Over Her Dead Body (18 page)

“Mona did,” I said. “After you were arrested.” I wasn’t turning all stool pigeon. I wanted to see how she responded to Mona’s name.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she blurted out. “You worked for Satan, do you know that? And you oughta be ashamed of yourself. Do you have any idea how much you fuck up people’s lives? We’re just normal folks. Maybe we’re a little more talented than everybody else, but we just want to lead normal lives and be left alone. And then you go and mess that up.”

I couldn’t help but wonder what my co-workers were all thinking, but I kept my eyes trained on Kimberly.

“Did you have a confrontation with Mona on Tuesday night?” I said. Might as well take the bull by the horns.

“Oh, I see what you’re thinkin’,” she said, forcing a big fake smile. “You’re thinkin’ I killed that bitch. But I was with a guy all night at the party. Just ask the police.”

“I appreciate the information,” I said, hoping that by appearing calm, I could prevent things from escalating any more.

“I’ve got another tip for you,” she said, her blue eyes hard and cold. “You know what happens to people who work for Satan? They end up burning in hell.”

On that note, she turned on her three-inch-heeled pink sandals and stormed off.

No sooner was she out the door than people started to cackle, and someone yelled, “Way to go, Bailey.” I wish I could have found it as amusing as everyone else did.

Jessie rose from her desk, leaned against the partition, and smiled at me sympathetically.

“So what did you think of that?” I asked ruefully.

“My guess is that she’s making a pitch to be the next Mister Greenjeans, but I don’t think she’s going to get the job.”

“Did the entire office hear it?”

“Well, everyone on this side of the floor. The other half is just making their way down here now.”

As if on cue, one of the deputy editors sidled up to my desk and asked if I was okay. After I assured her I was fine, she asked that I write up everything that Kimberly said so that they could run it in “Juice Bar.” Oh, that was going to make Kimberly
real
happy.

I wanted to extricate myself from the spotlight, so I headed to the kitchenette. As I waited for the machine to release coffee in my cup, I finally exhaled. Kimberly claimed to have an alibi for the night of the murder, but I had no reason to believe her. Based on the tear I’d just seen her on—and the fact that she’d thought nothing of slapping a cop—she was a girl who had a real problem with anger management. I could easily picture her smashing in Mona’s skull. I considered her comment about me ending up in hell. Had she meant it literally or figuratively? Until I had confirmation of her alibi, I had a new reason to watch my back. I wondered how she’d managed to talk her way past the receptionist. People weren’t supposed to be allowed through without checking with the party they were visiting.

I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk. As I splashed some into my coffee, I heard someone come up quietly behind me. Still on edge, I started to turn around.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a male voice barked at me.

CHAPTER 10

I
spun completely around. Ryan was looming behind me in the entrance of the kitchenette. Because I was fresh from my encounter with Kimberly, I just assumed his anger had something to do with that, but I couldn’t imagine why it would leave him all hot and bothered.

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He was still in the doorway, and his eyes darted to the right, as if he were worried someone coming down the hall might overhear him.

“No, Ryan, I really don’t. You aren’t taking Kimberly’s side, are you?”

“
Kimberly?”
he said, clearly baffled. “Kimberly who?”

“Kimberly Chance. She just showed up in the pod and tried to have me for dinner.”

“I don’t know anything about that. I’ve been back here,” he said dismissively. “I’m talking about the way you’re stepping all over my territory. I’m the one who’s supposed to be doing the profile of Mona, but you’re calling all my sources. You talked to Dicker. You’ve been hounding Carl. And now I hear you took Mary Kay out for tea and crumpets.”

“Ryan, I tried to have a conversation with you the other day to discuss this very matter,” I said. “I was worried that there might be a small degree of overlap in our reporting, but you couldn’t be bothered. Of
course
we’re going to be talking to some of the same people. We don’t have a choice. Those three people you mentioned fit with your story, but they fit with mine, too. They all spoke to Mona the night she died.”

“But it sounds exactly like you’re trying to profile Mona.”

“No, I’m
not
doing that. I’ve been asked to write up her murder. I have absolutely no interest in delving into the life and times of Mona Hodges.”

The rage bled from his face and I could sense that my explanation had mollified him. He started to turn to leave.

“Before you go, I have a question for
you,
” I said.

“What?” he asked contemptuously.

“When I asked you about the party, you never told me you’d left here so late.”

“You never asked.”

“You were here when Mona returned. You and she spoke.”

“And your point is . . . ?”

“My point is that I’ve been trying to create a timeline of Mona’s last hour, and you never volunteered that you saw her only a short time before she died. Nash wouldn’t be very pleased if he knew you were withholding information from me.”

He snickered. “I assure you I have nothing worthwhile to contribute to your story. And for your information, I’ve already told the police. It’s really
their
job to be asking these kinds of questions.”

