decided it was a vestige of our Puritan heritage: Those who elevate themselves have committed the sins of pride and vanity and must be brought down.

At four, waking with a start as Dana Wynter screamed at Kevin McCarthy in
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
, I decided it was an outgrowth of our innate distrust of people who seem so completely different from us.

At six, when my fitful dreaming had melded with
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold
, turning it into a story about trying to get Jordan to switch recording labels, I decided it was time to get up.

At six-thirty, while I was in the shower, Tricia left me a giggly voice mail announcing that she’d just gotten home from her night out with Jordan and she’d call me when she woke up, and I decided that we have a hardwired biological response to fame: The bird with the brightest plumage gets its pick of mates.

At ten, Gray Benedek told me it was all about drama. “People love a good story, and in Western culture, we’re trained to expect a three-act structure, which generally means a rise and a fall and then a second chance if it’s a happy ending. Or not, if it’s a tragedy. Aristotle to Shakespeare to
Entertainment Tonight.
You with me?” he asked as he put his left elbow behind his head.

When I had called Gray, I’d hardly expected to find myself discussing dramaturgy with him an hour later. And when he had agreed to talk to me and suggested I come by his studio, I’d been thrilled at the prospect of getting to watch Gray Benedek at work producing an album as a happy by-product of the interview. However, the studio in his exquisite Central Park West home to which I was summoned was not his recording lair, but an extra room in his apartment dedicated to yoga.

Never mind that this “extra room” was nearly the size of my entire apartment and had a view that people sit on waiting lists for decades to get. Never mind that one of the sex symbols of my adolescence was stretched out on the floor at my feet, sweaty and magnificent in a snug T-shirt and snugger gym shorts. It was all intoxicating in its own way, but what unnerved me most was his cheery invitation to join him.

I declined as politely as possible. I’ve tried yoga. More than once. The idea that you can work out and chill out at the same time is pretty intriguing, but I’m beginning to think that some people are congenitally unable to relax at the level required by yoga—and I’m one of them. I breathe, I twist, I submit, but I finish the session more worked up than worked out. Neither my body nor my mind will relax enough for me to get to that meditative place where serenity and good posture reside.

Gray Benedek had no such problem. He moved through a variety of poses as though doing choreography to a song I couldn’t hear, not getting out of breath or losing his place, even while speaking to me. It was equally impressive and irritating, and I made a mental note to try another yoga class. Just one more.

I had come looking for some confirmation of his relationship with Claire Crowley and what he knew about the existence of the Hotel Tapes. So, of course, I had told him on the phone that I was writing an article about Olivia and would be very interested in talking to him since he’d been so close to her all her life.

Now, standing over him, I was having an extremely difficult time concentrating. Yes, Adam and Jordan were stars, but Gray Benedek was a megastar. An icon from my past. And even better-looking up close than my glimpse of him in the theater hallway had suggested he might be. I’d felt quite professional while his assistant, a very intense young man who looked more like an MBA candidate than a rock star’s right hand, led me down the hardwood hallway lined with museum-quality abstracts.

But as soon as I shook Benedek’s hand, I got a trifle starstruck and even stammered when he greeted me. To cover, I’d made a joke about his blowing all my theories about the social constructs of fame. But instead of laughing it off, he’d suggested his own interpretation, ending with the drama statement. Not at all what I’d expected.

“And it’s in your hands,” he continued now, “to decide whether this one’s a comedy or a tragedy.”

Not what I’d expected there, either. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“You can portray Olivia as the broken little girl who can’t overcome the shadow of her famous father, especially since she’s surrounded by people with similar issues. Or you can portray her as a young woman who’s making her own path, missteps and all, and going to succeed at it,” he said crisply.

“Which one do you think she is?”

“Ah, there’s the catch. I don’t see her—or much in life, in fact—in those simplistic terms. But there’s no way my complex point of view can be accommodated by the glossy web you’re spinning, so why bother getting into it?”

When the Big Bad Wolf leapt out of bed and revealed himself to Little Red Riding Hood, was her first reaction disappointment? For a moment there, I’d thought I was going to get a memorable, intellectual discussion with Gray Benedek as he offered his unique worldview, shaped by an education as a classical pianist that had strayed into a life as rock royalty. Instead, I was getting sandbagged.

I couldn’t decide whether Gray was venting his general dislike of the press or if he had some specific issue with me, but the false bonhomie with which we’d begun made his quick turn all the more irritating.

Careful to keep smiling, I said, “Mr. Benedek, if you’re not interested in talking to me, you could have said so on the phone.”

He stood and picked up a towel, wiping the back of his neck first. “But I’m very interested in talking to you. Especially if you call me Gray. This is a wonderful conversation.”

“Because you get to demean what I do?”

He sniffed and wiped his nose with a corner of the towel. “Do you feel I’m being inappropriate? Perhaps you aren’t aware of how your work looks from the receiving end.”

“You know my work?” I asked skeptically.

“Claire had plenty to say about you, so I did a little Googling. The pictures from your publisher’s Christmas party were very nice, by the way. You should wear your hair like that more often.”

