So Pretty It Hurts

Chapter 16

“Wait,” I yelled, jerking my body forward. “I said Ninth and Broadway.”

For one brief moment I actually thought the driver had misheard me or had arrived in America six days ago and had no freaking clue where he was going. But he never turned around, just gunned the motor so that the car sped even faster. I realized that after I’d closed my eyes in the backseat, he must have circled back to Houston. It was suddenly clear: he was abducting me! My heart hurled itself against the front of my chest, like it was trying to leap off a cliff.

“What do you want?” I called out. My voice was squeaky from panic. “Do you want money?” But the driver ignored me.

I glanced toward the door. The lock was still up at least. I had no choice—the only escape was for me to leap out onto the road. Yet the car was moving so fast, I couldn’t imagine how I’d pull it off.

I reached for my handbag and searched frantically until I found my BlackBerry. My hands were shaking as I punched in 911.

“A cabdriver kidnapped me,” I yelled to the operator. “Uh—a gypsy cab. We’re going down Houston Street. East.”

“Miss, what is your name?” the woman asked.

“Bailey Weggins. Please, you’ve got to help me.”

With one swift movement the driver reached his right arm into the backseat and tried to slap the BlackBerry from my hand. I jerked away, pressing my body against the door.

“What is the license plate of the car?” the operator asked.

“I have no idea,” I exclaimed. “I didn’t see it.”

“What’s the car look like? What’s the make?”

“Uh—I don’t know. It’s dark. A four-door.” I peered into the front seat toward the glove compartment. I couldn’t see anything.

I prayed the guy would head onto a side street, where he’d be forced to slow down. But he turned south onto the FDR Drive, which ran between the East River and the eastern edge of Manhattan. My fear ballooned. There was only a small amount of traffic, and the driver now had the car up to at least fifty miles per hour. If I jumped out, I’d kill myself.

“We’re on the FDR now,” I yelled to the operator. “South.”

I grabbed the window handle and rolled it down. Cold air gushed into the back of the cab.

“Help me,” I screamed to the stream of cars to my right, but my voice was crushed by the wind. Finally a woman in the backseat of one of the cars seemed to notice me. She leaned forward, said something to the couple in the front seat, and then glanced back at me, her face scrunched in worry. But the car pulled off at the next exit.

I felt nearly dizzy with dread. Where was he taking me? I wondered desperately. Did he want to rob me or rape me, or both? He nearly careened off the South Street exit, and then to my horror swung onto the entrance to the Manhattan Bridge. He was taking me to Brooklyn, where it would be easy to find a deserted spot. He was forced to slow down just a little on the bridge, but there was too much traffic for me to even think of jumping out. On my right a subway car hurtled by alongside us. Inside passengers dozed or stared listlessly. I tried to motion to them, but no one noticed.

From my hand I could hear the operator calling out to me. I pressed my Blackberry to my ear.

“Miss, please, give me your location now,” she said.

“We’re on the bridge now,” I told her. “Manhattan Bridge.”

“Can you signal to anyone near you?”

“I’m trying, but they don’t see me.”

“We are alerting the police in Brooklyn to your location.”

Get control, I told myself. I had to think of a plan. When we left the bridge, the driver would have to slow down. That would be my chance to leap from the car. I pressed myself against the door and gripped the handle tightly.

Finally we came off the bridge, rolling into a dark, deserted part of Brooklyn. I could tell the driver was trying his best not to lose speed, but he had no choice but to ease off the gas. The traffic light ahead had just turned from yellow to red and he zoomed right through it. I’d never have a chance to jump if he refused to ever stop the freaking car.

There were only stop signs at the next two intersections and the driver just barreled through. He was about to do the same with the next one, but miraculously a delivery van came lumbering through the intersection. The driver touched the brake, slowing the car. I jerked the handle down. At the same moment the driver shot his right arm into the backseat and tried to grab hold of my jacket, but I was faster than he was. I shoved open the door, propelled myself out, and rolled onto the sidewalk.

I scrambled to my feet, veered right, and started to run. I was on a dark and empty street, lined with old warehouses and storefronts with their metal gates pulled down. Behind me I heard tires squeal as the driver jerked the wheel. Oh God, I thought. He was going to come after me, even though he’d be headed the wrong way down a one-way street.

“I’m out now,” I yelled into the BlackBerry. “On, uh—I can’t see.”

I couldn’t take the time to see. I just had to move. Running as fast as I could, I screamed for help a couple of times, but there wasn’t a soul in sight, just darkened or boarded-up windows everywhere I could see. In a minute I could hear the car coming up behind me. I propelled myself even faster, trying not to trip in my damn riding boots. My lungs seemed ready to explode.

