I leaned back in the desk chair of my office and replayed Devon’s words to Cap: “You’ve got to tell her.” Cap had insisted that the woman Devon was referring to was Barbara Dern, head of First Models. It would be good to know exactly what the head of the modeling agency might need to know, especially about a booker. What could a booker do that would make a model fit to be tied? For a second I considered calling my old boss at Gloss, Cat Jones, but she didn’t deal with models directly.
Then another thought wormed its way into my mind. Chris Wickersham. He was the actor I’d had an on-again, off-again fling with before starting a steady relationship with Beau. He’d worked as a model before his big break in TV. Talking to him could shed light on the subject.
It could also create trouble for me with Beau. But at the moment I didn’t give a damn.
Chapter 15
It had been three months since I’d seen Chris in person, and in that time things had exploded for him—in the sweetest of ways. Morgue, the show he was costarring in, had premiered in late September and been a major hit in the ratings, turning him into the kind of guy who was designated as a hunk of the month in magazines like Cosmo. There had been several red-carpet shots of Chris in Buzz recently, and Leo had showed me a spread of him in Details, wearing a three-thousand-dollar Gucci leather jacket.
We’d met almost two years ago, when he was bartending at a wedding I’d attended, something he’d done back then to supplement his income as a model and struggling actor. We had a flirtation over a number of months, and then finally fell into bed together this past September when he was shooting his show in New York. Our attraction had been intensified then because we’d shared a passion—finding the person who had killed his friend Tom Fain. But when Beau arrived back from Turkey, I’d been forced to make a torturous choice. In the end I’d picked Beau over Chris—not only because of my fierce attraction to Beau but also because of the inherent drawbacks of a relationship with Chris. For starters, he was ten years younger than me. And he was the new “It” boy, the kind of guy women everywhere would be trying to poach—right out from under my nose. I didn’t feel up to dealing with that on a daily basis.
I wondered if Chris would return my call if I left a message for him now—he had been pretty miffed when I’d told him about Beau. I wondered, in fact, if he even had the same cell phone number. The way his career was going, he’d probably already had to change it two or three times to keep the riffraff at bay.
So I was kind of shocked when, after I punched in the number I had for him, his voice announced, “It’s Chris, leave a message.”
“Hi, this is Bailey,” I said. “You’re probably less than thrilled to hear from me, but there’s something you could help me with, and I’m hoping you’ll return my call. Thanks.”
I left my number, too, just in case he’d angrily purged it from his phone.
Another shocker: he called back just fifteen minutes later, while I was brewing a cup of coffee in the kitchen.
“You’re probably the last person I was expecting to hear from today,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Thanks for calling back. I wasn’t sure if you would—you know, considering everything that happened.”
“Come on, Bailey. I can’t begin to repay you for what you did after Tom died. I wasn’t happy when I last saw you—but I still owe you.”
“I love your show, by the way. And you’re really terrific in it.”
“The hours are generally brutal, but needless to say, we’re stoked it’s a hit. So what exactly do you need my help on?”
He was being perfectly pleasant, but he was also making it clear he wasn’t interested in chitchatting with me.
“I’m working on the Devon Barr story—I’m sure you heard about her death. I desperately need information about the modeling business. I wouldn’t have bothered you but I’m in some serious hot water at work, and it could get worse.”
“If you don’t get the story, you mean?” he said. There was a trace of cynicism in his tone. Chris had never loved the fact that I worked for Buzz.
“I wish. But that’s not it at all. Devon Barr’s mother has accused me of trying to extort money from her. I’m trying to figure out why she’s saying that.”
There was a pause. Was he weighing my words? I wondered.
“I’m in the middle of something this afternoon, but I have to be uptown later for dinner with a producer,” he said. “It’s about a movie I could end up doing during our hiatus. I’ll have about thirty minutes before then; I could meet you somewhere. Are you at your office?”
“No, I’m at home. I’m persona non grata at Buzz for the moment. Can you meet me at the coffee shop in my building?” It didn’t seem smart to ask him to come to my apartment. He might take it the wrong way.
“Sure,” he said. He promised to be there at seven fifteen. That would give me time to reach Beau’s place by eight.
I felt even more keyed up when I disconnected. On top of everything else that was going on, the idea of seeing Chris again tightened the big fat knot in my tummy. He was funny and caring and absolutely gorgeous, and despite how crazy I was about Beau, I still felt a weird connection to Chris. When I watched his show, particularly the episode in which he’d kissed a murder victim’s grieving sister, it had been hard not to reminisce. I’d thought about his amazing body. And what it had been like to have that body next to me in bed.
Deep down, I wondered, did I have some ulterior motive for wanting to see him? I immediately chased that thought away. Chris was more familiar with the modeling business than anyone I knew.
At around five, as the sky was darkening, I phoned Nash, figuring it would be a good time to find him in his office. His assistant Lee, probably the oldest person at Buzz by about fifteen years, answered and asked me to hold. Though she was polite when I announced myself, I detected a trace of pity in her voice. There was no pity in Nash’s voice, however, when he finally came on.
“What’s up?” he asked, almost curtly. Not a good sign.
“I was just checking in, seeing if you’d learned anything.”
“About?”
“About why Devon’s mother made up that story about me.”
“It’s still being investigated,” he said.
“But how? Wouldn’t you want to see my cell phone records to prove I never called her? I can provide them.”
“I can’t go into specifics, Bailey. You must know that.”
As I hung up, I realized the cold, hard truth. He didn’t have faith in me. I’d busted my butt for him for over six months, breaking stories, generating buzz about Buzz, but he didn’t feel he really knew me or was sure he could trust me. My whole body suddenly felt like a big tub of Jell-O.
I tried to distract myself by jotting down a few questions to ask Chris. While I scribbled, trying to fight off a new groundswell of anxiety, Scott finally returned my call.
He started with the same curt “What’s up?” that Nash had snapped at me. Obviously a call from me these days was about as welcome as a rat sandwich.
“I’d love to grab a few minutes of your time,” I said. “Some details have emerged regarding the weekend that I think you ought to know about.”
“Such as?”