On the Avenue by Antonio Pagliarulo

flatscreen blinked out, plunging the suite into semidarkness again. Breathing nervously, he raked both hands through his hair and stomped over to the nearest window. He stared down at the busy stretch of Fifth Avenue. Traffic. Lights. Ordinary cars. No police cruisers. He was about to make his way to the barfor a second martini when the suite's telephone rang. Cautiously, he picked it up.
    “Mr. Bleu?” a female voice said from the other end of the line. “This is the front desk calling. I wanted to let you know …” The woman's voice trailed off as background noise filtered through the receiver.
    “Yes?” Jeremy said impatiently. “What is it?”
    “Well, we thought you should know,” the woman continued. Her voice dropped into a whisper. “There are several reporters in the lobby demanding to speak to you.”
    “Don't you
dare
let them anywhere near those elevators!” Jeremy screamed. “Do you hear me?”
    “Yes, sir,” she replied nervously. “Yes. I—”
    “If even
one
reporter makes it up here and starts banging on my door, I'll have my publicist tear this place apart. I'll let the whole world know that you can't provide adequate security for your guests. Do you understand me?
Do you?
”
    “Yes, yes. Of course. I—”
    Jeremy slammed the phone down. He started pacing. The word was obviously out that he had run away from the Met only moments after discovering Zahara Bell's body. And if the press knew it, so did the police. He imagined them storming through the suite like wolves on the prowl, eager to tie his bad-boy image to a really bad situation.
    Why did you flee the crime scene, Mr. Bleu?
    Because I was scared,
Jeremy thought now, rehearsing for what would undoubtedly prove to be the most challenging role of his life.
I didn't know what else to do. It was fear. I'm still afraid, Officer. There's a killer on the loose.
    And what did you do after you left?
    I came back to my hotel room. The front desk saw me. People saw me.
    Did you know the victim?
    He would give them a slow, mournful nod.
Yes.
    And then what? Would it really be that easy? What if the cops started poking into his past and found the shit he didn't want them to find?
    He went to the bedroom and grabbed his pack of Nat Shermans off the nightstand. He lit up.
You didn't make any mistakes,
he assured himself.
No one will ever find out. Just stay calm.
He paced the room, puffing hard on the cigarette. When the image of Zahara Bell's twisted body flashed before his eyes again, he started. He shook his head. Then he raked his left hand across his neck and shoulder, wanting to squeeze the tension from his muscles. It was the precise moment his heart nearly exploded in his chest.
    Oh, shit. Please, don't let it be true.
    But it
was
true. Realizing his error, he stared frantically around the room, wondering what to do next.
    How could I have been so stupid? Why didn't I think before acting?
    He kept telling himself that maybe no one would notice. He hoped to God no one noticed. That was his only chance at escaping this ugly mess. Otherwise, in the morning, he would be
totally
behind bars.

5

Killer Couture
    It was all about staying cool. The girls had learned that lesson a long time ago. When scandal erupted and nasty rumors took flight, you had to toss your head back, drop your shoulders, and draw attention to the jewelry sparkling around your neck. Precious gems brightened even the most unflattering light.
    Madison knew this. She stood a few feet away from her sisters and Coco, her body turned purposefully toward the crowd that had gathered at the opposite end of the corridor. The Harry Winston chokerglittered on her neck like a disco ball. An intricate web of bright green emeralds and heart-shaped five carat sapphire stones, it was a rare work of art that never failed to attract dozens of admiring glances. Madison lifted her eyes nonchalantly to the ceiling and casually struck a pose. People were staring more than they were whispering,