I heard the driver gun the engine. He was almost parallel to me, just off to my left. I didn’t look over, just kept my eyes straight ahead, focusing on a point in the distance. About two blocks ahead I could see a big halo of light at an intersection, as if there were businesses and traffic there. Go! I screamed to myself. I only had to make it two long blocks. I yelled for help a few more times, just to let the guy know it would be a bitch to stop the car and try to get me inside again without a fuss.

We were coming to a stretch of the street where there weren’t even any parked cars along the sidewalk, and I wondered, horrified, if the driver might try to jump the car up onto the sidewalk and mow me down. And then it was like he’d read my mind. I heard the thud as he yanked the car up over the curb. Without even processing what I was about to do, I dropped my phone into my pocket and grabbed a garbage can near a doorway. I spun around and hurled it right at the hood of the car.

It didn’t do any damage, but it stayed on the hood. As I started running again, my lungs nearly screaming, I heard the driver curse through an open window and put the car in reverse, making the can roll off the hood. Within seconds, though, he was in pursuit again.

But it was too late. I was close to the intersection now, and I could see that it was filled with traffic, and there were even a few people up there too, a cluster of hipsters hanging by a bar. And on the far side, there was something that filled me with joy. A police cruiser.

I burst into the intersection and started waving my arms frantically. Behind me I heard the gypsy cab screech to a halt and then do a U-turn, the driver jerking the car forward and backward a few times. I slowed my speed a little, and looked back. The car was totally turned around, ready to take off in the opposite direction. In the dark I could make out only the first part of the license plate—L3. The driver suddenly thrust his head out the window and looked back at me. He screamed something in my direction. It sounded like “Stop. Be a body.” And then he took off like the proverbial banshee down the street.

Relief poured through my body, warm, almost intoxicating. I turned back to the intersection, waited for the light, and started to jog across to the police cruiser. As I moved, fighting a stitch in my side, I dug into my pocket and found my BlackBerry. The 911 operator was still connected.

“I’m okay,” I told her, trying to catch my breath. “I see a cop car.”

“Good. Please let me speak to one of the officers.”

As soon as I approached, the cop in the driver’s seat rolled his window down. He looked like he was twelve years old and might be wearing Spiderman underpants.

“What can we do for you, young lady?” he asked. The cop next to him set down the disposable aluminum dish he was eating from and leaned his head in my direction.

I blurted out that I’d been abducted and then handed him my BlackBerry. He listened intently, signed off, and then handed the BlackBerry back to me.

“Are you okay?” he asked, climbing out of the car. When I assured him I was, he asked for the best description of the car and driver I could give and then called it in on his radio.

I suddenly noticed that despite the cold, the sweater inside my jacket was wet with sweat. I also noticed a weird crashing sensation beginning to build in me, maybe from all the adrenaline that had been briefly pumped through my system and was now in retreat.

“We should cruise around and see if we can find this guy,” the cop told me when he was finished talking on his walkie-talkie. “But we don’t have much to go on. And we also need to make sure you get home somehow.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a yellow taxi head through the intersection, and the light was on.

“Why don’t I grab this taxi,” I told the cop. I shot out my arm and waved. The car screeched to a halt. “Thanks so much for your help.”

“You’ll need to file a police report tomorrow, okay?”

I promised I would and darted toward the cab. I spent the ride home fighting tears. I felt badly shaken.

By the time I let myself into my apartment, I was trembling, as if the fear was now really catching up with me. I stripped off my boots, jeans, and sweater and took a long shower. It felt so good to have the hot water course over me, as if I was washing the terror away too. My leap from the gypsy cab had left another ugly bruise on my left butt cheek but fortunatly that was the only damage. I thought of how reassuring it would be to talk to Beau, but even if things were fine between us, I would have resisted the urge to wake him so late.

When I finally slipped into bed, I felt a little bit better. I knew I wasn’t going to fall asleep anyway, so I tried to go back over everything in my mind. I was positive that the driver who picked me up was the same one I’d seen earlier in front of the Living Room. Obviously he’d been trolling for someone to rob or rape. I decided to let the bar know tomorrow so the management could keep an eye out for the guy.

I still had no sense of where he had been taking me or why. One thing seemed odd. If he were going to rob me or rape me, why not just pull over on one of those deserted streets when we first came off the bridge into Brooklyn? Maybe he had wanted to find an even more secluded spot. I was also still baffled by the words he’d hurled at me: Stop. Be a body. He’d had a faint accent, one that I couldn’t place, but I was pretty sure I’d heard him right. Had it been some kind of a sexual threat? I had no clue.

