Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

Fox smiled wanly. “They’re coming to take me away, ha ha, hee hee, ho ho.” Megan recognized the obscure novelty song of several decades previous. Rising from a matching leather armchair was Alan Ross, director of programming for KBS Television. He shot a pleading look at Fox. “Marshall.”

Fox lowered his boot to the floor. “Yes, dear,” he grumbled in a deliberately nasal monotone.

Ross stepped forward, hand extended. He aimed first for the senior detective. “Lieutenant Gallo. Nothing personal, but it would be nice if we could stop meeting like this. Thank you very much for coming.”

The two shook hands. Gallo nodded tersely. “This is Detective Lamb. She’s lead investigator in the Blair and Rossman killings.”

Riddick had stepped into the room. He took up a spot against the entry wall, arms crossed, a slightly bemused look on his face. Ross and Megan shook hands. “You both know Marshall, of course,” Ross said.

Fox rose from the couch, addressing Gallo: “No offense, Detective. But you probably could have gotten a lot more out of me the last time we met if you’d brought Miss Lamb along.” He crossed to the couple. “Marshall Fox, ma’am.”

“How do you do, Mr. Fox?”

“On balance? Does the phrase ‘I’d rather be having a voluntary root canal’ give you an idea?”

“Marshall.” Ross’s tone was a bit less pleading this time. The executive addressed the detectives. “Please have a seat. I know you two are busy. We’ll keep this as brief as possible.”

Riddick remained standing until the others had settled in. Taking an eye cue from Ross, the lawyer crossed to the couch, giving Fox a comradely pat on the knee as he sat down next to him.

The lawyer began. “Marshall has some information he would like to pass along to the authorities.” Fox opened his mouth to speak, but Riddick waved him off. “Hold up. Before Mr. Fox shares this information, we would like an assurance that this is a private conversation.”

“That’s fine,” Gallo said. “Except this isn’t a private conversation. Detective Lamb and I haven’t dropped by for tea. You have something you would like to share with us, Mr. Fox?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Riddick held his hands out as if a herd of cattle were bearing down on him. “Detective, we are making a voluntary statement here. On our own initiative. All we’re asking is that we don’t open the paper tomorrow and see the details of Mr. Fox’s statement splattered across the front page.”

“I’m not in the business of doing reporters’ work for them,” Gallo said.

“I’m not saying you specifically, Lieutenant.”

Gallo turned to Megan. She noted the light in his dark eyes. He said, “Are you and Jimmy Puck taking bubble baths together again, Detective Lamb?”

Megan had pulled out her notebook and flipped it open. She produced a ballpoint pen and clicked it. “I’m ready for your statement, Mr. Fox.”

Riddick blurted, “Wait. Hold on. We need to be on the same page here.” He turned to Ross. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Alan.”

Fox muttered, “I could use a drink,” and fell back on the couch, bringing his boot back to his knee and recommencing his excavation work.

Alan Ross cleared his throat. Megan had the sense that the executive had agreed to Riddick launching the conversation but was now pulling rank. The sense came as much from Ross as it did from the way in which Riddick let his arms drop to his sides with a poorly veiled petulance. If she needed confirmation, Fox provided it, mimicking Riddick with a pat to his knee.

Ross began. “Lieutenant Gallo, you know this from the last time we met. But for Detective Lamb’s edification, I am here as Marshall’s friend, not as a representative of the network. The network’s investment in Marshall as one of our most valuable talents is immaterial to my being here. I want there to be no sense of corporate coercion at play, you understand? I’m here on behalf of my friend. I probably don’t even have to be saying this, but just in case, I’d like us to at least be on that same page.”

He took the opportunity to give Zachary Riddick one of his repertoire’s less generous smiles, then continued, “My wife and I are responsible for Marshall having come to New York in the first place. I don’t think I’m betraying any confidences in telling you that Marshall has had more than his share of occasions over the past several years to wonder if gracing our city with his presence has been worth it to him in the big picture. Fame might look pretty fabulous from the outside, but Marshall will be the first to tell you that some of the costs can make a person wonder if it’s all worth it.”

From the couch, Fox cracked, “Alan, you’re going to make me cry.”

“Hold the tears, bubba.” Ross turned back to the detectives. “Lieutenant Gallo, Detective Lamb. I don’t mean to be making a speech here. I’ll shut up in a second. It’s just that you both know full well how huge Marshall is in the public eye. One of the downsides of being so huge is that you make an awfully easy target if someone decides it’s worth their while to take a shot at you.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “That’s what’s happened to Marshall.”

Gallo cut in. “Are you referring to the rumors, Mr. Ross?”

“The rumors?”

“About Mr. Fox and the Blair and Rossman killings.” Gallo turned to Fox. “No offense, but my wife and her cronies are thinking of checking you out for the Lindbergh baby at this point.”

Fox held up his hands. “Hey, I never touched the kid. I don’t even like kids.”

“We’re aware of those rumors, yes,” Ross said. “They’re part of the price of being a celebrity these days. But no. The reason we’ve asked you here concerns something more substantial. This isn’t about the Rossman woman at all, who, by the way, Marshall has no connection with whatsoever. Most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. This concerns Cynthia Blair.” He paused, looking at Fox.

“Go on,” Fox said. “Air the old dirty laundry. The world insists on knowing.”

Ross cleared his throat again. He looked pained. “We have good reason to believe that Marshall is the person responsible for Cynthia’s pregnancy.”

The room fell silent. Megan’s eyes were on her boss, who gave no outward indication of having even heard what Alan Ross had just said. Ross sent a sympathetic look Fox’s way. Almost a paternal look, like that of a disappointed but still supportive father.

Gallo spoke. “Is this true, Mr. Fox?”

The entertainer threw a look at Megan that was almost mischievous. He leaned back on the couch and tilted his head, looking up at the ceiling. He remained silent for several seconds, then exhaled loudly.

“Busted.”

THE AFFAIR HAD BEGUN some two and a half months before Cynthia Blair’s abrupt resignation as producer of Midnight with Marshall Fox . Not a soul on the staff had the vaguest clue. The outward behavior of the show’s star and its producer had not deviated one iota from its standard combative mode. If anything, on reflection, it might have seemed that the daily antagonistics between the two hardheaded personalities was spiking more than usual.

It had started, appropriately enough, with a fight. Fox, at his acerbic best, had tied his producer into ever more infuriating knots until, finally, she had exploded with clenched fists raining down on his head. This had been followed by a burst of angry tears. The simple ugly truth was that Cynthia Blair adored Marshall Fox-her dirty little secret. Herculean efforts notwithstanding, Cynthia had failed to convince herself that she was ever likely to meet another man with the same infuriatingly wonderful qualities as her colleague and erstwhile combatant. At the same time, he offended her in more ways than she could count. Talented, charming, smart, sexy and about as self-centered, arrogant and old-fashioned sexist as anyone she had ever laid eyes on. What Cynthia had hated the most was that from the moment she met him, he had been, for all his evident faults, consistently the single most vibrant person she had ever encountered. Marshall Fox made all the other men she dated bland and pale by comparison, even some of the otherwise considerably dynamic ones. It wasn’t fair. For Cynthia, the son of a bitch had become the gold standard. Damn it all to hell, no one else need apply.