In the Club (11 page)

Nitroglycerin. Diatomaceous earth. Sodium carbonate.
The chemistry terms rang through Madison’s brain. Was that it? Had Concetta actually plotted this whole crime? Was she some sort of chemical-mixing psycho? The very thought of it sent a chill up her spine. She thought of all the times they had hung out together in school, and how Concetta had seemed so…normal. Had it all been fake? “So now we know the DJs couldn’t have seen much,” she said evenly. “I guess Concetta—or, I mean, the killer?—obviously knew what she was doing.”

Park started pacing the floor. “But it
still
doesn’t make sense. If she went through all this to kill Damien in such a public way, why would she allow herself to get caught so easily? She left her damn shoe in the cage!”

Madison folded her arms over her chest and gritted her teeth. “I don’t like this at all. I’m getting
totally
annoyed here, Park. All the evidence points to Concetta but the crime itself doesn’t make sense. There’s something we’re not seeing.”

“Like what?”

“If I could tell you that, I’d be able to see it!” Madison snapped.

Park stared at her. “You don’t have to get so testy. Answers will become more available if we stay calm and investigate things without rushing.”

“How can we not rush? Commencement is Monday morning. Prime Minister Gordon is supposed to be there, and how will this whole mess look for everyone involved—including us—if it isn’t solved?”

Park took a deep breath. “Let’s start with an obvious question: is there anyone at school who hated Damien enough to kill him?”

“No one I can think of. His life was pretty normal.”

“Except for being a member of the Black Cry Affair.”

“True.”

“Okay. So then we agree that the secret club is somehow linked to all this. But we can’t really go any further with that thought because we don’t know what the club really does behind closed doors. So I guess we have to find that out first.”

Madison looked down. She hadn’t really wanted to consider that possibility.

“Well, I, for one, am pissed off.”

Madison jumped at the sound of the voice.

Park whirled around.

Lex was standing just outside the kitchen, her shorts and tank top wrinkled, her fluffy slippers planted firmly on the floor.

“Jesus, Lex. Did you have to scare us like that?” Madison snapped.

Lex marched toward them. She threw her head back as she opened up the fridge and grabbed a carton of orange juice. “I don’t appreciate the two of you having an investigative meeting without me,” she said coldly. “You don’t
really
think you’ll be able to solve this case sans my fashion expertise, do you?”

“Of course not.” Park reached for a glass and handed it to her.

Madison rolled her eyes. “Have you heard the newest bit of information? We’re way beyond fashion here.”

“I’ve been watching the news in my bedroom,” Lex said. “I haven’t been able to sleep at all. And to tell you the truth, I’m not surprised the DJs were knocked out. How else would Concetta have played the Mozart Requiem?”

“So then you definitely think Concetta’s the killer,” Park stated firmly.

“Yes,” Lex said without a moment’s hesitation. “I do.”

Madison grimaced. She clenched her hands into fists and shot a quick glance at Park. “Well…
I
don’t! I think there are other possibilities. And I’m not giving in that easily. There’s more to this than meets the eye.”

“Fine,” Lex replied offhandedly, happy to play devil’s advocate. “I totally hope you prove me wrong. But we won’t know unless we get to work.” She poured three glasses of orange juice, spiked them with the remaining champagne, and then handed one each to Madison and Park.

There was definitely time for mimosas before heading off to their laptops.

10

The Queen’s Court

J
ust after dawn on Saturday morning, Emmett McQueen threw on jeans and a plain blue T-shirt and slipped his feet into his favorite pair of pink leopard-print slippers. It was an uncommonly sloppy outfit. He usually never left his bedroom without coordinating his clothes to make sure the color scheme he was wearing accentuated his eyes and hair. Although he and his mother lived in a secure doorman building in midtown Manhattan, paparazzi and smart reporters had been known to sneak their way into the stately corridors. One pic of him dressed so garishly would wreak havoc on his social life.

Not that he had much of a social life to speak of anymore. Ever since the scandal that had ruined his family and kicked his father into prison, Emmett’s partying days had dwindled considerably. He still had a lot to be thankful for—neither he nor his mother would ever be poor—but the media storm was what Emmett thought about every morning when he woke up. Those ugly gray courthouse hallways were engraved in his memory, as was the sound of his father’s weeping and that ugly image of his mother nearly overdosing on sleeping pills. They had collapsed under the weight of the trial, and Emmett had found himself playing the role of parent to both of them. It hadn’t been fun. No seventeen-year-old dreamed of coming home to see his mother passed out in front of Maury Povich reruns or watching his father smuggle Valium out of the bathroom.

