“Can we do it in person?” I said. “I could swing by and see you tomorrow?”
“Oh, I guess you Buzz reporters have to be concerned that your phones might be hacked by other tabloids,” he said sarcastically. Then a sigh. “All right. But I don’t want to meet at my office.” He suggested a place called Café Euro on Fifty-seventh and Seventh at eight the next morning.
I still had an hour to kill before Chris arrived, so I poured a glass of wine and took a steaming hot bath. Rather than helping, the mix of heat and alcohol only made me lightheaded and kick-started a headache that had been threatening all day. It also churned my thoughts up even more. What a big fat ugly awful mess I was in, I realized as I lay with my head back, staring at the flickering flame of the candle I’d lit. I began to wonder if Landon was right, that for the professional part of my problems, I needed a lawyer. But hiring a high-priced Manhattan attorney would seriously leach my savings.
No, I was going to have to clear my name with detective work, and that meant heading out to Pine Grove on Saturday. Certainly I wasn’t going to learn anything by confronting Sherrie Barr. She’d clam up fast, and if Nash found out I’d approached her, my ass would really be grass. Instead I’d have to play the spy and hopefully discover who Sherrie seemed closest to.
Of course, even when I proved I wasn’t guilty—and I would prove it—the revelation wouldn’t erase the fact that Nash had failed to trust me or lend me his support.
Though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t make any special effort for Chris’s visit, once I’d heaved myself out of the bath, it only made sense to change for the night—I’d be heading over to Beau’s place after Chris left, anyway. I threw on clean jeans, a navy blue V-neck cashmere sweater, and my riding boots. Nothing special, nothing that suggested I was harboring impure thoughts. Though I felt a twinge of guilt as I headed down to the coffee shop on the ground floor of my building.
Chris arrived right on time, and after a moment’s hesitation, I stood up halfway and we kissed each other on the cheek. His appearance caught me by surprise. On one level he looked the same: green eyes, thick brown hair, that beguiling cleft in his chin, great body. But there was a difference. He exuded a whole new level of confidence than when I’d last seen him. Not that Chris had ever been tentative, but he held the space around him now as if there was nothing that could undermine his self-assurance. So this is what happens to you, I thought, when you become an overnight sensation playing an investigator with the New York City medical examiner’s office, and every girl you meet wants to jump your bones.
“Do you want anything to eat?” I asked.
“No, I’d better just do coffee,” he said. “I really need to be out of here by about seven forty-five.” He shrugged off his brown leather jacket—not unlike the one he’d worn in Details—and laid it next to him.
After we ordered, I cut to the chase. I quickly described the weekend at Scott’s, my theory about Devon’s death, and how my career was now in jeopardy.
“It kills me to think of you in such a jam, Bailey, but what could I possibly do to help?”
“One of the guests last weekend was Devon’s booker, and it’s possible Devon was upset about something he was doing,” I said. “From what you know, is there anything a model booker could do that might tick off one of his clients?”
He leaned back into his chair, thinking. Because of the worried look on his face, I couldn’t help but flash back on the night in mid-September when he’d stood in my living room, experiencing the full impact of the news about the death of his close friend Tom. We’d hugged each other in consolation, and moments later we were tearing each other’s clothes off.
“Well, the thing that makes you angriest with a booker is when he—or she—doesn’t seem to be working hard enough for you,” he said finally. “Bookers always concentrate the most on their major stars, and it’s easy to get short shrift if you’re not in that league. Of course, bookers would like to make money off everybody, but they only have so much time and energy, so they tend to focus on the models with the clearest potential. Devon was a superstar and a real priority for the agency. But she wasn’t getting any younger, and her booker’s attention may have been slipping a little as he concentrated on upcoming girls—the ones who would make big money tomorrow.”
“I wondered about that. Anything else? Anything not aboveboard?”
“Most of the bookers I worked with—and remember, I was never some supermodel—were great to deal with. But I do remember there was one guy in my agency who was there one minute and gone the next. The rumor was that he’d gotten caught skimming money from the agency somehow, and he was booted out on his ass.”
“Any idea how he was doing it?”
“No. I actually probed a little because I was curious, but no one knew anything. Most of the guys I worked with weren’t exactly rocket scientists.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Jason something. I’d call the agency for you, but they’d probably clam up and deny the whole thing to me.”
We spent the next minutes catching up—Chris answering my questions about Morgue, me answering his questions about my book. Finally he checked the time on his iPhone.
“I probably should split now,” Chris said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. I think the bottom line is that there must be opportunity for some hanky-panky, because at least one booker tried it.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’ve given me something to think about.”
There was an awkward moment as I wrestled with my coat. One of the sleeves was partially inside out, and as I tried to punch my arm through it, I realized I looked like someone writhing in a straitjacket. Not a sight, I realized, Chris would ever be treated to on dates with hot young starlets styled flawlessly by Rachel Zoe. Because by now, those were surely the girls he was dating.
As we made our way to the front of the coffee shop, a female customer, clearly recognizing Chris, went bug-eyed at the sight of him.
“I guess you get that a lot now,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he said. “People sometimes insist we met at a party when they don’t realize they actually know me from the tube. It’s not a pain yet or too intrusive. But all it would take is one date with someone like Blake Lively or Jessica Biel—and my life as I know it would be over.”
“Or one of the Kardashians,” I said, smiling.
“Excuse me for not inquiring about your love life,” he said after a few moments, “but I’ll spare myself the torture.” We were outside now, on the sidewalk in front of my building.
“Chris, you could have anyone in the world you wanted.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he said, smiling ruefully. “But you’re the one who knocked my socks off, Bailey.” He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek again, but more tenderly this time, placing one hand on my shoulder as he did.
“If I think of anything, I’ll call you, okay?” he said.
With that he sprinted toward Broadway. I watched as he flagged down a cab and slid in effortlessly.
And then I heard my name called. Startled, I spun around. To my utter shock, Beau was standing behind me.
“Wh—what are you doing here?” I stammered. He was wearing a long camel-colored overcoat and a brown scarf wrapped around his neck.
“It’s almost eight o’clock,” he said with frustration. “We agreed to meet now.”
“But I thought I was coming to your place,” I told him. I realized suddenly that we had never really nailed down the details.
“Whatever,” he said dismissively. He seemed pissed, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why. “That guy there. Isn’t that the actor you were seeing?”