Revenant Rising (52 page)
In the elegant marble bathroom, she deposits her toiletries on the vanity top in haphazard arrangement and eyes the deep tub, debating whether a long soak would revitalize or stupefy. She decides against putting that to the test and confronts other temptations in the form of the room service menu and wine list and the placard advertising pay-per-view movies. Those get a pass as well. Instead of indulging herself, she settles at the desk with her pocket notebook, three fresh legal pads, and the tape recorder holding Rayce Vaughn’s deposition. Her good intentions are gone within a matter of minutes.
“Shit,” she says and picks up the phone. She calls Colin first. He doesn’t answer. She only then remembers that when they parted after confronting the media, he said something about plans to return to the recording studio tonight. If she was told the name of the studio, she can’t recall it now, and even if she did, she might spend the rest of the night trying to come up with an address and phone number.
Next, she calls her sister, who’s not in either. Same is true of her brothers. She leaves messages at both numbers explaining where she can be reached—the most she can do under the circumstances.
The responsible streak compels her to then leave similar messages with David’s service and an update on Amanda’s machine when she doesn’t pick up. The final call she makes is to Ryan Walker, who does pick up. Telling him he’s no longer needed as her escort for Thursday night’s gala feels almost as good as hammering hell out of the woodwork a while ago. The politically minded, archconservative Ryan sounds relieved that he won’t have to rub elbows with questionable music-industry types he undoubtedly considers beneath him. And he may be as relieved as she is to stop pretending anything’s left of a relationship that didn’t amount to that much even before he left the DA’s office to better his prospects in Albany.
“Long-distance lover is an oxymoron,” Laurel says as she breaks the connection.
At a loss for what to do next, she’s deep in thought when the phone rings, startling her more than it would have under ordinary circumstances. It rings twice more before she feels gathered enough to answer.
The caller is Amanda, responding to the minutes-old message. She’s breathless with excitement and determined that Laurel’s move to the Philippe has huge significance. “Did Colin move there too, now that he’s so high profile at The Plaza?” Amanda asks. “Because of the TV appearance, I mean—because anybody who didn’t catch the major hint in the papers the other day would’ve seen it was the main entrance of The Plaza the two of you were standing in front of while on camera and draw their own conclusions. By the way, I thought your response to the media was only incredible and so did everyone else. The minute you called from Colin’s suite to let me know WPQR was goin’ live at five with your appearance, I spread the word so there was quite a gathering in the break room and they all cheered and applauded at the end. You should’ve seen David. God, I thought he was gonna cry he was so proud of you. I can hardly wait for the eleven o’clock news when I’ll be taping the—”
“Thank you, Amanda. I appreciate all that you did toward enabling the response. I know Colin does too.”
“You didn’t answer me. Is he there with you now?”
“No, sorry to disappoint you. We have not moved in together. In fact, he doesn’t even know I’ve moved into the city for the duration. As far as I know, he’s recording again tonight and can’t be reached.”
“Sure he can. He’s at Static Studios with Rayce Vaughn. I’ve got the number right here. You want me to see if he can take a call?”
“No, no thank you. That won’t be necessary, but I will make note of the number . . . and of the address, if you have it.”
Amanda delivers the goods, and with a minimum of additional chitchat Laurel is free to obey her impulse.
The cab is making excellent time on Sixth Avenue, but the ride downtown can’t go fast enough. The longer she’s in the cab, the more likely she’ll have second thoughts and turn back. Although the blocks between 14
th
Street and her Raisley Place destination flash by in a blur, they crawl by in her estimation, allowing concerns about Amanda’s allegiance to seep in.
Why did Amanda just happen to know the name, address and phone number of Static Studios? Why can’t she accept that Amanda is simply a sponge for incidental information?
The curb in front of Static Studios is lined with three stretch limousines and five vans by actual count. The sidewalk outside the studio is populated with bodyguard types and several uniformed police. Their chatter breaks off as she approaches; their ranks part as she heads for the entrance. One of the guards steps forward, presumably to question her business there, but he utters only a respectful good evening and holds the door open for her.
Activity inside the studio is not as anticipated. Those assembled on the other side of a glass wall are not engaged in musical activity at the moment; she’s not intruding on a recording session in progress, thank goodness. She is, however, intruding on something almost as inviolate as a recording session, judging by the behavior of those inside the glass. This is not a conventional break they’re on; the two dozen or so participants are milling about, breaking in and out of clusters in an agitated manner.
She still expects a challenge to her presence. Instead, when she’s finally spotted by one of the musicians, an observable ripple passes through the assemblage. She could be watching a line of dominos go down as the ripple reaches the back of the room, where Colin and Rayce have their heads together in what appears to be deep conversation. They both look up in amazement; Colin shouts something she’s unable to hear and tips over several folding chairs in his rush to get to her.
“I
knew
you’d come,” he says after passing through the pneumatic door sealing off the studio proper. “I knew you’d get here fast as you could, but
damned
if I know how you did it so bloody fast.”