Bypassing his mirror, Emmett opened his bedroom door and walked down the long corridor into the kitchen. He grabbed his sunglasses from the counter and slipped them on. A pot of coffee was already brewing. His mother, Tammy Lynn, was awake and probably showering.
Great,
Emmett thought, annoyed.
Just when I need her to be drugged up and sleeping, she’s operating on cruise control.
He stepped out of the apartment and hurried into the elevator. A minute later he was strolling through the main lobby, throwing glances over his shoulder to make sure no one was milling around. Only the doorman, Ken Smith, spotted him. Ken waved and smiled, and Emmett nodded a curt hello. Then he saw the stack of newspapers beside the front desk and lunged for them. He picked up copies of the
New York Times,
the
Post,
and the
Daily News.
They belonged to other residents, but this was a total emergency. Before Ken Smith could say anything, Emmett dashed into the elevator and rode it back up to his apartment.

Please, don’t let the news be that bad,
he prayed.
I can’t stand it.

Rushing to the kitchen, he threw the papers down onto the table and flipped them open.

They all had similar, scathing headlines:
MURDER AT CLEOPATRA—BRIT ROYAL KILLED
, one read. Another:
HIGH-SOCIETY SLAYING
. The last one:
CANOLI KILLER—YOUNG CELEBUTANTE CHARGED WITH MURDER
.

Emmett took off his sunglasses and dropped them onto the table. The shock of the headlines made him dizzy. On the cover of the last newspaper was a picture of Concetta being led out of the nightclub clad in her gown and handcuffs, her left foot bare, her right one encased in the pink stiletto.

She had never photographed well.

And now, with his eyes locked on the newspapers, he remembered the words Concetta had uttered yesterday as she’d stood in front of her closet.

If Damien Kittle doesn’t totally fall in love with me, I might do something crazy.

“Damn,” Emmett whispered.

It
almost
made him laugh. Talk about all the pieces falling into place. Was there even a reason to complete an investigation? Everyone knew the cold hard facts, and the coldest fact of all was that Concetta had been insanely in love with Damien. The cops were probably digging into that juicy little nugget of info right now.

“Emmett.”

He spun around. “Mornin’, Mama.”

Once upon a time, Tammy Lynn McQueen had been a great beauty, the proverbial Southern belle. Naturally tall and lean, she had refined features, elegant posture, and a beautiful smile. But, even after multiple surgeries, very little of that was visible anymore. Her blond hair was streaked with gray. Her skin was parched. And, saddest of all, she had the droopy-eyed look of a well-medicated patient. She had aged about ten years since her husband had been sent to jail. She didn’t even have the motivation to get her roots done anymore, much less keep up her Botox appointments.

Emmett no longer felt a pang of sorrow when he saw his mother. What he felt was much more powerful—a deep, boiling rage that knew no limits. It just wasn’t fair. Why the hell had his family been singled out for ruin? God knew, there were hundreds of CEOs breaking the law when it came to how they handled money—why had
his
father been caught? The answer, Emmett knew, was both simple and complex. Someone had squealed on his dad, tipped off the Internal Revenue Service, and got the jail-ball rolling. And because of that, Emmett’s distrust and dislike of people was growing.

“How are you, honey bear?” Tammy Lynn asked, her voice low, her speech slurred.

“I’m fine, Mama. How’re you feelin’ today?”

“Oh, a little tired,” Tammy Lynn replied. She had one hand in the side pocket of her pink silk robe; the other was holding the countertop for support. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Emmett walked around to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. He knew his mother had actually slept like a log, courtesy of a mixture of two or three pills. She didn’t ask about Damien’s murder or Concetta’s arrest because she probably hadn’t seen the news yet. He dropped a spoonful of sugar into his coffee and stirred it. “You shouldn’t be takin’ showers when you’re feelin’ so tired,” he said. “Want me to fix you up a nice bowl of oatmeal?”

Tammy Lynn wasn’t listening. She had pulled a prescription bottle out of her robe pocket, and now she was trying to twist the cap off.

Emmett reached out and snatched the bottle from her hands. He read the label and sighed. “Mama, how many times have I told you that you can’t go fixin’ yourself up these prescription cocktails?” He waved the bottle in the air.

“I just need one of those,” Tammy Lynn whispered. “My back is knotted worse than a pine tree.”

“No.” Emmett shook his head. “This is Percocet. Did you take Ambien last night?”

“I…I don’t remember.” Tammy Lynn ran a hand through her damp hair.

“Of course you did! You take ’em every night! And you
can’t
take these today!”

“But my pain…”

“Forget it, Mama. No Percocet today. My nerves are gonna go crazy with you.”

Tammy Lynn took slow, careful steps to Emmett’s side. She cradled his face in her hands as tears welled up in her eyes. “Your daddy woulda been so proud of you, sugar. Takin’ care of your crazy mama the way you do.” She tried to smile, but it seemed too great an effort. “I just…I just wish he was here. I wish he could see you grow up and go off to college.”

