Friends & Fauxs Page 14

  “If only it were so simple.”

  “Reese, I’m going to ask you one more time. If you don’t answer you’re on your own here. I can’t help you if you don’t come clean, so for the last time, who is Rowe’s father?”

  Reese sighed and let go of the deep dark secret she’d held tight for so long. “It’s Max. Max is Rowe’s father.”

  “Oh, shit.” The words just came out of Gillian’s mouth unbidden, as she sank onto the sofa, in stunned disbelief.

  “I know. It’s fucked up. Lauren is going to kill me.”

  “Honey, after his shenanigans with Paulette, I don’t think Lauren will be too surprised or really care. The man is a whore.”

  “So what does that make me?” A tired smile crept across her face.

  “I refuse to judge you.”

  “It only happened once.” Reese shrugged. “We were both drunk one night and ran into each other at the bar at the Four Seasons. One thing led to another, and from there upstairs to a hotel room.

  “The next morning when I was sober, I immediately regretted it. To be honest, when I found out that I was pregnant, it really didn’t cross my mind that the baby could have been Max’s. I was too busy planning my wedding to Chris. The possibility didn’t hit me until Dr. Young started talking about needing DNA samples.”

  “You know what we have to do, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got to find Max.”

  “Does Lauren know where he is?”

  “I doubt it, but that won’t stop us; we’ll hire a private detective and do whatever we have to to save Rowe.”

  “Thank you,” Reese said, hugging Gillian close.

  “For what?”

  “For always being there for me.”

  “You’d do the same thing for me,” Gillian said.

  “I’d like to think so,” Reese said, “but with my track record, I’m not so sure. I couldn’t even do the right thing for my son.”

  “We are all a work in progress, no one is perfect, and that includes you, so lighten up and let’s find Max.”

  Chapter 33

  “Lauren, I refuse to believe that your mother, your prim, proper, Jack-and-Jill-founding-member mother, has been fucking Max for the last eight years! That is insane!” After Reese’s confession of Rowe’s paternity, Gillian thought that she’d heard it all. Max had officially slept with everyone in their group except her. And now Mildred? It was truly unbelievable.

  “I understand. If I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn’t believe it either.” Lauren was still in shock. Without being aware of them, tears welled up in her eyes and spilled out down her cheek. The hurt was so deep that she was nearly numbed by it. It was difficult for her to comprehend the depth of her mother’s betrayal.

  “Lauren, are you okay?” Gillian could hear the grief in her friend’s voice, even over the phone.

  “I’m okay,” she said unconvincingly “It’s just that everything I ever believed about my mom is a lie. I’ve always known that she was controlling and manipulative, but I also believed that she had my best interests at heart. I guess I was wrong there, too.”

  “You know that I know a little bit about manipulative mothers,” Gillian said, trying to lighten the mood a little. “Early on I came to the conclusion that mothers are just people who happened to have birthed other people, and sometimes we put more weight on that title than is warranted since anyone is capable of being a manipulative, selfish—”

  “Murderer?”

  “Now, Lauren, just because she’s a lying adulteress doesn’t exactly make her a murderer.”

  Lauren repeated the poisonous pillow talk that she’d overheard between Mildred and Max. “I just don’t know what to think. Clearly she hated Paulette not only for having the affair with Max, but for having his baby, and taking him from her, not to mention stealing the family’s money, which by the way, was returned to the estate after Paulette’s death. So, I say she wins the lottery for the person with the most motives for killing Paulette, especially if Paulette found out about her affair with Max. You know my cousin, she would definitely have held it over Mom’s head, and I’m sure that Mom would have done anything to keep that secret buried, including burying Paulette.”

  “What about Brandon? He also had a good motive, and mobster connections. We know that your mom was in New York, and it’s not as though she could flip through the yellow pages to find a killer.”

  “At this point I don’t put anything past my mother.”

  “Do you think Max was in on it with her?” Gillian asked.

