Aspen the year before.
“
What
are you gonna do with
that
horrendous outfit?” Lex's hands flew to her throat in fear and shock.
But Madison didn't answer. Quickly, almost effortlessly, she slid into the jeans and pulled the sweater over her head. Then she went to the bureau in the far corner of her room and opened the bottom drawer; from it she grabbed a Yankees baseball cap. She flipped her long hair up and yanked the cap downover her head. Running back into the closet, she dug out a pair of brown Timberlands and jumped into them. In under a minute, she had transformed herself into a hapless-looking, boyish figure. The jeans were baggy and loose, and the sweater was bulky and completely missed the outline of her bust.
“Utterly tasteless, and just a little crude,” Park observed. “I don't even want to know what you're planning to do.”
“I'm planning to solve a murder before it nails us,” Madison said. “If I disguise myself enough, maybe I can sneak out of here and slip into the Pierre unnoticed.”
Lex's jaw dropped. “And then what? Jeremy Bleu will never agree to see you, and you won't get past security.”
“Look,” Madison said, whirling around to face her sisters. “We have to figure out what's going on here, and that means we have to work together to solve this crime. No one's going to do it for us. And we have to do it fast—before Dad gets wind of it, and before Mom hops on the next plane to New York.”
Park crossed her arms over her chest. A smug expression played on her face. “Even if Jeremy
is
guilty, you honestly think he's going to admit that he committed the crime? I mean, I totally agree with you that we should all be suspicious of his behavior tonight, but you're acting on impulse. And, mostimportant of all, you're
not
thinking the way a good detective would.”
Madison tensed. She had caught the unmistakable edge—the certainty—in Park's voice. That meant it was time to shut up and listen. Along with the ability to remain calm in the most trying of circumstances, Park had been blessed with the gift of insight: she could dissect a situation, turn the broken pieces around in her mind, and then link them back together again easily. Madison hated yielding to her younger sister, but given the confusion of the moment, she did just that.
Park was visibly pleased. She began pacing the floor, her strides fluid and assured. “Now,” she began, “detectives usually operate by the forty-eight-hour rule. They try to solve homicides in two days, because the trail goes cold after that. The most important person in an investigation isn't the killer— it's the victim. Most people are killed by people they totally know, so if you find out enough info about the victim, you're more than likely to find your way to the killer.” She stared at Lex, then Madison. “Get it?”
“But everybody knows the details of Zahara Bell's life,” Lex said. “She was a public figure.”
Park shook her head. “That doesn't matter. There are always skeletons in the closet, secrets that aren't meant to go public.”
“Or secrets that someone might kill for,” Madison chimed in. “Right?”
“Exactly.” Park smiled. “When you think about it, how much do we really know about Zahara Bell? Someone hated her enough to kill her, and that someone is using us like Wal-Mart dish towels to clean up the mess. Maybe Jeremy Bleu did kill her, but how would we ever prove it without evidence? What if we uncover info that leads us to someone else? If we're leaving here, we're going to Zahara Bell's apartment, not the Pierre.”
“She lived on West Fifty-sixth Street,” Madison said quietly. “Forty-one West Fifty-sixth Street.”
“Yeah, and the building is probably already crawling with cops!” Lex shrieked. “Are you two crazy? That's the apartment Zahara Bell spent most of her time in, and everybody knows that.”
“What do you mean?” Park asked, confused. “How many apartments did Zahara Bell
“
What
are you gonna do with
that
horrendous outfit?” Lex's hands flew to her throat in fear and shock.
But Madison didn't answer. Quickly, almost effortlessly, she slid into the jeans and pulled the sweater over her head. Then she went to the bureau in the far corner of her room and opened the bottom drawer; from it she grabbed a Yankees baseball cap. She flipped her long hair up and yanked the cap downover her head. Running back into the closet, she dug out a pair of brown Timberlands and jumped into them. In under a minute, she had transformed herself into a hapless-looking, boyish figure. The jeans were baggy and loose, and the sweater was bulky and completely missed the outline of her bust.
“Utterly tasteless, and just a little crude,” Park observed. “I don't even want to know what you're planning to do.”
“I'm planning to solve a murder before it nails us,” Madison said. “If I disguise myself enough, maybe I can sneak out of here and slip into the Pierre unnoticed.”
Lex's jaw dropped. “And then what? Jeremy Bleu will never agree to see you, and you won't get past security.”
“Look,” Madison said, whirling around to face her sisters. “We have to figure out what's going on here, and that means we have to work together to solve this crime. No one's going to do it for us. And we have to do it fast—before Dad gets wind of it, and before Mom hops on the next plane to New York.”
Park crossed her arms over her chest. A smug expression played on her face. “Even if Jeremy
is
guilty, you honestly think he's going to admit that he committed the crime? I mean, I totally agree with you that we should all be suspicious of his behavior tonight, but you're acting on impulse. And, mostimportant of all, you're
not
thinking the way a good detective would.”
Madison tensed. She had caught the unmistakable edge—the certainty—in Park's voice. That meant it was time to shut up and listen. Along with the ability to remain calm in the most trying of circumstances, Park had been blessed with the gift of insight: she could dissect a situation, turn the broken pieces around in her mind, and then link them back together again easily. Madison hated yielding to her younger sister, but given the confusion of the moment, she did just that.
Park was visibly pleased. She began pacing the floor, her strides fluid and assured. “Now,” she began, “detectives usually operate by the forty-eight-hour rule. They try to solve homicides in two days, because the trail goes cold after that. The most important person in an investigation isn't the killer— it's the victim. Most people are killed by people they totally know, so if you find out enough info about the victim, you're more than likely to find your way to the killer.” She stared at Lex, then Madison. “Get it?”
“But everybody knows the details of Zahara Bell's life,” Lex said. “She was a public figure.”
Park shook her head. “That doesn't matter. There are always skeletons in the closet, secrets that aren't meant to go public.”
“Or secrets that someone might kill for,” Madison chimed in. “Right?”
“Exactly.” Park smiled. “When you think about it, how much do we really know about Zahara Bell? Someone hated her enough to kill her, and that someone is using us like Wal-Mart dish towels to clean up the mess. Maybe Jeremy Bleu did kill her, but how would we ever prove it without evidence? What if we uncover info that leads us to someone else? If we're leaving here, we're going to Zahara Bell's apartment, not the Pierre.”
“She lived on West Fifty-sixth Street,” Madison said quietly. “Forty-one West Fifty-sixth Street.”
“Yeah, and the building is probably already crawling with cops!” Lex shrieked. “Are you two crazy? That's the apartment Zahara Bell spent most of her time in, and everybody knows that.”
“What do you mean?” Park asked, confused. “How many apartments did Zahara Bell
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