Emmett stared at her, swallowing his rage. He wished more than anything that time would transport him back to the days when he and his parents had lived in Dallas. He missed the mansion, with its high ceilings and big, sunny windows. He missed watching the horses being exercised early in the morning. But most of all, he missed the parties Tammy Lynn used to throw for her friends and business associates—elegant, spectacular events that had turned the mansion into a country club. White lights twinkling on the veranda, guests arriving in droves, the air thick with the scent of the dogwood trees that lined the expansive property. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, Emmett could still see his mother standing in the great hall of the mansion, all beautiful and perfumed and dolled up, a drink in her hand. His father would entertain guests with cigars and tours of the beautifully decorated rooms.

Emmett missed those days more than he wanted to admit. He hadn’t been happy when McQueen and Crux, the television home-shopping empire his father had built twenty years ago, moved their executive offices to New York. Life here had been spectacular up until a few months ago, but Emmett would have given anything to have things the way they’d once been.

He cleared his throat and threw his arms around his mother. “I promise you, Mama—one day I’m gonna find the person who ratted Daddy out, and then all hell’s gonna break loose. But right now, go on and lie down. I got lots of things to do today.”

“Maybe I will take a little nap,” Tammy Lynn said. She patted Emmett’s face and quietly disappeared down the corridor.

Emmett went to the table and folded up the newspapers. He took three long gulps of the coffee. Then he rushed back into his bedroom, jumped out of his clothes, and stepped into the shower. He emerged less than five minutes later. He knew he had to move quickly. From his bureau drawer he pulled out a pair of black YSL jeans and a matching shirt. He ran gel through his hair, applied a little eyeliner to his eyes, and scanned his jewelry box. The chunky silver Celtic cross would look good against the black outfit he was wearing; he fastened it to the left side of his shirt and slipped into a pair of Bruno Magli loafers. Then he reached for his Prada man-purse and bolted out of the apartment.

It was a muggy Manhattan morning. Emmett ran up Park Avenue and hailed a cab at the corner of Forty-ninth Street. He climbed in and said, “Eighty-fourth and West End Avenue. And put that pedal to the metal!”

As the cab sped up Park Avenue and then across Central Park, Emmett stared out the grimy windows, mentally reviewing his facts. If his calculations were correct—and his calculations were generally correct—the police would come knocking on his door soon. By then, Concetta would have been arraigned. No matter the amount of money, her family would post bail and bring her back home. And that was when the real trouble would begin.

Emmett knew Concetta well. They had been best friends all these years, sharing secrets and slumber parties and clothes. Sharing fears and hopes and fantasies. He was the only person who had been allowed to see Concetta’s insecurities up close. He was also a good judge of character, and he couldn’t imagine Concetta holding up strongly in a dingy police interrogation room, being slammed with questions and accusations. Though physically you might think so, she wasn’t made of steely stock. She played the role of a confident and self-assured heiress, but beneath it was an insecure girl who had never taken care of herself. Concetta cried easily. She panicked when the going got rough. In the hands of demanding cops, she’d very likely buckle and spill her guts.

And she probably told them everything about the club. About what we do.

Emmett nodded to himself. Yes, he was sure that had happened. He was sure that overnight, after being photographed and fingerprinted, Concetta had given the cops more information than they had needed. And that information would undoubtedly point fingers at the members of the Black Cry Affair. Bloody stiletto or not, they would all look guilty of something.

At the corner of West End and Eighty-fourth, Emmett chucked a twenty-dollar bill at the driver and climbed out of the cab. The town house at the very end of the street, the one with the glorious view of the Hudson River, was his first stop. He mounted the steep stairs and rang the bell.

Less than a minute later, Julian Simmons opened the front door, looking exactly as Emmett had expected him to look—shirtless and sweaty from a grueling early-morning workout, his trademark gold rope chain sparkling around his neck.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Julian said, his eyes bugging out of his head. He yanked Emmett into the foyer and shut the door. “Did anyone see you come here, McQueen?”

Emmett sniffed. “You that afraid people will find out we know each other? And what’s with callin’ me by my last name? Just ’cause you act like a drill sergeant doesn’t mean I’m gonna listen.”

Julian clenched his fists at his sides. “You can’t come in here. My—my parents don’t like it when I have guests over on the weekends.”

“Cut the bullshit,
Simmons.
I know your parents are out in L.A. for the new MTV show they’re producing.” Emmett raised his hand, traced a circle in the air, and snapped twice. “We got business to talk. So shut up and listen.” He pushed past Julian and walked into the sprawling first floor of the town house.

Music blared from the massive sound system—Julian’s own music, to be exact. Emmett recognized his voice cutting through the air, recognized the rhyming, stylized rap that would probably be playing on radio stations all over the country in a few weeks. The single was typical of Julian: explicit, macho, and a wee bit scary. In fact, everything in the town house was exaggeratedly masculine, from the black shag carpets and ebony wood to the life-sized posters of near-naked women hanging on the walls.

But the girl sitting on the couch wasn’t naked. In fact, Jessica Paderman looked like hell. Her flaming red hair was swept up in a bun. Tears smudged the makeup around her eyes. She was puffing on a cigarette and flicking ashes everywhere.

“Well,” Emmett said. “Looky what the cat dragged in.”