Chapter 3

IDEAS FOR FUTURELove episodes kept churning in my brain. I’d finished editing but couldn’t fall asleep, so I gave up trying. I got up and turned on the Home Shopping Network to see if my favorite designer, Terry Lewis, had figured out something new to do with suede. Head writers on daytime dramas make a lot of money, but it’s hard to find time to spend it. I buy all my clothes in the middle of the night from fashion shows on Home Shopping and QVC.

Just as I was falling asleep at last, the phone rang. I checked the glowing red numbers on the face of my clock radio—ten minutes after three. I picked up the receiver and mumbled a less than gracious “hello.”

“Morgan, Rick Spencer here.” I heard distress in his voice. Rick Spencer is an ambitious young network executive who works directly under Damon Radford. He’s so eternally fawning to our boss I once joked to Harrison that Rick was playing “Eve Harrington” to Damon’s “Margo Channing.” Harrison reminded me “Eve” ended up helpless in the power of “Addison DeWitt,” Damon’s personal hero in the movie.

“Rick, what’s the matter?” I asked, and sat up.

“There’s been an accident. Damon, and Cybelle Carter—”

Cybelle was currently the most popular actress on Love of My Life. The fact that she was with Damon Radford was a shock, but I wasn’t in the backstage gossip loop.

“What happened?”

“Damon took her to a Broadway musical she wanted to see, then they went to that new comedy club—Belly-laughs—on Sixty-Third and Columbus. They were crossing the street and a car struck them both. A speeder. Hit and run.”

“Oh my God.” I was standing up and pulling off my pajama bottoms. “How are they?”

“It’s bad, but they’ll live. Damon wants you to get over here ASAP. Metropolitan Hospital. Seventh floor—East.”

Seven East is the celebrity wing, complete with first-rate doctors on call twenty-four–seven and security guards the size of NFL linebackers. “I’ll be right there,” I said as I pulled my Bruce Lee T-shirt over my head. I threw on the nearest pair of black jeans, ankle boots and a dark green Terry Lewis suede blazer and was out of the apartment in five minutes. I wasn’t worried about Damon. My concern was for Cybelle, personally, and for the show. Cybelle’s role, “Kira,” was on the front burner right now. She had four big emotional scenes scheduled to tape tomorrow.

Today.

RICK SPENCER IS so young looking that I always expect to see a retainer when he opens his mouth. I dislike Rick, and I have found it difficult to look at him ever since a night at Damon’s apartment several months ago, when he helped to humiliate another human being. Fortunately, Tommy Zenos has most of the contact with “Little Ricky.” Next to Rick was Nathan Hughes, the network’s Chief of Public Relations. Nathan is perfect casting visually, with his silver hair, high forehead and dignified bearing of an ambassador. His manner was professionally cool and enigmatic, but I could tell the wheels in his mind were turning at warp speed, planning to spin this story to reflect glory on Damon and Cybelle should anything sordid come to light. I like Nathan because he’s good to the people who work for him.

The third man to greet me as I exited the elevator to Seven East was Johnny Isaac, Cybelle’s agent. Somewhere in his forties, he’s short, shaves his well-shaped head, is wiry and tough as stainless steel. According to the Page 6 gossip column in the New York Post, he’s also a self-appointed gladiator in charge of protecting her from bad men. Somehow Cybelle had slipped his leash and spent at least this evening with the worst of the bad.

“You’ve got a lot of rewriting to do quick,” Rick said, instead of hello. He was trying to assume command of the situation, but instead of sounding authoritative he just sounded petulant.

“I’ve been thinking about that since you called, Rick. I’ll work it out.”

On my way over, I wondered what Cybelle was doing out so late the night before such a heavy tape day, but there really wasn’t time to speculate. I had a lot of revising to do if the show had to tape around her for any length of time.

“Her right leg’s broken,” Johnny Isaac said, his voice a monotone. His face was immobile, his dark eyes impossible to read.

Rick added, “She’s going to be in a cast for six weeks.”

“Look on the bright side, guys.” I tried to lighten the mood. “If she’d gone home with Damon, she could have ended up in a cast for six months.”

Nathan whipped his head around so fast to see if anyone had overheard, I thought his neck might crack. “Don’t say things like that!” he snapped.

My attempt at humor was in bad taste, I admit, but based on ugly truth. Damon was known in our tight little circle for physically abusing his women on occasion. Nathan Hughes managed to keep those episodes out of the gossip columns.

The bell over the main public elevator rang and two men got off.

The younger one was in his late thirties, over six feet tall and had a broad chest and well-muscled arms. He wore a pale blue shirt, with a dark blue tie. His gray tweed sports jacket was off-the-rack but well-cut, and he inhabited his clothes with ease. He had brown eyes with glints of amber. A mass of dark, Mediterranean hair covered his head and curled around his ears; he looked as though he was a week overdue for a haircut.

