“A smoke screen. It didn’t last.
“Several months ago, a few days into the filming of her next great movie, one of the producers found her confused, her speech slurred, in the back of her million-dollar bus. Her team moved in. Citing ‘mislabeled medication.’ A quick relapse. Another stint in therapy. This one longer, more expensive. More difficult to hide. As was the scar on her wrist. The producer empathized, even apologized, but found another star. An up-and-comer. Her people filed a lawsuit against the maker of the drug. Another press release: ‘She is unfortunately the victim of someone’s neglect. Her team of lawyers will handle that. Now, she is spending time recuperating. Reading scripts. Focusing on what’s important.’ A plastic surgeon was employed to mask the ‘accident’ on her arm.”
It didn’t take a genius to understand that Steady was telling a story he had lived. Had invested in. His tone told me he relished in the memory of some of the moments, but winced in the recollection of others. A retelling that was both satisfying and painful. He continued, “Home again. A much needed vacation. I helped her find an oceanfront villa in Miami—” Another point out the passenger’s side window. “With acreage, a twelve-foot-spiked coquina fence, and more security cameras than she could count. Months passed in freedom. Glimpses of normality. No spotlight. Few headlines. Moments of anonymity. She’d wrap a scarf around her face, don sunglasses, and come see me several times a week.
“Clean once again, her people stepped in. Her ‘handlers’ felt it was time. Play offense. Tell her side. ‘Control the news rather than suffer it.’ They figured the way to do that was to publish her authorized biography. I disagreed, felt they were pushing her too soon, that she was still too fragile, but word was leaked to publishers. New York came frothing. An auction was held. A seven-figure advance. Writers were interviewed. She was introduced to a writer. Told she could trust him. I told her she could not but she is not the best judge of men. Anyway, he listened thoughtfully, convinced her he was different, compassionately poured more wine. So she agreed, and started at the beginning, telling him ‘her story.’ When he had enough, he transcribed his recordings, penned his tale, and skipped town. Took her story with him. An insider’s view. Sold it to the highest bidder. Millions. He made the rounds. All the late-night shows. The networks. His book is called The Ice Queen and is currently climbing the New York Times list.
“Because she is headstrong, fiercely determined, and—I think—because she is not about to be outdone by a liar with a pen, she accepted a role for the stage, saying, ‘The role I was born to play.’ Publicists worked the frenzy around the clock. The much-awaited triumphant return.” Steady shook his head in retrospect. “She can fool the faceless masses who throw flowers and praise and promise love untold, and she can pacify her handlers, but not me. That book did more damage than she let on. A crack in her dam. I told them so but they like the money she makes them and the power she gives them.
“With the audience seated, the orchestra tuned, the curtain string taut, the spotlight searching, she walked out on stage, a standing ovation. A triumphant return. But it was not enough. When they quieted, the music grew, rising, the audience on the edge of their seats.” His voice softened. “I know. I was there.
“She looked around, measured her life, and found herself wanting. She did not open her mouth. No sound. No lines.
“A knee buckled. Unsteadiness in her eyes. She glanced at me, then gathered herself, turned, and silently walked out of the spotlight. Moments later, a stranger appeared. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re terribly sorry. Our star has taken ill.’
“She was sick, all right.
“I found her in the bathroom of her suite with an empty pill bottle. I dialed 911 and held her while her breathing grew shallow. I had just started CPR when the paramedics arrived. They rolled her out the hotel lobby. Naked beneath the sheet. An oxygen mask, IV, a medic charging the defibrillator. White paddles held in the air.” Steady’s face grew tense. No longer retelling, he was reliving. His voice cracked. “Between the double doors leading to the street and a throng of people, the paramedic shouted, ‘Clear!’ and her body jumped.”
Steady shook his head and oncoming headlights exposed the tears in his eyes. “No plastic surgeon would hide this.
“I sat with her that night. When I walked the hall for coffee around three a.m., stretched my legs, the paparazzi paid off one of the nurses. I don’t know how many pictures he took, but based on what I’ve seen, it was a lot.
