So Pretty It Hurts

“Yes,” I said. “That she had an abortion.”

Beau shook his head in near disbelief as he poured us each another glug of wine.

“So Devon Barr went through all the trouble of fertility treatments and then ended the pregnancy?” he said. “What kind of woman would do that?”

“A woman like Devon,” I said ruefully. “You know, my mother said something to me yesterday on the phone about how after you’ve had a baby, your life is never the same, and it’s been niggling at me ever since. Devon was totally narcissistic, someone who didn’t give a damn about anything other than her immediate gratification. And while being pregnant worked for her one moment, it didn’t the next. She was afraid that a baby would screw up the life she suddenly envisioned with Tommy.”

“But how would that circle back to Whitney as a suspect?”

“I have no freaking clue,” I said. “But if I’m right and Devon did have an abortion, maybe Whitney’s suspicions were raised for some reason, and in digging deeper, she found out Cap was the father. Perhaps the whole fertility treatment thing was a lie—something Devon made up as a smokescreen to cover up the fact that Cap was the father. And of course, maybe Cap killed Devon when he learned she’d aborted his child. God, my head hurts just thinking about this stuff.

“And,” I added, “there’s a problem with the idea of Whitney as the killer. She seems really caught up in the lifestyle she has with Cap, and she would have known that in murdering Devon, she was slaughtering the golden goose. And yet—I don’t know. I sense there’s something there, but I don’t know what yet.”

“Tell me who else you loaned your phone to.”

“Christian. I tossed it to him when the lights went out.”

“But wouldn’t he have been slaughtering the golden goose, too?”

“True, but Devon may have been holding something over him—something related to the modeling agency. Cap told me that Devon had a complaint she wanted him to share with the head of First Models, but he wouldn’t say what it was about. Maybe it involved Christian, and he was wise to her.”

“What could a model booker have done that would be so bad?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, “but my guess is that it would involve money.”

I was feeling a little anxious being on the current subject because the name Chris Wickersham seemed dangerously close to the surface. It wouldn’t be hard for Beau to guess that this is why I’d met up with Chris. Time to move off the topic.

“Would you mind if we hit the sack now?” I asked. “Every muscle in my body aches. I guess my lack of training as a hay-bale tosser has caught up with me.”

“Sure,” Beau said. “And why don’t I massage some of those achy muscles for you?” I accepted gratefully.

In the bedroom, Beau gently removed my clothes and lay me down on the bed for my massage. With his strong hands he started with my shoulders and back and eventually worked his way down my arms and legs. I concentrated on the sheer pleasure of the experience. Though ten minutes earlier sex was the furthest thing from my mind, feeling Beau’s hands on my naked body awoke something in me, and before long I felt a strong rush of desire. It was more than just physical. Mentally, I craved a kind of raw, intense connection with Beau. I eased onto my back and reached for him.

“You sure?” he asked in the darkness.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s almost a medical emergency.”

I awoke the next day at eight thirty to clinking and clanging sounds emanating from my kitchen, and when I padded out there, I found Beau making scrambled eggs. Over breakfast he asked what my next move would be as far as the case was concerned. I had thought about that as I was falling asleep the night before, and I realized I was stalled for the time being. I was anxious to look into the abortion theory as best as I could, but I wouldn’t be able to until Monday.

Beau suggested we spend a quiet day together. Still no follow-up on our “commitment” discussion, but I realized that because of what I’d been through, he wasn’t putting any pressure on me. We read the paper, ordered in lunch, and then took a long walk around the Village and a windy Washington Square Park. Every few moments, I found myself glancing over my shoulder. Despite the weather, people sat crouched over some of the chess tables or perched on the edge of the fountain. The killer had come after me twice, and I couldn’t help but worry there might be yet another attempt. After an early dinner on MacDougal Street, we headed back to my place, where Beau once again stayed the night.

We were both up early the next morning. Beau had meetings all day and said he might be hard to reach, but made me swear I’d leave messages letting him know whenever I went out. After he left, I cooled my heels for a while, and then, as soon as it was nine o’clock, I phoned the upstate coroner’s office. A secretary or receptionist answered, with a level of excitement in her voice that made me suspect I’d caught her in the midst of tabbing file folders.

“Good morning,” I said, “this is Belinda Hogan from the New York City Police press office. I’d like to talk to someone there about the Devon Barr autopsy. Who’s the best person?”

“That would be Hank—Hank Cleary,” the woman said. “But he’s not—oh wait, he’s back. I’ll put you through.”

“What can I do for you?” Cleary asked after I’d reintroduced myself. He was pleasant enough, but there was a hint of defensiveness in his tone.

“I wanted to pass along some information that I thought you should be aware of.”

“Okay,” he said, sounding wary now. “Shoot.”

“As you might expect, we’ve received a ton of calls down here from press snooping around. Mostly they’ve been interested in the anorexia angle. But late on Friday a reporter called and inquired if it was true that Devon Bar had had an abortion. I was surprised somebody on the outside would know that.”

That was a little trick I’d learned from an old reporter I’d once worked with. Sometimes statements worked better than questions when you were talking to people who were supposed to protect information.

“What are you suggesting exactly?” Cleary said.

“That you may have some loose lips up there. I’m not saying anyone leaked it to the press. Someone may have told a friend or family member, and then it got passed on from there. And it may have come from someplace else entirely—like her doctor’s office. But I thought you should be aware.”

“Well, I’m positive no one from this office blabbed it,” he said defensively. “We may not be city folks, but we know enough to keep our mouths shut on a confidential matter like that.”

Bingo. It sounded, at least, as if I’d been right—Devon had had an abortion. It fit with the spoiled, willful Devon I’d known briefly. She wanted what she wanted when she wanted it.

Next question to try to answer: Had Whitney learned of it somehow? I thought suddenly of something that Cap had said to me when I’d questioned him about his conversation in the woods with Devon. He’d told me he’d comforted Devon about losing the baby and mentioned to her that Whitney had spoken to the gynecologist. But still, this wasn’t leading anyplace.

I took a shower next, hoping that the warm water would not only soothe my still-aching muscles but help clear my head. I sensed that there was a thought just out of reach, pestering me the way a pebble in your shoe does—at first not so much, but after a while, to greater and greater distraction. As I was toweling off, I heard my phone ring. To my relief, it turned out to be Collinson.

“I’ve spoken to the troopers in Pennsylvania,” he said, “but I want to hear it from you.”

“Of course,” I said. “That’s why I left you the message. Did you not get it?”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.

I told him the story but didn’t whisper a word about the two suspects in my mind. It seemed unfair to throw them under the bus until I dug up more information.

“We’re going to be working with several different law enforcement agencies and giving this our full attention,” he said. “And I want you to butt out, Ms. Weggins. I appreciate your insights, but this is a police matter.”

“I hear you,” I said. That was my way of making it sound like I was taking his order while I really wasn’t.

The phone rang again as soon as I had disconnected the call. Jeez, I thought, was he checking to make sure that his lecture had sunk in? But it wasn’t Collinson. I froze as someone with a slight Texas twang said my name.