The older man was probably closer to fifty than forty. He had brown eyes, and what little was left of his hair was cut into a short fringe around the back of his head. No taller than five feet nine, this man weighed over two hundred pounds and looked like his favorite sport was eating. Sartorially speaking, he was a little more than rumpled, a little less than sloppy. The middle button on his dark brown jacket was missing, and his emerald green tie was knotted so ineptly it looked as though he had dressed in the dark.

I had written enough cop scenes to recognize plainclothes detectives when I saw them. Their arrival puzzled me; I had expected uniformed officers.

Nathan Hughes signaled the two men over with a wave and they headed in our direction. They flashed their badges as the older man introduced them both. “I’m Detective Flynn. This is Detective Phoenix. We’re from the Twentieth Precinct. Homicide.”

I felt my eyebrows shoot up toward my hairline. Homicide?

Nathan did the honors introducing our group, then he got right to his primary concern. Equating greater age with greater importance, he addressed the older man. “How can we keep this quiet, Detective Flynn?”

Detective Flynn took a moment while he squinted at us like a jeweler searching for flaws in suspicious-looking stones. “You can’t,” he said finally.

“Why are homicide detectives investigating a traffic accident?” I asked.

Detective Phoenix answered me. “The car that struck Mr. Radford and Ms. Carter didn’t stop.” He paused before he added, “We have a witness who says the vehicle speeded up and hit them deliberately.”

I was stunned. “Somebody tried to kill him? I mean tried to kill them?”

My slip—assuming the target had to be Damon—did not go unnoticed. Five pairs of eyes were staring at me. I decided now was not the time to mention my personal fantasy of running Damon Radford over with heavy farm equipment.

“Does Mr. Radford have any enemies?” Detective Flynn asked.

I wanted to say, “Open the Manhattan telephone directory and start with A,” but I kept silent.

Nathan did his diplomatic best. Assuming his most avuncular tone, he said, “Damon Radford runs an important division of the Global Broadcasting Network. He’s the head of daytime programming, and he’s quite likely to be the next president of GBN.”

That was news to me. Bad news. The more power Damon had, the more difficult he could make my life. On the other hand, perhaps that promotion would mean he would move to California?

“But enemies who might kill him?” Nathan managed to look incredulous. “Of course not.”

His was a performance that deserved an Emmy.

“What about Ms. Carter?”

“Everybody loves Cybelle,” I said. “She’s sweet and unpretentious and undemanding.” I did not add what I was thinking: And if she’s spending after-hours time with Damon, she must have an I.Q. no larger than her bra size.

“Did your witness manage to get the car’s license plate?” Rick asked.

“A partial. We’re checking it out.”

Detective Phoenix had been watching Johnny Isaac, who had yet to say a word to them. “Do you know anything that could help us, Mr. Isaac?”

“No.”

I could tell the two detectives didn’t believe him. I realized I didn’t believe him either. I wondered what he knew, or suspected.

“Just for the record,” Detective Flynn said casually as he opened his notebook, ready to write, “where were each of you earlier this evening?”

“Home,” Rick replied. “Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” As he said this, the fingertips of Rick’s right hand went up to his mouth and I saw he was biting his nails.

“Mr. Hughes?”

“Home.”

“Alone?”

“No, I was with my wife.”

“Mr. Isaac?”

“Home alone.”

“Ms. Tyler?”

“Watching the Home Shopping Network. Alone.”

Detective Phoenix couldn’t suppress a tiny smile. “Did you buy anything?”

“Oh—you mean did I call up to buy something so my telephone records would prove I was home? No, I didn’t. I didn’t call anyone tonight.”

Five men looked at me again. Phoenix looked with curiosity, Flynn with suspicion and Rick with bewilderment. From the expression on Nathan Hughes’s face, it seemed as though he thought I might be the next problem he would have to solve. Johnny Isaac’s reaction was the one that surprised me; he was watching me with amusement. It was the first unguarded expression I had seen on his face, and it told me that he was vulnerable under his tough-guy armor. Suddenly my heart went out to him; in Beauty and the Beast stories, I’ve always been on the side of the Beast.

“I realize,” I said to the detectives, “that a normal person probably wouldn’t know a detail like that, but knowing that sort of thing is part of my job.”

Detective Flynn was skeptical. “What kind of job is that?”

“I create stories for the daytime TV drama Love of My Life.”

“My wife watches that,” Detective Flynn said. “She likes it—she keeps talking about some guy named ‘Cody.’ ”

“So does my aunt,” Detective Phoenix said.

This was shaping up to be a long night.