“What did you and Mona talk about when she returned?” I asked.

“She simply asked me if I was going to the party. I explained that I was heading over there shortly, and then she told me to keep an eye on Eva and her husband. Who said I talked to her—that nerd in the art department?”

“Yes,” I conceded. “Was he the only one around out here?”

“As far as I could see.”

“Did you get into the party through the back way or through reception?”

“The back. Why does it matter, anyway?”

“I’m wondering if you saw someone in the back part of the floor.”

“You mean some enemy of the queen skulking around the corridors, waiting to bash in her skull?”

“That’s right. You and Harrison supposedly were the last people here that night. But I’m wondering if there was someone still in the back part of the office. Or perhaps someone from the party snuck over here and was hanging around back there.”

“Not that I saw. I passed the cleaning lady as I was leaving. She was pushing that ridiculous trash can cart of hers down toward the front of the office. And then I—”

He caught himself and looked off to the right, thinking. Clearly, a lightbulb had gone off in his head.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You were about to say something. ‘And then I . . .’”

“And then I went through that back door.”

“You didn’t just remember seeing something?”

“Nope. I was just trying to get the sequence down in my mind.”

I was almost a hundred percent certain he’d experienced an epiphany.

“Well, I hope if you recall something, you’ll let me know. We should be helping each other out on our stories.”

“It sounds like you’re doing more than writing a story. You’re being a little detective, aren’t you. But I don’t think the police are going to like that.”

Ignoring his comment, I tired to edge past him out of the kitchenette.

He didn’t budge, which forced me to brush against his bony bare arm as I passed through the doorway.

Alarm bells were going off in my head as I hurried down the corridor. Ryan seemed more than competitive. There was a menacing quality to his attitude. I wondered
why
he was being so snide and elusive and whether I should accept his explanation of the exchange with Mona. Most important, I wondered what he’d recalled right before my eyes but had refused to divulge.

I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearly time for my meeting with Nash. In fact, I’d hoped to be out of here even earlier, and now I was going to have to fly. While I grabbed my purse and tote bag from my drawer, Jessie told me that she’d heard that Kimberly had managed to gain entrée by telling the receptionist she wanted to surprise me and convincing an editorial assistant that we had an appointment. People were still gawking at me as I dashed through the bullpen toward reception.

It was steamy outside, as hot as it gets in July, and the tourists were dragging their heels. I spotted a small passage through the throngs and took it at a clip, because I was now two minutes late for my meeting with Nash.

The place he’d chosen turned out to be a spot I’d walked by dozens of times but had never been in—a sleek, overly air-conditioned bar-restaurant decorated in shades of gray. Muted jazz seemed to seep through the walls like a vapor. There were about a dozen businessman types at tables, a few with young chicks in skimpy outfits who might have been hookers or just girls who worked in the area and had dressed so they wouldn’t sweat. No tourists, though. I guess they gravitated only to the spots that served the silo-size drinks with little umbrellas in them.

Nash wasn’t there yet. I deliberated between the bar and a table and opted in the end for the bar since it would be faster. Nash had been antsy this week, and he was probably planning to go back to the office after our meeting.

He strolled in fifteen minutes late, with me halfway through a not-cold-enough beer. A couple of the women followed him with their eyes. He
was
a good-looking guy, and once I’d even allowed myself to imagine what he was like in the sack—though he wasn’t at all my type.

“Sorry,” he said, hoisting himself onto a stool. “As you can imagine, it’s been a real zoo.” For once he didn’t have his reading glasses perched on his nose, though I spotted them peeking out of the pocket of his jacket. He cocked his chin upward for the bartender and ordered a very dry martini.

“Speaking of zoos,” I said, “I better fill you in on something that just happened back at the office.” I described my dressing down by Kimberly.

“Jesus,” he said when I’d finished. Though he was shaking his head in concern, I saw a hint of a smile, as though he was also mildly amused. “You’ve got to add that to your story. Do you believe her?”

“That we should leave celebrities alone?”

“No, that she was with someone the whole night.”

“As far as I know, she could simply be trying to get me off her back. I’ll make a few calls and see if I can find out whether this mystery man exists or not. Did you see her around that night?”

“I didn’t set eyes on her until after the police showed up and shut down the party. If she had some guy with her at that point, I didn’t notice. I just remember thinking she looked pretty wasted.”

“Speaking of the party, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yeah, but first there’s an issue we’ve got to discuss.”

He sounded stern suddenly, and I felt my stomach do a backflip. I bet he was about to bring up Dicker.

“I know you meant well,” Nash continued, “but you just can’t go charging up to see Dicker like that. You threw him into a total tizzy.”

“Sorry,” I said, more meekly than I would have liked. “I was just trying to set up an appointment with him, which I would have told you about as soon as I had it arranged. But then he came out into the reception area and I grabbed him while I could.”