“The next morning—I saw it in her eyes. She was empty. Sucked dry. Played out.” He recrossed his legs. “I walked downstairs for some antacids and one of the headlines at the checkout read THE LAST GASPS OF A BROKEN, AND REBROKEN, HEART.” A false chuckle. “For once, they’d gotten it right.” He waited while his words sank in. Then with a deliberateness I seldom saw, he said, “That was three weeks ago today.”
I waited, allowing the hurt to ease. “How do you know all this?”
“I met her when she was just a kid. Still undiscovered. I knew the owner of a theater on the mile so I got her an audition. That was some twenty years ago.”
I knew the answer but I asked anyway. “You feel responsible?”
A long pause. He whispered, “Yes, although—” A glance at me. “I am realistic about my ability to control another’s actions.”
“Does ‘she’ have a name?”
Steady waited, then said the name both with admiration and discomfort. “Katie Quinn.”
Steady fell silent. Sky Seven towered before us.
CHAPTER FOUR
Miami is something of a New York City of the South mixed with a Cuba of the North. That makes for an interesting blend of cultures. Along with some really good food. For the young, nightlife is hopping and there are enough clubs to frequent a new one every night of the month. For the wealthy, oceanfront parties in fifteen-thousand-square-foot villas are the norm. Yachts average seventy-five feet, and can stretch to a hundred and twenty plus. Once in, keeping up with the Joneses is a full-time occupation. For some, an occupational hazard.
In South Florida, much of life revolves around the water. Most everybody owns a boat or two and a couple of Jet Skis. Empty trailers are common yard art, and in many cases, a person’s boat costs more than their car. Weekends are not a question of what you’re doing, but where (on the water) you’re going.
Sky Seven is a waterfront high-rise where villas start in the “you can’t afford it” range extending into the “don’t even think about it” stratosphere. High-fenced, and gated, the property is patrolled by a team of ex-military wearing suits and earpieces who’ve found their retirement gig babysitting the über-wealthy.
A block away, Steady took the wheel and told me to slide down between the rear seats. Out of view. I didn’t argue. We pulled up to the gate and a chiseled man with a flattop approached the driver’s side door. Through the trees, Key Biscayne shimmered. Down the street to our left, a crowd of paparazzi stood in a narrow stretch of public parking access. Tripod-mounted cameras pointed at the top floor. One reporter stood illuminated, talking into the camera, Sky Seven serving as the background. The thought that Katie Quinn might actually be in the building had them in a feeding frenzy.
The guard shined his light and nodded. “Merry Christmas, Father.” He punched a button on the wall, the gate lifted, and he waved us through in a reverse salute of sorts.
Steady extended his hand, touching the four imaginary corners of the cross, blessing the instantly penitent man, and returned to the wheel. We idled through and the lights of the gatehouse passed. I whispered, “They know you?”
He shrugged. “I make house calls sometimes.”
“You mean you come all the way out here to hear her confession?”
After we drove through the gate, he turned. Stern face. “I carry the stretcher to the wounded.”
“What about me?”
“You’re not crippled.”
“What am I?”
He glanced in the re
arview, eyeing the restless crowd across the street. “Stubborn.”
A marina was stuffed full of oversize boats and empty of the people who owned them. Many of the sailboats had converted their masts into fifty-foot, twinkling trees. Single man-size stars clung to the satellite dishes of most of the yachts. Several had continual music playing and one gargantuan boat had twelve life-size reindeer pulling Santa and his sleigh atop the helicopter deck. I scratched my head. Strange to be so lit up and yet so devoid of people.
Steady pointed and said she owned a boat. “One of those fast, cigarette things.” He snapped his fingers. “The name is something catchy.”
We drove into the garage and parked near the elevator. We found her black, tinted-window Range Rover parked in her spot. Unlocked and un-womanned. Steady touched the hood. “The engine’s still warm.”