He reaches for her. She has time only to embrace her bulky carryall and thrust it between them to stave off his intention. The resultant awkwardness occurs in full view of a sizable audience that includes Rayce Vaughn, who appears as discomfited as Colin. “I’m sorry,” she says and lowers the bag. But it’s too late. Now they’re both floundering. She the most. And all because she didn’t want to live up to a media image that could compromise her ethical standards.
“Shit,” she says.
“I think that’s my line.”
“What is it I was supposed to have heard about?”
“You
haven’t
heard? That’s not what brought you here?”
“Heard
what
? I came here because . . . because I wanted to.”
“Then you don’t know about the bloke I roughed up last night?”
“What about him?”
“Word’s just reached us that he was found dead in his hospital bed. Murdered, he was. Throat cut and drugs left at the scene.”
She lets the carryall slip to the floor and allows him to support her when she staggers a little.
The ride in from Kennedy is just another chapter in the book of frustrated efforts that started writing itself on the West Coast. The seventy-two-hour stint in L.A. qualified as hardship duty for being spent outside his usual well-provisioned milieu and shut off from regular contacts, including media outlets. Then a sleepless flight on the red-eye return to New York insulted that injury, so now it only figures that his chauffeur-driven limo is progressing toward Manhattan inch by aggravating inch.
Cursed with this extra time for reflection, Nate cannot ignore the reason dark feelings of frustration and failure cling to him like a wet shroud. Other than for the charred remains of an obscene photograph, he has nothing to show for a fast-paced, adrenaline-sapping sojourn into the grimy flipside of Greater Los Angeles. Nothing concrete, that is. Of the insubstantial he has plenty. Theories abound, starting with one that supposes a latter-day Mark David Chapman is on the loose and ends with the ever-lingering suspicion that he didn’t just imagine Aurora Elliot’s head was attached the first time he viewed her dead body in the crashed pickup truck nearly two and a half years ago.
Forward progress picks up on the Manhattan side of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, but his thinking lags behind until he’s dropped off at home, where he’s necessarily reminded of current duties and obligations—principal among them the dinner meeting with Laurel Chandler set for Tuesday evening.
Jesus, that’s this evening and he hasn’t yet set the menu or chosen the wine. Or confirmed the time and date as promised.
At his building, he shuns the doorman’s assistance, bounds into the lobby and punches in the entry code for a private elevator that can’t open fast enough. He exits the elevator on the second level of his apartment, where he pauses just long enough to estimate the number of phone messages and faxes accumulated in the study. From there, he takes the stairs to the bedroom level, where a steam shower removes anything that might be left of L.A.
Decontaminated, clean-shaven, and dressed for business, Nate returns to the study and selects a stack of clipped-together phone messages as appearing most urgent. Among them are several from David Sebastian, the most recent confirming that Saul Kingsolver and his threats have been reduced to residual bluster and no return call is required.
Another series of messages is from the private investigator enlisted to provide background on Laurel Chandler. All six indicate that Nate’s attention is required ASAP. Nate calls the number he knows by heart and responds to the answering machine that suffices as the PI’s office staff. No niceties are exchanged when the tightwad sleuth comes on the line, and then it’s a matter of holding back a stream of oaths when the problem needing his attention is revealed.
“What in
hell
was your operative doing on the roof?” Nate says through clenched teeth. “Laying shingles I hope, because I did
not
sanction any of this Peeping-Tom crap you’re talking about. Your agency was authorized to do a background check, not a matrimonial. I wasn’t hoping to catch anyone in the
act
—something made abundantly clear when we spoke on Thursday.
Discreet
surveillance is what was agreed upon, cautious,
unobtrusive
monitoring of the subject. In my book, that automatically precludes close proximity to the subject and/or the subject’s premises and
greatly
reduces the chances of being intercepted by a senior citizen wielding a broom, for chrissake!”
Nate shakes his head in total disgust as the PI continues to plead his case.
“You just don’t get it, do you? Full disclosure is not the issue here. Your confessing to the compromise of the Chandler job changes nothing,” Nate fumes. “Terminate the investigation immediately. The damage is done.
We’re
done.” He demands that a written report of the investigation to date be faxed to his home number by end of business and hangs up with a vague sense of foreboding.
The derailment of the Chandler investigation would ordinarily be taken in stride—written off, as it were. But given present circumstances, it’s worth hanging onto as the ideal catalyst for avoiding whatever else may have gone wrong during his absence. He abandons the study and its tirelessly blinking answering machine and fax machine that’s disgorged onto the floor and then some. In the kitchen, he leaves detailed instructions for Mathilde, the cook-housekeeper and ignores the pager she undoubtedly left in a prominent position on the planning desk.
Normally, he’d walk any distance under forty blocks, but all he has left this morning is nervous energy. Traffic is flowing smoothly on Fifth, so a cab ride to midtown won’t take long enough to allow for any more deep analysis.
The door to Laurel Chandler’s office suite is open, and Amanda Hobbs is visible at her workstation within. Nate puts on a cheerful face by way of scowling less severely. He’s about to wish her a good morning when all five of her phone lines light up at once.