I eventually fell asleep around four and woke at eight the next morning. I felt like shit, but I had my breakfast meeting with Scott and I had no intention of taking a pass on it. I did my best to look presentable—Scott, after all, was a player, and I sensed I’d extract more if I catered to that part of him. I wore my black suede boots, a tight black pencil skirt, and a plum-colored silk blouse. But the circles under my eyes had darkened badly. By the time I was done with my makeup, you could have taken an elevation level on the amount of concealer I’d been forced to apply.

I was the first to arrive at the café-style restaurant, and I grabbed a private table at the back of the room. I asked for coffee but then instantly changed my order to tea. I still felt completely on edge from the night before, and I was afraid anything with too much caffeine might make me jump out of my skin.

Scott was nearly twenty minutes late—and I almost didn’t recognize him. His hair was slicked back and he was wearing a long black cashmere coat. Not the kind of look that went with skeet shooting.

He slid into the chair, shook off his coat, and with a flick of his chin, summoned the waitress to our table pronto. He smelled of expensive, manly cologne.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “What would you like to eat?”

“Uh, I guess I’ll try the asparagus and goat cheese omelet,” I said.

And then I felt dumb because all he ordered was coffee, black.

“How are you doing anyway?” I asked once the waitress was gone. There was something supertense going on in his jawline that made even his face look different today. It was tough to accept that this was the same Scott who had bounded down the stairs to greet Jessie and me with a big, boyish grin on his face.

“Well,” he said, cocking his head to the left, “my hot new recording artist died at my house, and for the next two days most of the world assumed I’d loaded her up with cocaine—but other than that I’m just fine.”

“I appreciate your taking the time to meet in the middle of all this,” I said.

“I’m a little surprised you could make the time,” he said. There was a tiny edge to his voice as he spoke. “I figured things must be crazy for you at work. Though I’m a little confused. I turned on the Today show yesterday morning, and there’s some guy on there from Buzz talking about Devon Barr as if the story was his exclusive. Don’t tell me your boss doesn’t think you’re mediagenic enough to chat with Matt Lauer.”

Scott never took his nearly black eyes off me as he said it, and I could feel a rush of blood headed for my cheeks, like a mob of paparazzi that has just spotted Lady Gaga coming out of a building wearing only a couple of Band-Aids. He’d either somehow heard that I was in the doghouse or he just had brilliant intuition.

“I do media appearances occasionally,” I said, fumbling a little as I spoke. “But if I’m still in the middle of a story, I might hand the press part off to somebody else.” Lame, I knew, but it would put me at a disadvantage to admit the truth to Scott Cohen.

“Oh, is that it?” he said, disbelievingly. “Well, who am I to know how your wonderful brand of journalism works?”

So that might explain why he was goading me. He obviously felt burned from all the coverage over the past few days, and saw me as entrenched in the enemy camp.

“What I’d really like to concentrate on for the moment is Devon and this past weekend,” I said, rushing off the subject. “I have a few big concerns.”

“As long as we’re still off the record, I’m willing to talk with you,” Scott said. “Because I’ve got a vested interest in knowing as much as I can. That incident with the doors still bugs the hell out of me. Why would someone pull a fucking stunt like that?”

“That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss. Have you any idea yet who might have done it?”

“The cops checked for fingerprints on the branding iron and apparently didn’t find any. Of course, what good would it do? They don’t have any of the houseguests’ prints to compare anything to.”

“And you didn’t turn up any clues yourself?”

“Just a small one courtesy of Cap on Sunday. His bedroom was at the base of the stairs in the guest barn, and not long after the time you took your spill, he woke to the sound of someone bounding up the stairs.”

That seemed to be another clue pointing to Jane. Because she was the only one on the top floor besides me, Jessie, and Devon—and Devon sure as hell hadn’t done it. Scott eyed me questioningly, as if he suspected I knew something. But I wasn’t going to out Jane to him.

“Let me think about that,” I told him. “Anything else that emerged later? Anything that Ralph or Sandy might have noticed?”

“About the night raider?”

“Or about Devon. Her death. Things leading up to it.”

“What do you mean? What are you suggesting, exactly?”

“Frankly, I’ve been wondering if Devon might have been murdered. Like I mentioned to you on Sunday, she told me she was afraid that someone knew something. And then suddenly she was dead.”

He shook his head, borderline exasperated. “I know you were hot on some theory like that last weekend, and I admit I had moments of concern—the stuff pinched from her bathroom, the missing keys. But the police were very clear. She died due to her eating disorder.”