“But why do you need him for your story? It’s Ryan’s job to talk to Dicker for his profile of Mona.”

The bartender set down the martini on the bar, and after sucking the olives off the little stabber doodad, Nash took a long sip.

“Part of what I’ve been doing is trying to retrace Mona’s steps the night of the murder. And she went up to see Dicker less than an hour before she died.”

“
Really?
” he said, frowning. “I thought you were going to keep me abreast of everything you found out.”

“It didn’t seem like such a big deal. He
was
her boss, after all. But I’m a little confused about the reason for that particular meeting. He
says
she went up to tell him who was going to be on the cover this week.”

I let the comment hang in the air. I felt uncomfortable asking Nash point-blank if Dicker could be lying, but I figured that simply revealing this little piece of info might elicit the same response.

“
You’re kidding?”
he said, clearly surprised. “I would have thought she’d told him by then. He likes to know what’s on the cover as early as possible.
After
it’s gone to press is a little late in the game.” His comment gave credence to the fact that Dicker had misrepresented the situation.

“Dicker didn’t ask for my head, did he?” I asked.

“No, you’ve been granted a reprieve—as long as you don’t go ambushing him again. So what else have you turned up? Don’t leave anything out this time.”

“There is one thing that I keep noodling about. As you saw in my article, I spoke to Katya, the cleaning lady. I didn’t include one point—because there’s no way to prove it—but I sensed there was something she wasn’t telling me.”

“Like what?” His face registered alarm.

“Something about the assailant. But I’m not sure what it could be, or why she’d hold back on it. Maybe the police will figure it out. By the way, what do you think of the first-person approach with my story?”

“I think it works,” he said, following another sip. “It’s different for us, but then the situation is so fucking different, none of the old rules necessarily apply.”

We talked for a few minutes about the piece and he offered a few comments, suggesting little fixes I should make here and there. And he didn’t even have the article in front of him. Mona might have known how to make things tart and clever, but Nash was a brilliant line editor, probably the best I’d ever worked with.

“I’ll polish things up over the weekend, add the stuff about Kimberly, and then fill in the holes on Monday,” I told him. “Those were great comments, thanks.”

“Well, you’re a great writer, Bailey. I know this is just a pit stop in your career, but it’s been terrific to have you here. I hope you’re going to stick it out.”

I tried not to look as giddy as I felt from his compliment. “I’ve loved working with you, too,” I admitted, “but I guess it depends on who the new editor is. It might even end up being someone who doesn’t want all this new crime coverage in the magazine.”

“Look, I think I can trust you, so I’m going to share something with you. But I want you to keep it under your hat. I’m being tapped for the job. That’s why I’ve been out of the office so much. I’ve been with Dicker, working out some of the details.”

“That’s great, Nash,” I said, feeling my face light up with a smile. “I’m so happy for you.”

I meant it. And on a purely selfish basis, I was happy for me, too.

He took another long sip of his martini, nearly polishing it off. As he set down the glass, he suddenly glanced at his watch, as if he were afraid it was about to burst into flames.

“Jeez, I’ve got to split,” he announced.

“Just one more minute. I need to ask you about the party.”

“Shoot.”

“Mona and Kiki Bodden had a contretemps that night. Do you know what it was about?”

“No, I was on the other side of the room. By the time I worked my way over there, it was done—and Mona had disappeared, so I couldn’t ask her for details.”

“Any guesses?”

“Not really. Mona had mentioned to me lately that in hindsight she thought our cover stories on Eva had been too soft and that she wanted to play it a little bitchier in the future. But there was nothing planned on Eva at the moment.”

“I—”

“You don’t think
Kiki
did it, do you? She gets paid to be protective of her clients, but I don’t think that includes killing for them.”

“But what if the information someone was going to run about a client was bad enough?”

“Like I said, we didn’t have anything planned on Eva.”

“Well, regardless, I need to mention the fight in my article, and I’m having a tough time trying to reach Kiki for a specific comment.”

“That woman won’t give anyone at
Buzz
the time of day. I have absolutely no clout with her. You might try Mary Kay. She’s the queen of pulling in favors.”

“Speaking of Mary Kay, I have one more question. I haven’t added it to the piece yet, but I found out that Mona was returning to her office to take a call from a photographer—a paparazzo—who apparently had some information to share. Mary Kay arranged the call but claims she doesn’t know what it was about. Do you have any idea?”

“A paparazzo? That’s odd. Usually if they have something for us they call the L.A. office and negotiate through them. Do you know who the guy is?”

“Yeah, I’ve left a few messages for him.”

“Well, stay on it and let me know what you find out. Look, I really need to split, okay? If you’ve got any more questions, we can catch up at the barbecue tomorrow. You’re going, right?”