  “It sure sounded that way to me. Speaking of Max, when I returned to the house today Mom showed me the latest round of photos from online, then told me that she recognized a mole on the hip of the man in the photo. Max has one just like it, so she concluded that you and he were having an affair.”

  “Is it Max?”

  “It looks like his body to me, but I’d trust my mother’s judgment, since she obviously knows it a whole lot better than I do,” Lauren smirked.

  “So, why would she tell you that?”

  “For one thing, at that point, she didn’t know that I knew of their affair so there was no risk in her mind, but the main reason was to come between us. She’s very jealous of our relationship, plus she was probably super-pissed at Max for betraying her yet again.”

  “I just thought of something,” Gillian said, suddenly excited. “If it is Max in those pictures, that means I might be able to get to the bottom of this mess after all.” Two birds, one stone, she thought. She could solve her problems and hopefully Reese’s at the same time.

  “That’s a good point.”

  “There’s something else I dread to tell you about Max,” Gillian said hesitantly.

  “Surely nothing could be worse than the fact that he’s been fucking my mother.”

  Gillian cut to the chase and blurted it out. “He’s the father of Reese’s son, Rowe.”

  “What! You’ve gotta be kidding!”

  “Afraid not. They had a drunken fling. She had a baby. And Chris footed the bill.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Lauren said, shaking her head.

  “That’s not all.”

  “Don’t tell me you slept with him, too?” Lauren teased.

  Gillian laughed. “That’s one claim to fame that I’m happy not to have title to.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Max may be Rowe’s only chance at a bone marrow transplant, so we have to find Max to save the boy’s life.”

  “Well, I heard my mom say that he’s in Atlanta, so it can’t be too hard. Let’s do it.”

  “But, I thought you were leaving for Africa in the morning.”

  “It can wait. My life and everyone else’s is in shambles and I need some closure before I leave. Hopefully by finding Max we can prove who killed Paulette, maybe figure out how and why and if he is sabotaging you, and hopefully save a life in the process.”

  “In that case, I’ll fly to New York tomorrow, and we’ll figure out where to go from here.”

  “Great. I’ve got a suite at the Gansevoort, so you can stay here with me.”

  “Cool. I’ll call you when I land.”

  If it weren’t for the fact that they were confronted with a deceitful, adulterous mother, a scheming ex-husband, an unsolved murder, and the sabotage of Gillian’s career, all with a child’s life hanging in the balance, it might have been like the pajama parties they had in the good ole days.

  Chapter 34

  Tyrone pimped down Madison Avenue, confident that those who saw him were in total awe. And he was right, but not for the reasons he suspected. While his daisy yellow three-piece suit and matching full-length fur coat and hat may have been all the rage in Detroit in the seventies, in the Big Apple circa 2009 they were simply outrageous.

  As he strolled along the avenue, with his coat swinging out behind him like Batman’s cape, he flashed glimpses of the custom neon-orange silk lining for a
ll to see. And see they did. Many stopped, stared, pointed, and gawked as though Tyrone were a newly discovered species fresh out of the Bronx Zoo.

  He turned into Barneys to the dismay of the doormen and the concierge who were all too shocked by his appearance and his gall at having darkened their doors to say or do anything except watch as the yellow fur floated along behind him. They wanted to stop him, call security, or slam the doors shut, anything to prevent the tacky man from polluting the ultrachic confines of Barneys New York, but it was too late, he’d rung the call button for the elevator.

  When he exited at the ninth floor and turned into Fred’s, the watering hole for wealthy East Side executives, socialites, and fashionistas after a grueling day of shopping, all eyes turned to him. The room took a collective breath, then held it, waiting to witness the unfolding drama. Surely something was about to happen.

  “I’s here to meet Mr. Brandon Russell,” he announced to the still-stunned hostess, as well as to the rest of the room.

  “Ah-ah, yes,” she stammered, desperate to compose herself. There was nothing in the training manual that told her what to do in the event someone so utterly tacky walked in during the height of lunchtime.