“But what if someone pushed it along a little? She kept complaining that the bottled water tasted funny?”

Scott snorted. “Wait, are you suggesting someone doctored the water? Yeah, Devon complained about the water, but she also said the sheets were itchy and the sink in the bathroom didn’t drain fast enough. And besides, who would want her dead? She was making a load of money for most of us.”

“Do you think there’s any chance Cap and Devon were having an affair?” I asked.

“No way,” he said emphatically. “Skinny rocker was more her type. Though I sure as hell hope she appreciated all Cap had done for her. When he first took her on, I bet he thought her career would evolve into something beyond modeling—movies, or even reality TV, à la Heidi Klum. From what I hear, though, she was a total dud in front of a video camera. But then he found out she could sing, and he really pushed her. I believe her career as a performer could have been big. I’m not talking Rihanna or Katy Perry big, but still, a major success.”

“You said you hope she appreciated Cap. Why wouldn’t she?”

“Devon was fickle. She changed her mind easily. I don’t think there was any immediate danger of her dumping Cap, but I could see he was very careful with her—bending over backwards to please her. When she said itchy sheets, he made damn sure they got changed.”

“And what about her relationship with Christian? Could that have been strained?”

“Strained? I hardly think so. She asked me to include him.”

“But Tory told me Devon gave him the cold shoulder all weekend.”

“Maybe she was—”

He’d been gesturing as he spoke, and when he paused, his hand did too, midair above his coffee cup.

“What?” I prodded.

He made a noise, halfway between a laugh and a snort.

“There may have been something up, now that I think about it,” he said. “I’d arranged the place cards on the table for dinner and Sandy told me that at around seven o’clock, Devon came in and switched a few of the cards around. I figured it was so she could sit next to Tommy and fondle his groin with her foot. But originally she’d been seated next to Christian. Maybe the real story was that she didn’t want to sit next to him.”

He drained the last of his coffee cup, and I knew he was going to want to be on the move soon. I started poking with a fork at my untouched omelet in the hopes of encouraging him to hang around. But it didn’t work. He pulled his wallet from the pocket of his pants.

“Look, I know you have to split,” I said, “but I’d love a phone number for Sandy—and one for Laura too. I want to double-check with them that nothing seemed amiss.”

“I already talked to them before I left,” he said.

“But something may have occurred to them since then. If we want to get to the bottom of this, I think it’s essential to talk to them.”

“All right,” he said, reluctantly. “But I don’t want them harassed in any way.” He tugged an iPhone out of his coat pocket, asked for my cell number, and then texted me numbers for both women. “And this is a two-way street, remember?” he said. “If you learn anything important, I want to know.”

“Sure,” I lied.

I tried to pick up the check, but he insisted and tossed down a tip that was almost as much as the bill. Out on the street, he buttoned his coat with one hand and then pulled the collar up against the cold.

“Are you going to the funeral service?” I asked as people rushed by us on their way to midtown offices.

“Of course. I assume you’ll be covering it?”

“Probably not,” I said, fighting the urge to look away. “I’ve got other things to do on the story.”

“Really?” he said. “I would have thought that the funeral would be one of the plums of covering Devon Barr’s death.”

There was that goading thing again. A thought flashed in my mind: Could I have annoyed Scott so much that he’d tried to derail my career with Sherrie’s help?

I didn’t say anything, just studied his face. He didn’t give anything away.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll see our friend Richard out there,” he said. “I bet he’s all over this”

“Actually, he told me he probably wasn’t going to do a story on Devon, after all.”

“Don’t kid yourself. He was probably trying to throw you off the scent. He’s more than interested in Devon Barr. In fact, he nearly begged me to let him come last weekend. Since it meant a possible story in Vanity Fair, I was hardly going to turn the man down.”

“But—,” I said, flipping through my memory. “I thought you’d invited him—because you wanted him to do a story.”

“Nope,” he said. “I ran into him at a party, and somehow the weekend came up. He nearly foamed at the mouth when I told him Devon was going to be there. He all but guaranteed me the story if I let him freeload.”

I knew I wasn’t remembering incorrectly. Richard had made a point of saying that Scott had pressed him into coming. Why had he lied to me? I wondered.

Scott glanced toward Seventh Avenue, obviously checking out the cab situation.

“By the way, have you met Devon’s mother before?” I asked hurriedly.

“No,” he said, bluntly. “The music business isn’t like college basketball, where you have to meet the players’ mommies before you sign them. Look, I really have to go.”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks again for your time.”

