cordoned off and there were about ten police types milling around—some inside the yellow tape, some outside of it. Detective Tate left me outside the office while he conferred with one of the crime scene personnel inside, and then he motioned that I should enter. The surreally bright crime scene lights made it seem as if Mona’s office were being readied for a fashion shoot.
A young woman in an oversize navy blue jacket turned and looked at me. “You wanna indicate where you found the victim?” she asked.
“Her head was about an inch or two from the desk leg—in that direction,” I said, pointing. “I moved her about six inches away so that she wouldn’t bang her head.”
Speaking of Mona’s head, there was a big smear of blood on the beige carpet, and it glistened in the lights. I felt sick looking at it.
Tate led me out of the room. At first I thought he was walking me back to my seat, but we kept going and it became obvious that he was escorting me to the door. I was finally being sent on my way.
“Here’s my card,” Tate said, tugging it out of his wallet. “I want you to call me if anything occurs to you or if you notice anything odd at work this week.”
I nodded with all the enthusiasm I could muster, considering that I felt like shit.
“And one other thing. I don’t want you to speak to anyone about the specifics of what you saw in there tonight—is that clear? There may be certain details that we decide to hold back.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Fine,” he said, and then nodded at one of the patrol cops hovering nearby. “The officer will escort you out of the building so you don’t get hassled.”
He strode back toward the action, and the patrol cop stepped forward to play usher for me. As he pushed open the door to the reception area, I was startled by the scene that awaited us. More cops were congregated in the reception area and also by the door to
Track.
There was no longer any music, just the steady drone of a disgruntled crowd. Obviously, people were being held at
Track
until the police could interview each and every one of them.
But even more shocking was the scene that greeted me when I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby of the building. Through the glass windows to the street I could see throngs of people, including tons of press with cameras, standing behind blue police barricades. Mona, who had dispatched hordes of reporters and photographers around the world, had become the center of the kind of sizzling story that she always demanded they return with.
Though the noise of the crowd managed to permeate the lobby, it was muted and it wasn’t until the police officer opened the door that the full force of the din hit me. It was like that moment when you leave the relatively hushed customs area at an international airport and step into the cacophony of arrivals.
“How were you planning to get home?” the cop yelled over the noise.
“I guess I’ll just take a cab.”
“I better help you get one.”
He took my arm and ushered me through the gauntlet. Cameras snapped and reporters ambushed me with questions. “What’s going on up there?” “Did you see anything?” “Have the police arrested anyone?” “Who are
you
?”
This, I realized, was as close as I was ever going to get to being Nicole Kidman.
The cop hailed a cab and helped me inside. As soon as it was in motion, I fell back against the sticky leather seat, completely wiped. Five hours ago, my plans for the evening had entailed going out for dinner at an Italian restaurant in the Village, where I’d hoped to have the roasted game hen and a glass of super Tuscan. Instead I ended up finding my boss beaten and bloodied. I was also now smack in the middle of a criminal investigation. Yet even if I hadn’t stumbled onto that horrible scene tonight, the events would have caught up with me quickly. Tomorrow,
Buzz
would be a nuthouse as people reacted to the assault and worried about how Mona’s
A young woman in an oversize navy blue jacket turned and looked at me. “You wanna indicate where you found the victim?” she asked.
“Her head was about an inch or two from the desk leg—in that direction,” I said, pointing. “I moved her about six inches away so that she wouldn’t bang her head.”
Speaking of Mona’s head, there was a big smear of blood on the beige carpet, and it glistened in the lights. I felt sick looking at it.
Tate led me out of the room. At first I thought he was walking me back to my seat, but we kept going and it became obvious that he was escorting me to the door. I was finally being sent on my way.
“Here’s my card,” Tate said, tugging it out of his wallet. “I want you to call me if anything occurs to you or if you notice anything odd at work this week.”
I nodded with all the enthusiasm I could muster, considering that I felt like shit.
“And one other thing. I don’t want you to speak to anyone about the specifics of what you saw in there tonight—is that clear? There may be certain details that we decide to hold back.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Fine,” he said, and then nodded at one of the patrol cops hovering nearby. “The officer will escort you out of the building so you don’t get hassled.”
He strode back toward the action, and the patrol cop stepped forward to play usher for me. As he pushed open the door to the reception area, I was startled by the scene that awaited us. More cops were congregated in the reception area and also by the door to
Track.
There was no longer any music, just the steady drone of a disgruntled crowd. Obviously, people were being held at
Track
until the police could interview each and every one of them.
But even more shocking was the scene that greeted me when I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby of the building. Through the glass windows to the street I could see throngs of people, including tons of press with cameras, standing behind blue police barricades. Mona, who had dispatched hordes of reporters and photographers around the world, had become the center of the kind of sizzling story that she always demanded they return with.
Though the noise of the crowd managed to permeate the lobby, it was muted and it wasn’t until the police officer opened the door that the full force of the din hit me. It was like that moment when you leave the relatively hushed customs area at an international airport and step into the cacophony of arrivals.
“How were you planning to get home?” the cop yelled over the noise.
“I guess I’ll just take a cab.”
“I better help you get one.”
He took my arm and ushered me through the gauntlet. Cameras snapped and reporters ambushed me with questions. “What’s going on up there?” “Did you see anything?” “Have the police arrested anyone?” “Who are
you
?”
This, I realized, was as close as I was ever going to get to being Nicole Kidman.
The cop hailed a cab and helped me inside. As soon as it was in motion, I fell back against the sticky leather seat, completely wiped. Five hours ago, my plans for the evening had entailed going out for dinner at an Italian restaurant in the Village, where I’d hoped to have the roasted game hen and a glass of super Tuscan. Instead I ended up finding my boss beaten and bloodied. I was also now smack in the middle of a criminal investigation. Yet even if I hadn’t stumbled onto that horrible scene tonight, the events would have caught up with me quickly. Tomorrow,
Buzz
would be a nuthouse as people reacted to the assault and worried about how Mona’s
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