  While she was still figuring it out, Tyrone caught sight of Brandon cowering like a freshly beaten dog in a corner, trying his best to hide behind a menu. “There he is. I’ll seat myself,” Tyrone said to the speechless hostess and took off in Brandon’s direction with all eyes still tracking the blur of yellow.

  Brandon looked as though he were trying to figure out how his two-hundred-pound frame might somehow fit beneath a two-top table.

  “My man!” Tyrone exclaimed, reaching out for a high five.

  Brandon grabbed his hand and pulled him down into the chair opposite him. “What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed, while his eyes darted furtively around.

  “Whatchoo mean, what am I doing here? We gots serious business to discuss.”

  “Harold was supposed to be coming.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I thought this might be something best handled personally.” He took a seat and reared back in it, then crossed his yellow and white, two-toned gaiters.

  Brandon was furious; they’d agreed never to be seen in public together. He only met with Tyrone’s attorney, and then only if absolutely necessary. There was no question that he never would have been taken seriously as a businessman if his association with the notorious drug kingpin from Mississippi were known. Worse, he’d probably be in jail given the feds’ relentless investigation of him.

  “You know we shouldn’t be seen together?” Brandon hissed, glad he’d left his sunglasses in place. He was peering around the room and had already spotted Ron Pearlman at one table and Tracy Maitland at another, two very powerful and well-connected moguls in the city.

  “What? Now that yo missus is a big celebrity you too big for me?” Tyrone bristled.

  “That has nothing to do with it,” Brandon lied.

  “It has everything to do with it,” Tyrone said, leaning forward menacingly. “Because of Gillian, the heat’s been turned back up on this money laundering investigation, and me and the boys don’t like it. We let things slide when you lost the damned flash drive, trusting you that the situation was buttoned up, but now this publicist chick is stirring up more trouble.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got it under control,” Brandon said.

  “Somehow, it don’t quite seem that way, but I suggest that you get it under control fast, or I’ll handle things my way.”

  A chill ran down the length of Brandon’s back. Being threatened by Tyrone had a tendency to do that to the bravest of men. Though his visual image was cartoonish, underneath the double-breasted, pastel three-piece suit there was nothing funny. He was a ruthless gangster, capable of whatever was necessary; in fact, there was a rumor that he’d had a hit put on his own son for freelancing drugs in his territory.

  “I can assure you that won’t be necessary,” Brandon said. “I’ll tie up all the loose ends.”

  “You do that,” Tyrone said, squaring off the shoulders of his yellow mink, which he still wore, along with the hat.

  Brandon was sure that his presence at Fred’s was not a happenstance at all. Tyrone was sending the message that Brandon’s past was right around the corner and could be in his face at a moment’s notice. In other words, he could climb as far up the ladder as he wanted to, but his shady homeboys would always be just one rung away.

  Chapter 35

  Being the object of the story was so much more fun than merely reporting on it, Lydia mused. Now that she was the one being interviewed and her picture was running in article after article, even her good-for-nothing ex-fiancé had come slithering back and reproposed marriage. Everyone wanted to bask in the sunshine generated by a star, and that’s what Lydia was now, a star, a media darling, and—who knew—maybe she’d even win a Pulitzer prize.

  All of this glory was because of the little bitty zip drive that she’d accidentally found in Gillian’s boudoir during a photo shoot.

  While the stylist was busy steaming garments, Lydia suddenly remembered a funky pair of black suede boots that Gillian had that would be perfect with the outfit. Being the dutiful handholding publicist, she’d raced off to Gillian’s closet to fetch them from the top shelf. When she pulled them out of the box, she heard something moving around in the toe of one. After removing the drive and a note, a puzzled expression settled on her face. Her first impulse was to simply give them both to Gillian, and the boots to the stylist, but something told her to hang on to them, so she stuffed both into her bra, put the boots back on the shelf, and then returned to the shoot as if nothing had happened.

