Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

Fox and Nikki rode aimlessly around Manhattan, drinking champagne and snorting lines of what Fox promised was the highest-quality pure cocaine. He was, if this was possible, even more charming and funny and sexy in person than he was on television. Nikki was amazed. He sounded like Lucky Dog. He really did sound the way he had in his e-mails. His e-mails. Marshall Fox. The real Marshall Fox.

“I’m going to spend the entire night pinching myself,” she declared as he filled her glass with more bubbly. “ Marshall fucking goddamn Lucky Dog Fox !” For the tenth time that night, she placed her fingers against his cheek. “You’re still real. I am blown away.”

At midnight, he had her between his legs. He watched Columbus Circle go by outside the tinted car windows as he hummed to himself, one hand lazily stirring the woman’s blond hair. Yessir. Lucky, lucky dog.

She had to know. She insisted on knowing. What in the world was going on here?

He explained. No, it had never crossed his mind to go dipping into the anonymous world of cyber-flirting and cybersex, not until the purported Marshall Fox Internet exchanges had erupted to become all the rage. He had found it amusing; witness his use of the craze on his show for a while there.

“Did you notice about when I stopped doing those bits?” he asked.

Nikki told him that the show was usually over by the time she got home. “I mean, I love it and all. I just don’t get to see it all the time.”

“We phased out a couple of months ago. I’d finally gotten curious and gone online. I knew most of the sites. My staff had been monitoring them all. I pulled the plug on the bits soon after you and I started going back and forth. I told my producer it was time to let it drop.”

The Town Car was cruising slowly up Central Park West. Nikki knew that the celebrity was separated from his wife and that he was living in one of these buildings here somewhere. She eyed him with suspicion. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Hooked up with someone like this.”

He raised his right hand. “I swear. Never. This is the very first time.”

She smoothed her skirt. “What if I really had been a dog? I mean, you know.”

“I knew you weren’t, sugar. I checked you out.”

She thought a moment. “Ruby’s.”

“I was parked outside. I got me a nice long look as you came up the block. Did you feel the binoculars on you?”

She giggled. “You’re a freak.”

“I liked.”

“Well, still, I could be a certified psycho. You know how this town is.”

Fox proceeded to tell her her full name, where she was born, her current address, where she worked, where she went to college, her Social Security number, even the date of her breast implant surgery and the name of the clinic that had performed the procedure.

Nikki’s jaw dropped. “Explain.”

Fox pressed a button on his armrest. “Danny? Miss Rossman thinks you are a shit for snooping into her life the way you did. I think she’s right. Though she does have to admit, you did great work on such short notice.”

The driver twisted around and gave a thumbs-up through the thick glass pane. Nikki saw his eyes drop down to her legs before they returned to the road.

Fox explained, “Danny followed you after you left the bookstore. I couldn’t exactly do it.” He laughed. “Jesus. We’re really talking cloak-and-dagger here, aren’t we? Anyway, he got hold of your name at Bloomingdale’s and then hustled to get all the rest of it. The man is good. No better assistant in the world. I’m sorry about the invasion of privacy. But hey, all’s well that ends well, as Billy Shakes likes to say.”

Fox’s apartment was in the San Remo on Central Park West. He directed Danny to take the two of them there, and Nikki stayed the night.

“We can do this straight or we can do this wild,” Fox said as he walked her through the spacious living room. “I’m not going to force anything on you. You’re very sweet, and God knows you’re very sexy, and I really do want to gobble up your sweet little ass. But I’m not going to push anything. I’m just happy that you’re here. You, me and no paparazzi. You can’t imagine how good it feels to have a secret. You’re gold to me, lady.”

Nikki remained silent as Fox began unbuttoning his shirt. He stepped closer to her. “Give me your hand, sweetie. I think we’re going to be fine.”

SEVEN NIGHTS SCATTERED throughout three weeks. Seven insane nights. Marshall Fox was a bad, bad boy, no question about it. Bad, bad, and good, good . Fox had a lot of ideas about how to spice things up in the bedroom-or, on one occasion, on the building’s rooftop garden. He was a fantastic lover, even without the toys he liked to bring in on the action. It could get rough sometimes before it was all over, sometimes more than Nikki might have preferred. But look who it was. He was famous. And he was choosing to do all this stuff with her .

And besides, the sex was-yep-cataclysmic.

He’d asked her that first night not to tell anyone what they were up to. “I need one damn thing to call my own, sweetie. Let’s make that you.”

THREE WEEKS AFTER their first date, the body of Cynthia Blair turned up dead in Central Park. She had been strangled and her body had been left at the base of Cleopatra’s Needle just behind the Metropolitan Museum. Nikki didn’t have a phone number where she could call Marshall. Even if she had, she wasn’t sure it would have been the right thing to do. But he wasn’t responding to her messages on his Lucky Dog e-dress. She felt like she was a million miles away from him.

Nikki watched Fox on television and she cried. He looked so lost. It was absurd to even try to do the show, she thought. Look at him. She wanted to hold him and comfort him. Poor baby, he was in such pain. She thought about just showing up at his building but decided that might be wrong. She’d just have to wait and hope that he still wanted to see her. At his request, she’d gone out after their last date and purchased that plaid wool skirt he’d jabbered on about. He’d wanted it for one of his games. Call me , she implored the television set. I’m here, honey. I’ll do anything you need me to do for you. Anything. You’re the boss. I’ll make you forget everything. I can do it .

Nine days after Cynthia Blair’s murder, he contacted her. E-mail. He wanted to see her. That night.

I need normal. Well, okay, you know me better than that. What I don’t need is all the crap that’s been going on this week. I need a break. I need a lucky break. You’re the one, babe. No one else in the whole damn world.

She wrote back immediately: Yes !

Excellent. Danny’ll fetch you at ten. And let’s go with the schoolgirl look. A little virgin sacrifice is good for the soul.

FRESHLY BATHED, Nikki headed down the steps at 9:50. Mrs. Campanella on the third floor was taking a bag of kitchen trash downstairs.

“Look at you, all dolled up. It’s my bedtime, and here you are going out dancing.”

Nikki offered to take the trash from her neighbor and throw it in the can outside the building’s front door. The woman waved her off.

“This is my exercise for the entire day, honey. The doctor says I need to keep active. I might still be climbing back up these stairs by the time you get back from your date.”

Nikki remembered that she had forgotten a sympathy card that she had bought for Cynthia Blair’s family. She wasn’t certain if it was right to ask Marshall to deliver it for her. She had signed it with her initials, followed by “Someone Who Cares,” but she wondered if what she was really doing was trying to score points with Fox. Still, she did feel horrible about what had happened to the woman. Nikki climbed the stairs back to her apartment and fetched the card. It was in a pale blue envelope. Mrs. Campanella was nearing the first floor by the time Nikki made it to the bottom.