The room wasn’t all that warm, but I was suddenly uncomfortable and opened my jacket. “What do you want to know?” I asked him, and felt great satisfaction when his eyebrows shot up.

“You’re the one who asked for this interview.”

“And I can see now that you wouldn’t give someone like me the time of day unless you had a specific goal in mind. Either you want something, or Claire Crowley told you to get information out of me that she doesn’t think I’ll give her myself.”

Gray buffed the back of his neck with the towel with enough vigor that I could tell I was nearing the truth. “How about that? Smarter than she looks.”

I bit my tongue, but only briefly. “Oh, so I can’t draw conclusions about Olivia based on research, but you can judge my intelligence by my looks?”

“Apparently not.” He smiled lazily, and I resisted the temptation to teach him a new pose involving my knee and very specific parts of his body. Perhaps sensing my plan, he sat in a plain wooden chair, crossing his long, well-muscled legs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Yes, you did,” I said with great certainty.

He smiled with what I chose to interpret as appreciation. “I’d prefer to think of it as figuring out exactly who you are.”

“I’m a reporter. It’s that simple.”

“Not according to Jordan.”

“I can’t be responsible for what he says.”

“Or what Olivia says?”

“Or what Claire tells you. Which you should be accustomed to, since everyone around here tells me not to believe what anyone else says. Have the people in your circle always been so paranoid?”

“Must be all the coke in the eighties. Or everything else in the seventies,” he said, chuckling.

The further we got into this, the more he was enjoying it for some reason. “Doesn’t all that mistrust take a toll on relationships?”

“Please. Life takes a toll.”

I sat across from him, perching on a matching chair, so I could look him directly in the eye. “How long have you been sleeping with Claire Crowley?”

His laugh soared to the ceiling like a beautifully sung note and bounced off the mirrored walls for a moment. In isolation, it was a very nice sound, but right now, especially since it was directed at me, it made my teeth itch. “She’s been screwing me for about thirty years, but I’ve never had sex with her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Why would Jordan say differently?”

Gray blinked incredulously. “I know you’re new around here, but you must have already figured out that Jordan says what he thinks will get the biggest reaction, not necessarily what’s true.”

“Was Claire Crowley sleeping with Russell Elliott?”

Gray blinked again, more slowly, and considered his answer just a few seconds longer than he should have. “It is possible to be friends with a woman without sleeping with her, or haven’t any of the boys in your world figured that out?”

I took that as a “yes” for Claire and Russell but thought it would be best not to linger on the point at the moment. “So you do her bidding just because you’re such good friends.”

“Claire’s been part of my life since I was in college. She’s family.” Gray had no children and had never married, though he’d had several well-documented long-term relationships, mainly with large-eyed, soulful singer-songwriter types who were generally in their mid-twenties even after he’d left his twenties well behind. Unlike the other members of the band, Gray had stayed close to the center of the Crowley universe even after Micah died. So I could buy the “family” label. The question was, did he see her as a wife or a sister or something else?

As suddenly as if someone had flipped on the radio, I could hear “Icon,” one of the few Subject to Change songs Gray had written and on which he sang lead: “The center of my solitude, the locus of my pain, / The reason I’m a madman, but whoever wants to be sane …” The song built to a riveting piano solo that made people freeze in place during parties when I was in high school and college—unless they were making out, in which case it fueled their passion. “Icon” was described as a “blistering anthem to the love/hate relationship the band has with fame,” if I’d memorized the liner notes correctly; but looking Gray Benedek in the face now with the song echoing through my head, I wondered if he’d actually written it about someone he loved who didn’t or wouldn’t or couldn’t love him back. Someone like Claire. And I wondered if Micah had known.

But I’d pushed on that point as much as I could for the moment, so I swallowed all the questions it raised and said, “People do even more for family than they’ll do for friends.”

“Depends on the family and on the friends, wouldn’t you think?”

“You’re right.”

“I wanted to talk to you. Claire told me something interesting about you, and I wanted to find out for myself.”

“I doubt she finds me either pretty or smart, so it must be something we haven’t covered yet.”

“She says you know where the Hotel Tapes are.”

Now it was my laugh that rocketed forth, but to my chagrin, it sounded closer to the squawk of a seagull than the silver tone he’d produced. I cleared my throat and plowed forward. “And did she also tell you she denied that they exist? That she claimed she burned them?”

Gray’s jaw set. “Maybe she didn’t get them all.”

“Your theory or hers?” He looked out the window, so I pressed on. “And assuming the tapes do exist, I don’t know where they are. They were stolen.”

“Allegedly.”

“So you suspect me of withholding information, but told Claire you’d charm the tapes’ true whereabouts out of me—for what? A share of the royalties?”

“I already have that,” he said with the beginnings of a sneer. “There’s a separate agreement covering anything released after Micah’s death, we all share equally in the royalties.”

“All?”

“Me, Rob, Jeff, David, Claire, Bonnie, Russell. Usually the bulk of royalties goes to the songwriter. That’s why you tour, so the guys who don’t write make some money. Micah wrote almost all our songs, so he was always legions richer than the rest of us.”