We boarded the elevator and the doors shut. I asked, “Which floor?”
Steady inserted his key, turned it, and nodded. “The top.”
The directory listed five villas on the top floor. “Which one?”
“All of them.”
“She owns the whole floor?”
He nodded and watched the digital numbers climb on the wall display.
We rode to the top in silence. When the doors opened again, one enormous, dark wooden door stood opposite us. Think castle gate. The thing must have been twelve feet tall and the handle probably weighed twenty pounds.
We let ourselves in. Steady first, then me. A cross breeze sucked through the door as we entered, suggesting another door was open elsewhere. He stood listening, then muttered under his breath. “That’s bad.”
“What’s bad?”
“She likes to be…” He waved his hand in the air looking for the right word. “… Attended to. Normally, this place is crawling with people—waiting on her hand and foot. Cell phones growing out of their ears.”
The expanse was dark. Pin-drop quiet.
A light shone in the kitchen. On the table we found a “To Whoever Finds this Letter” letter. Steady picked it up, slid on his reading glasses, and read it. When finished, he set it down, folded his glasses, and stood thinking. Listening.
The interior space was huge. Ten thousand square feet or more. The floor was hard and slick. Maybe marble or tile. I could make out furniture across the room and a piano set against the far wall, which was made entirely of glass, giving an unobstructed view of the western side of Miami and the unlit Everglades beyond. I’d never seen anything like it.
The sliding glass stood open. While the east side of Sky Seven shimmered white and brilliant due to paparazzi and media crew searchlights, the west side stood dark. Silent. Whatever happened on the east side would be instantly public and, thanks to the Internet, worldwide in seconds. But whatever happened on the west side would not be known until daylight. Or later.
A sheer curtain waved gently across an opened sliding-glass door leading out to a porch with a western view, now encased in shadow and blackness. Steady looked at me, then back at the door.
We weaved our way through the three rooms between us and the door, stepping around the furniture. We approached slowly. Someone was muttering on the other side. Her voice shook.
A naked woman stood on the railing. Teetering. A rope around her neck. It trailed down her neck and spine, wrapped around her left hand, and ended at a coil below her. A strand of beads in the fingers of her right hand. I had almost cleared the door, when the woman stopped muttering. Her hands stopped moving. The distance was too great. I couldn’t reach her in time. Without a word, without so much as a hiccup, she stepped forward. Then she was gone.
Feathers make more noise when they fall.
I seized the rope. It wrapped around me like an anaconda, tightened on my arm, and launched me into the railing, threatening to pull my arm out of its socket. In the same instant, Steady grabbed the end with both hands, giving me just enough slack to unwrap my hands. When he let go, the rope slid another ten feet, peeling most of the skin off the insides of my hands.
I lay flat on the slick floor and pushed up with my legs, bracing myself against the underside of the railing. Had I not, she’d have pulled me over. I could see a flash of movement, her fingers grasping the rope. The blood in my hands made the rope slippery. Steady reached in, grabbed the rope, and we worked hand over hand to lift her back up.
The closer she got, the more I could feel her kicking and twitching. I felt like we could lift her to the railing, but I wasn’t sure how we’d get her over it. One of us would have to hold the rope while the other lifted her, or her body. I wasn’t sure Steady could do that.
I was wrong.
We got her within reach. I braced myself, nodded, and Steady stood. Between the columns, I could see her hands—both of which were gripping the rope above her, taking just enough of the weight of her body off her throat. Her expression was one of panic—of life slipping away. Or being taken. And her eyes were about to pop out of her head. She didn’t make a sound.
Steady leaned, grabbed her with his gnarled, arthritic hands, and pulled, drawing from a reservoir of strength I did not know he possessed. The rope fell slack, and she landed in a muted thud across his legs. He held her while I dug my fingers under the knot, and loosened the rope. I’ve never been married, never had children, and never witnessed one being born, but I am told that their first breath is an audible and unmistakable experience. The sound of her sucking in told me she was alive again.
