So Pretty It Hurts

That, I thought, ought to inspire a response. And it did. Ten minutes later Cap returned the call.

“If you’re calling to tell me about how Devon died, I already know. I’ve been in touch with the police today.”

“No, it’s something else. Something very important—and very private.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“I’d prefer not to discuss it on the phone. Can you meet me in person?”

“Why so cloak-and-dagger? What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain when I see you.”

“I’m meeting an associate for lunch on West Fifty-fifth Street. I’ll arrive early—at noon—and you can meet me there.” He gave me the name of the restaurant, not bothering with good-bye.

Worried about being late, I ended up at the restaurant ten minutes before Cap was slated to show. It was a small Italian place with mango-colored walls, just below street level. It was the kind of restaurant you saw in old movies about Manhattan. I wondered if he’d picked it for his lunch because he’d be under the radar with his guest compared to places like Michael’s and The Four Seasons.

Rather than sit at one of the tables, I slid onto a stool at the small bar and ordered a sparkling water. There weren’t any diners yet, and waiters moved silently about the room, needlessly adjusting fan-shaped mango-colored napkins and shrugging their shoulders at no one in particular.

Cap arrived just a few minutes later. He slipped off his camel-colored cashmere coat and turned it over to the coat-check girl. After spotting me at the bar, he made his way over.

“A pinot grigio,” he said to the bartender, lifting himself onto the stool next to me. He was wearing a perfectly fitted navy suit and crisp blue shirt, no tie. Though I’d been aware of his confident, powerful aura all weekend, the suit turned it up several notches.

“I appreciate you meeting me on such short notice,” I said. “And by the way, everything’s off the record.”

“I don’t have time for small talk, so please get right to the point,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Okay, fine,” I said. “I don’t have a super good feeling about this past weekend. I’m wondering if someone who knew about Devon’s eating disorder found a way to push her over the edge.”

“You mean egged her on?” he said sharply. “Encouraged her to be even thinner?”

I cocked my head. “Maybe,” I said. I hadn’t considered that idea, but regardless, I decided not to spell out my own theory in detail; it would give too much away.

“Why would someone do something horrible like that?”

“Because they wanted Devon out of the picture.”

“And something tells me you’ve got a theory about who did the pushing.”

“Actually, I don’t have a specific person in mind. But I do have a specific concern —and it involves you.”

His strong jaw clenched visibly.

“I know your magazine specializes in the preposterous,” he said after a moment, “but you seemed too smart to engage in that sort of thing. I hope to God you’re not implying that I had anything to do with Devon’s death. Besides my personal feelings toward her, she was my most successful client.”

“People often lose sight of one advantage when something more important is at stake.”

“You’ve totally lost me. What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“You were having an affair with Devon, weren’t you?”

He pulled his whole body back in surprise and his full, soft mouth dropped open. I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or just for show.

“You can’t be serious,” he exclaimed. “What on earth gave you that ridiculous idea?”

“I saw the two of you together—out on the deck on Friday night.”

“So? She was my client. I often had to speak to her privately.”

“It didn’t sound like a business discussion.”

“Were you spying on us?” He took a distracted sip of his wine and shook his head in disgust.

“I headed out to the deck that first night, not knowing you were there, and I heard a few snippets. It sounded as if she was pressuring you to talk to Whitney.”

He scrunched up his face as if trying to recall something.

“You said, ‘I will tell her, but the timing has got to be right,’ ” I said, prodding him.

His eyes shot back toward me.

“I did agree to tell someone something, but it wasn’t Whitney we were talking about. It was Barbara Dern, the head of Devon’s modeling agency. There were a few issues with the agency, and Devon wanted me to approach her about them. I was worried about the timing of doing it immediately before the album came out. I thought it could blow up in her face.”

“Okay, but that’s not the only evidence I have. You were seen kissing Devon in the woods.”

“What? That’s preposterous.” That was the second time Cap had used the word. “Who’s telling you this garbage?” There was nearly smoke coming out of the guy’s ears, and a few waiters were shooting looks in our direction.

“One of the other guests saw you talking to Devon in the woods on Saturday. You leaned down and kissed her. Later I saw her crying nearby, and she told me she was frightened.”

“I admit I talked to Devon privately in the woods that Saturday. I went looking for her to follow up on our conversation from the night before. But I certainly didn’t kiss her. I can’t believe someone is telling you these lies. Are you actually suggesting that I was having an affair with Devon, and when things weren’t going right, I decided to kill her by exacerbating her eating disorder?”

“That’s one possibility. The other is that Whitney did it. She may have discovered the affair. Did you know that when she was a television reporter, she did a story on anorexia? That means she’s familiar with the physical and psychological aspects of an eating disorder.”

“She also did a story on Middle Eastern food, but that doesn’t make her a damn terrorist. You better not be planning to print these total distortions. In my job I know an awful lot about libel and slander, and you’d be stepping on dangerous ground.”

“I’m not planning on reporting any of this at the moment,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. I had tried not to become flustered during the conversation, but it was tough, considering how agitated Cap was. “Like I said earlier, I had some concerns and I wanted to discuss them with you. If Devon was murdered, I want to know about it.”

“Who said I was kissing Devon in the woods? I want the name.”

“I was told in confidence.”

“You ought to know that you’re dealing with a complete and utter liar.”

“Were you privy to the fact that Devon was pregnant last year?”

His eyes registered awareness. But he jerked his head, a little surprised, it appeared, that I was privy to that fact.

“Yes, we knew. In fact, part of what I was doing in the woods was comforting Devon about that. She wanted a baby, and the miscarriage had been hard on her. But Whitney had talked to the doctor recently, and he was certain that there was every chance Devon could conceive again. I told Devon that. And don’t ask me who the father was. That’s private information.”

I didn’t say anything, just met his eyes and didn’t let go.

“Good God, you’re not thinking I’m the father, are you?” he said “If you start making ridiculous accusations in print about me, you’ll regret it.”

“You keep calling everything I saw preposterous, but it’s not hard to imagine you having an affair with Devon. Two attractive, successful people whose lives are entwined . . .”

He turned completely around and looked toward the door, obviously making sure his guest hadn’t arrived yet.