Nancy Grace - Death on the D-List

“Well, that was nice, wasn’t it? I can just see you in a terrycloth robe and matching slippers…” Actually, she could see it.

“No! It wasn’t nice! It was awful! Because then, I saw not only lipstick, but urine on the terrycloth robe, Hailey! Lipstick and urine! On the robe on the Elite Level of the Pentagonian!”

“Oh, no!” Hailey had to hold in the laughter. But it was hard.

He went on. “ Anyway… about the show, this time will be different. We’ll put you in a studio all by yourself. You won’t even see Harry Todd. He’ll be in a completely different part of the building. He wants to apologize. Even if you don’t want to do it for me… don’t you want justice… You’re a crime victim. Don’t you remember what that felt like? What happened to you speaking for victims and all that? What happened to that? I thought you were actually dedicated to something. Do it for Will. It’s what he would want. ” Tony Russo blurted it out there on the sidewalk. It was his trump card, and he’d been waiting to play it.

Hailey stopped in her tracks and turned back to look at Russo. Normally, she would have been angry to be reminded of Will. But instead, it was like a dagger to her heart. Even now, she missed him so much it hurt.

By this time, she’d have been a mother, fixing dinner each night, helping with homework, reading stories before bed. Holding them, loving them, playing and laughing with her family that never was. No birthdays together, no pizza nights, no anniversaries with Will, shared with their children.

A gust of wind blew across the sidewalk.

“Okay. I will. I’ll do it.”

She turned and hailed a cab before anyone could see the tears spring to her eyes. She waved goodbye over her shoulder and stepped into the taxi.

THE PRENTISS LOVE SHOW HAD BEEN A HIT… A RATINGS MONSTER. But that didn’t stop Sookie Downs from staring miserably at the heap of clothes lying on the floor of her private dressing room at Bergdorf’s. They were all awful. She had a meeting in less than two hours with the president of GNE and had hoped she could find just the right outfit to impress him.

Not that she needed a dress to impress Noel Fryer. She’d done that when they were “dating,” to put it euphemistically. The affair ended badly, of course. Noel dumped her for one of the GNE receptionists, and Sookie had done her best to act nonchalant. It was years ago, but it still stung. He likely wouldn’t even notice her ensemble. No matter what the size, shape, color, whether a duchess or a secretary, an on-air anchor or the cleaning lady, Fryer loved the ladies.

Whatever. Sookie always had good luck when she mixed Noel Fryer with a Chanel miniskirt. Worked like a charm. With a red suede mini, she got her show budget nearly doubled. With a blue velvet micro paired with a gold chain belt, she got a splashy, new studio built for Todd, plus new backdrops for satellite guests in every bureau, Washington, L.A., New York, and Seattle.

Real proof of the power of the mini occurred just a few months ago. Sookie had made the horrendous trek, starting in the heated garage of her home in the Hamptons. Her mansion and waitstaff were all bankrolled by her hubby before he discovered his new girlfriend. He still had to pay for it no matter whom he was shacked up with, her lawyers made sure of that.

The brown-bricked behemoth stood wedged in between the fabulous estates of the president of Universal Studios and a Wall Street whiz who reportedly had over a billion stashed in Turks and Caicos. Sookie’s journey from there to Manhattan ended at the huge, glass entrance of GNE.

The trip was worth it. For that particular meeting with Fryer, she carefully chose a black leather miniskirt paired with a sheer, low-cut, leopard print top. And they did just what they were supposed to. That get-up got Harry Todd one hundred hours use of the GNE corporate jet of his choosing, of which Sookie herself usually “borrowed” about sixty hours to jet back and forth to L.A., to shop Rodeo Drive or whatever suited her fancy.

Today was a disaster. Not a single outfit worked. She’d started at Chanel, had her driver then stop at Gucci, and ended here at Bergdorf’s.

She was exhausted. If only the others knew what she went through to stay on top. She sat dejectedly in a soft, cushioned chair, staring at herself in the mirrors that surrounded her, rubbing her temples with her forefingers. At least her hair looked good. No dark brown roots tinged with gray peeking through the coppery red. She could have gone blonde all those years ago, but blonde was so… predictable. She’d have it blown out just before her meeting with Noel.

And from here, at least, she couldn’t see a single wrinkle. She admired her long, pale legs, stretched out in front of her. Contemplating her thighs, she knew she absolutely had to find a mini. The show depended on it.

Sookie’s cell rang. It was sitting there at her fingertips on a side table along with a clear glass of ice tea tinged with cinnamon that one of the salesgirls had brought her. Maybe it was Derek. He was always calling from unidentified numbers so his wife wouldn’t know where he was.

“Hello?” She gave it a breathless, mysterious quality as best she could after all she’d been through that morning.

A salesgirl poked her head in between the two heavy damask curtains. Sookie shot her a look that would have killed had it been a bullet. The girl ducked and ran back to the showroom floor. It was too early in the morning to have a purse thrown at her head. Last time Sookie was frustrated over her choices of couture, she’d momentarily “lost it” and sailed a Chanel clutch aimed at the attendant’s nose.

Luckily for both, she missed.

“Hello, Sookie?”

It wasn’t Derek. Where the hell was he? She’d specifically told him she’d be alone, away from the rabbit ears of her children, her domestic staff, and her ever-present personal assistants. One of the few places in the world she could truly be alone was in a Bergdorf’s changing room.

“Yes. What is it, Pressley?”

Pressley was her first and most intimate personal assistant. She served as an assistant, secretary, driver, girl Friday, and babysitter. Sookie managed to get her a supervising producer title and the fat salary that came with it, all courtesy of The Harry Todd Show .

The only thing Sookie hated about her was the fact she was stunningly beautiful. She was tall and slim, with dark hair so beautiful it didn’t need to be bleached blonde. And she was only twenty-three.

Dreadful in every respect.

If she hadn’t been so efficient and discreet, Sookie would have fired her long ago based on looks alone. Sookie knew Pressley desperately wanted to break into the TV business and would do whatever it took to please, all in the hopes that someday she really would be an actual producer.

“Noel’s late. I just heard from his assistant. He’s locked inside his condo again and he can’t get out. They had to call the guy that designed the security system to help him get out of his bathroom. It’ll probably be another two hours or so before he can get out thorough the powder room door and over to GNE.”

Sookie let loose a string of expletives. Pressley knew it was coming and held the phone a few inches back off her ear. This, by far, was not the first time Noel had trapped himself in his own condo.

When Noel Fryer was named president of GNE, his already engorged ego puffed up to a much more dangerous level. He became convinced he needed über-security, and contacted one of the most elite security mavens in the world, Einst Schlager.

Schlager worked most of his career in intelligence with the Israeli Army. He had consulted U.S. Special Ops and ultimately, went into private security. His security designs were found in embassies around the world, homes of reigning kings, princes, and dictators, private yachts of the mega-wealthy, and homes of private individuals that could afford him.