Covered in coils of rope, my blood and sweat and maybe her urine, it struck me that this was not a publicity stunt. She’d not done this to attract attention. At least not while it was happening. I won’t speak to her motivation but this was intended as a private death, permanent and absolute, no do-over, and the world would deal with it long after she was gone.
For several minutes, the three of us lay exhausted on the balcony. I studied my stinging hands. In a sense, she was lucky the rope slid through them. Had I been able to grip the rope like a vise, the rope plus her weight would have snapped her neck. As it happened, it tightened gradually—allowing us time to pull her up.
Soon, the sobs came. Steady sat up, cradled her head, and wrapped her body in his robes. I uncoiled myself and lay staring at the stars above us. I tried to stand, but my legs were shaking so badly I decided against it.
I wanted to get out of there before someone found us. Accused us. Steady sat unfazed. Unmoving. She curled into a fetal position in his lap while he whispered in the air above her.
The circular burn around her neck was not going away any time soon. A tattoo sans ink. As were the burns on my hands. I made my way to the kitchen sink, ran cold water over the raw meat in my palms, and then handed a wet towel to Steady. He dabbed her neck. Soothing the skin.
She lay there, sobbing. Shaking uncontrollably. What I saw was not the woman who lit the silver screen, walked the red carpet, graced the cover of Vogue, People, or name your tabloid, but a broken human being at the bottom. I slid down the wall, and sat quietly, deciding something I’d long since suspected but never known for sure. Man, or woman, is not made to be worshipped. We are not physically cut out for it. Life in the spotlight, on the pedestal, at the top of the world was a lonely, singular, desolate, soul-killing place.
I whispered, “Shouldn’t we call somebody?”
He looked down at the scar on her wrist and the oozing burn on her neck. He shook his head. He stared out the window, and down at the lights of the dock. “We need to get her out of here without being seen by the sharks below. Get her someplace where she can have a few days anonymity. Peace.” He nodded. Like he’d made up his mind before we ever came up here. “Your place.”
“My place? Why my place? Take her to your place. Take her to a hotel. I’m getting out of here before somebody blames me—”
“ ’Cause nobody’ll find her with you and she needs that right now. And ’cause—”
Steady rarely, if ever, asked anything of me. “ ’Cause what?”
??
? ’Cause you don’t care who she is and don’t care to profit off this.”
I wasn’t getting out of this. I leaned my head against the wall. “Maybe we should ask her.”
He brushed the hair out of her face, whispered over her, and she pulled his hand across her heart and nodded.
He pointed at the kitchen. “The keys are hanging on a panel in the pantry. Only one with a floating key chain. The service elevator will spit you out the back of the building. Lower level parking deck. There’s an exit in the far corner. You can wind your way through the dark and avoid the crowd. We’ll be along in a few minutes. And”—a wrinkle appeared between his eyes—“don’t let anyone see you.”
I wanted to ask him how he knew all this but figured now wasn’t the time. As it turned out I was right because with little notice, she turned, lifted her head, and vomited all over the balcony. He waved me off, so as to protect her from any more embarrassment.
I studied the sleek paneled elevator as I stood inside, descending. No security emerged. People here valued their privacy. Downstairs, I crept out of the loading garage and around to the docks, which sat at the end of a long cul-de-sac and out of earshot. The crowd of news media and cameramen had started on eggnog and grown animated. Pointing at the top floor and talking loudly about the injustices of the rich, they were oblivious to what had been attempted and almost happened in the shadow of the western side. I had no desire to tell them so I wound my way to the back. A forty-something-foot, go-fast boat, probably worth well over a quarter of a million dollars, sat dry on a lift a few feet above the surface of the water. Even out of the water she looked fast. The name on the back read The Ice Queen.
This meant we were taking the long way home and it also meant no one would ever know. Hopping in that boat at this time of night and killing the running lights was like dropping off the face of the earth. Which, given what I’d just witnessed, wasn’t a bad idea. But none of that was my problem—or so I thought.