He stepped off the curb and shot up his hand for a cab. Not surprisingly for a guy with his power aura, one jerked to a stop ten seconds later. Unexpectedly, he turned back to me.

“Since you and Jessie are such good buddies,” he said slyly, “my guess is that she shared the details of our little misunderstanding Saturday night.”

“More or less,” I said lightly. I didn’t want to offend the dude in case I needed him later. “But I’m not judgmental. One person’s idea of fun can sometimes be way too kinky for someone else.”

“What if it wasn’t kinky I was interested in? What if I said I just hadn’t been able to take my eyes off you from the moment we met?”

Oh, please, I thought, who was this guy trying to kid? And I’d want a date with him about as much as I’d like to be hurtling down his stairs again. At a loss for words, I smiled weakly at him.

“Maybe when this is all behind us, I can prove it to you over dinner,” he said.

“Actually, I’m seeing someone,” I said. “But thanks for the offer.”

He didn’t look so happy as he slid into the cab.

Of course it took me ten minutes to find a taxi. I should have opted for the subway, but I was too antsy. There were a couple of things I needed to do, stat.

I tore off my coat the minute I stepped through the door of my apartment and didn’t bother to hang it up. The first thing I did was call the number Scott had sent me for Laura. Though I’d requested Sandy and Laura’s numbers, I’d been creating a bit of a smokescreen; it was only Laura who interested me at the moment, and I wanted to reach her before Scott had a chance to warn her I might be making contact.

She answered with pop music playing in the background. I had the sense she was at home, maybe still in her jammies. When I identified myself, she sounded less than pleased.

“I thought I’d just check in and see how you were doing,” I said.

“How did you get this number?” she asked warily. “Who gave it to you?”

“Scott did. He knows I’m calling you.”

“I’m really busy right now. It’s not a good time to talk.”

“I understand,” I said. “But it’s very important for me to clarify a few details with you. Some of the information you gave me doesn’t gel with what else I’ve learned.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tommy Quinn told me he went to your room just after one on Saturday night and had sex with you. That would have been good to know, because it explains why you didn’t go to Devon’s room right away.”

“What?” she exclaimed, faking shock. “That’s a lie.”

“You know, Laura, it’s against the rules to lie to the press. It’s not as serious as perjury, but you can still get in trouble.” She seemed naive enough to fall for it.

“Are you going to print this?” she asked. She suddenly sounded distraught.

“No, I’m playing nice, and if you’re straight with me, I won’t print what Tommy said. I just want to know what really happened.”

“Because if my mother finds out . . .” She was nearly wailing now.

“You have my word,” I said.

“Okay, yes. He came to my room. Right after Devon called. I was afraid if I went up there to bring her the stupid water, she’d come up with something else for me to do, and he would just get tired of waiting.”

“And when he left, you finally went up there.”

“Yes. That’s when I saw you.”

“What about what you said about the other phone call? Was there really another call?”

“Yes. I swear that part is true. But I have no clue who it was.”

I grilled her for another minute, just making sure there was nothing she was leaving out. I was pretty sure she was being truthful this time, terrified of being busted by the journalism police I’d conjured up in her mind.

As soon as I hung up, I hurried to my home office and went online. I was more than curious as to why Richard had misled me about his reason for going to Scott’s. Though I’d done a search through some of the articles by and about Richard Parkin, it had been only cursory and I hadn’t gone very far back. Time for a closer look.

There was a ton of stuff to wade through around the time each of Richard’s books had been published, and then there were large gaps in between with just a smattering of press on him, usually related to a provocative, or even incendiary, comment he’d lobbed on the Charlie Rose or Bill O’Reilly shows. He believed that religion was indeed the root of all evil, considered Gen Y the most vile generation in history, and thought there should be a fat tax, requiring overweight people to pay more than the rest of us. Nothing at all suggested he had a reason to hate Devon Barr. At her weight, she certainly hadn’t put a strain on government resources.

When I’d gone back a decade, I was tempted to stop. It seemed pointless to search any further. But there wasn’t much left—just a few UK stories—and I was curious enough to continue. Richard had come to America twelve years ago after stints at various Fleet Street papers, where he’d built a reputation for not only breaking news but also writing brilliantly.

I found a profile from fourteen years ago and opened it. There were pictures, too, including one of Richard walking in front of a stone wall on a cobbled street, looking slim, handsome, and grim. Farther back there was a cluster of people, their jaws slack. I glanced down at the caption and caught my breath.

“Journalist Richard Parkin leaving the funeral of his half sister, runway model Fiona Campbell.”