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41
Alex and Kent
East Sixty-Seventh Street
New York City
Thursday evening
Alex opened his front door, frowned at Kent, looked down at his Piaget watch. “What’s going on with you? Why did you call? You know I’m busy with the campaign. What is it?”
Kent stepped in, forcing Alex back. “We need to talk. Now. I wasn’t about to do it over the phone.”
Alex had never seen Kent look so upset. “All right, I can guess what this is about. It’s that bitch reporter, isn’t it? What did she do now?”
Kent followed Alex numbly into his newly redecorated black-and-white living room. It was signature Pamela, the walls stark white to match the carpet, the furniture all black, the only splashes of color a single blood-red pillow on the black leather sofa and the orange flames shooting up in the hearth. Even the paintings on the walls were lined up like soldiers, all of them white with a single black streak across the middle that lined up perfectly with the next canvas. Kent couldn’t look at them, they made him mildly nauseated. Alex claimed he liked the new look, but Kent didn’t believe him. Standing in this room Kent felt like the life was being leached out of him. He took off his coat, tossed it over the back of the sofa, and sat down. He picked up the red pillow, began fretting with the fringe. He managed to say calmly enough, “Not only the reporter. I couldn’t believe it, Alex. She brought Juliet to my office. Juliet!”
Alex eyed him. Kent looked pale, shaky. “Juliet? You’ve got to be kidding me. What did she want?”
Kent sat forward, squeezed the pillow between his hands. “They know, Alex, they know everything. They even claimed there was an FBI agent waiting outside.”
Alex felt a punch to the gut, but he wasn’t about to let Kent see it. He shrugged, looked dismissive. “Get a grip on yourself, that’s impossible. So Briscoe got Juliet to come to New York. Now, that does surprise me. Pleasant, shy, nonconfrontational Juliet. Wonders never cease. So what did she say to you, Kent? Wait up a minute, you need a drink first. You look like you’ve been shot.” Alex turned and walked to the glossy black sideboard, splashed whiskey into two glasses. He handed one to Kent, tapped his glass.
Kent downed the two fingers of whiskey in one gulp, savored the jolt of heat in his gut, and leaned back against the leather sofa. He hated he was afraid, hated it. He closed his eyes and saw Aolith—her face blurry from passing time—but there she was, excited, laughing up at him. Then he saw Mia Briscoe’s bruised face. His eyes flew open and he jerked forward. He saw Alex had moved to stand behind a winged chair, his whiskey in his left hand, looking impatient. With him? Of course with him.
Kent said, “Mia had bruises on her face, Alex; it was obvious she’d been hurt. I couldn’t believe it when she asked me which of us tried to run her over last night, you or me.”
Alex jerked back. “What? Run her down? That’s ridiculous. Sure, I saw the bruises. She told me it was an accident, most likely some drunk. Now she’s accusing one of us of trying to kill her? Why would either of us do that? That’s beyond stupid, it’s crazy. Kent, I’m running for mayor of New York City!”
He looked both insulted and disbelieving. Was Alex that good an actor? Kent could never be sure if Alex was telling the truth since they were three years old. He remembered the first girl Alex had roofied as a lark at Bennington. She was sixteen years old and her nickname was Perky. She’d been unconscious for eighteen hours, and it scared the crap out of everyone. But not Alex. Not that he let on anyway. When she surfaced, she didn’t remember a thing. Alex had calmly told Kent what he’d done then, that now he knew to use a smaller dose. The two of them could have at it, a banquet lay spread out in front of them. And Kent had gone along. No, Kent could never be sure if Alex was telling the truth. But to try to kill Mia Briscoe? Could he be that reckless?
Alex said finally, “So somehow Briscoe got Juliet to come to New York, got her to come see you. Tell me exactly what happened. And don’t tell me Juliet threatened to go public, accuse us.”
“She’s not the Juliet we knew two years ago, Alex.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“She was calm, angry at me, at you, for what we did to her. She seemed strong, more determined.”
“So she put on a good show, what with the reporter there propping her up.” Alex smirked. “It doesn’t matter; at her core Juliet is the same. Who she is will never change. I know she couldn’t handle going public, no way could she stand up to what would happen next. Her pleasant little world would crumble around her. Her career would go down the toilet. You know she’d never subject her parents to that kind of scandal.”
“You didn’t see her, Alex, you didn’t hear her speak.”
Alex actually laughed. “Juliet knows very well what I’d do if she went public. I’d tell the world she’s a bitter, vengeful woman and this is her revenge for my dumping her. I’d bury her, Kent, blow up her world. Don’t doubt it. I know she doesn’t.” He paused a moment, searched Kent’s face. “All right, tell me exactly what Juliet said to you.”
Was that worry Kent finally heard lurking under the bravado? “She accused me to my face of raping her, Alex, and she asked me why I did it. She said she knew why you’d raped her, for revenge, to humiliate her. Did you want her to remember, Alex? Did you lighten the roofie so you’d be able to look at her and smile later, knowing she wouldn’t say a word?”
Alex saluted him with his glass. “You have me there. Juliet was always about herself—just listen to me play, listen to all the people applaud me and worship me.” He took another sip of whiskey, shook his head. “You want the truth about Juliet? I thought she was a beautiful cow, exquisite to look at, like a beautiful painting to be admired, nothing more, but boring to be with, and as uptight as her mother. She and that ridiculous piano she polished herself every frigging day. What we did to her—it served its purpose. Don’t try to tell me now you didn’t want her, that you didn’t enjoy that gorgeous body. You had her two times.”
Kent said nothing.
Alex stepped away from the fireplace, looked off in the distance. He wondered again how Briscoe had gotten Juliet to New York. He’d have sworn Juliet would take what he and Kent did to her to the grave. He’d never underestimate Briscoe again. Briscoe had taken Juliet to see Kent first because she’d read him, seen what he was, and she’d used Juliet to frighten the spit out of him, hoping he’d break. And there he was, sitting in Alex’s living room, a scared little boy. Alex raised his glass and toasted it toward Kent, a smile playing on his mouth. He remembered taking Juliet, seeing how pliable she’d been. He remembered kissing her hard, biting her lip, not caring if he hurt her.
Kent said, “If she did go public, it would end your campaign. You’d be blackballed at the slightest hint from her of what we did.”
Alex said, “True enough. And yes, my parents would hate that, but they’d believe what I tell them, Kent. They’d back me to the hilt, particularly my father, and he’s the one who counts. Of course there wouldn’t be a trial, there’d only be speculation, and sooner or later it would all die down. You know as well as I do my family has the power and the money to spin anything Juliet accused me of. So stop your worrying, I don’t think she’ll say a word publicly. Not the Juliet then, not the Juliet now.”
He watched Kent worry the pillow fringe some more. How could he be so weak, like a hysterical woman? Alex took another small drink of his whiskey. “Kent, think about it. Even if Juliet did accuse us, Briscoe’s paper couldn’t print anything she said except as an allegation, without proof. And there is no proof and there never will be.” Still, he had to give Briscoe credit, figuring out what happened to Juliet, but he knew the only reason she’d been able to was those damned photos. She’d somehow put it together.