  Later that night, when she read Paulette’s blackmail note, a shiver ran down her spine. By the time she’d opened the drive and seen its contents, she knew two things to be true: one, that Brandon was guilty of the money laundering charges that had been rumored, and two, most likely he was also guilty of murder. He had every possible motive. Anyone involved with gangsters certainly wouldn’t be beyond killing a blackmailer to stay out of jail. Plus, Paulette’s car was parked in his garage just before the accident.

  Not sure what to do, she hid the evidence and decided to sleep on it. She knew that she should turn it over to the authorities, but also realized that if she did she’d be fired, losing her chance at the big times and most likely would be blackballed from the industry for snooping around a client’s personal belongings. As fate would have it, the next day the article about the Italian Stallion broke and Imelda fired her anyway.

  Lydia was devastated and thus saw no reason not to use the evidence to bring down the Russells and get the fame and fortune she deserved in the process.

  Her tell-all book was now more than half done, and though filled with half-truths and barely veiled innuendo, it made for juicy reading. She, or her team of investigators, had interviewed over two dozen people, and the plan was to release the contents of the zip drive to authorities during a big press conference the day before the book was scheduled to come to a Borders or Barnes & Noble near you. Until then she’d kept the zip drive and the note locked in a metal box hidden under her bed.

  Happy as a clam, she was ready to work on the manuscript for the next six hours, but first she needed a hit of cocaine to get the juices flowing. Fortunately her supplier, Randy, a dorky tech-type she’d met through a gay friend, was on his way over with enough blow to last her for at least a month.

  When her doorbell rang, Lydia had it open before the last ring tone faded. She knew immediately that something was very wrong. Randy wore a terrified expression on his face; he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Before Lydia could ask him what was wrong, he was shoved in past her, and a guy the size of a sumo wrestler, and a second guy who looked like a wired crack addict, stormed in behind him.

  “What the fuck—” she started, before the beefy stranger slammed the door shut and the smaller guy grabbed her in a flash and clasped a sweaty hand ov
er her mouth. Randy stood there in total shock with his eyes bulging out of his head. He hadn’t uttered a word since being accosted by the two thugs as soon as he got out of his car in front of Lydia’s. They obviously knew exactly where he was headed and why.

  Lydia twisted and turned trying to free herself. “We don’t want to hurt you, but we will,” the wiry guy hissed into her ear. She could smell his rancid, hot breath and wanted desperately to pull away. “We just want to have a conversation, that’s all. We can do this nice and easy, or we can be a bit more persuasive,” he threatened.

  At that, Sumo Guy flashed a menacing-looking knife with a sharp serrated blade, which got her full attention.

  “I’m gonna remove my hand, but if you make one noise that ain’t an answer to our question, we’ll introduce you and your punk-ass friend here to the tip of this blade.”

  When he took his hand away, Lydia was left gasping for air. Randy stood nearby shaking like a whore’s ass; his eyes were the size of silver dollars.

  Lydia tried gathering her racing thoughts to get a handle on what was going on and why. It seemed clear to her that this was not a drug heist; otherwise they would have simply taken what Randy had on him and not bothered involving another witness. With a feeling of dread she realized that she—not Randy—was the intended target. That’s when she also realized the seriousness of what she’d done by stealing evidence from a gangster, then threatening to go public with it. Lydia suddenly felt very nauseous.

  “I’ll only ask once. I need you to give us what you took from a friend of ours, and I think you know what I’m talking about.”

  Lydia simply nodded. There was no use playing games with these guys, she was way out of her league.

  “Take us to it,” he demanded.

  She led him into her bedroom, got on her knees, and pulled out the box. Without being asked Lydia put in the code and watched the door swing open. She reached in and felt both the note from Paulette and the flash drive, but on a whim she only pulled out the drive, leaving the note tucked safely inside. She reasoned they probably didn’t know about the copy of the blackmail letter, which had been handwritten by Paulette, so why give it up when she might need it for leverage one day.