“I know, but… damn.”
Another spectacular fall from grace, she thinks. Although, unlike Jason Mikaelson and all the other B-, C-, or D-listers Naomi usually covers, this is shocking. More shocking than Martha Stewart’s arrest, with potential to be as much of a media circus as the O.J. Simpson and Michael Jackson trials. Like them, Harlow Hayes seemed untouchable. Too famous and well-loved to find herself embroiled in something so horrifying. But maybe she’s hiding a dark secret too, like those before her. Allegedly.
“Anyway,” Joel continues, “we probably won’t know any more until she’s in front of a judge in New York—earliest tomorrow. They’ll have to make her arrest warrant public then. But it’s fucking bizarre we don’t know the victim yet.”
Naomi frowns, wondering who it could be. “Maybe it’s some big music industry exec. Gotta be someone powerful for them to keep it so private.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Or some other hotshot. I have one of my freelancers who used to work in politics asking around, seeing if there are any connections, especially to Washington. But I was hoping you could start looking into everything else.”
Naomi’s heart pounds. “Me?”
Joel laughs. “Yes, you. How ya feel about heading back to your old stomping ground, finding out what the fuck happened?”
Naomi hesitates, caught off-guard by the request. She moved to LA to get away from the pressure cooker she once called home.
“What about the guys in New York, though?”
Joel groans. “They’re all too green. We just lost Eddie to the Post and Macie is on maternity leave. This is obviously going to be a major story over the next couple of weeks, maybe even months if it goes to trial. I want someone I can trust on it, someone with investigative experience and sources, like you. Plus, you’re my best writer, on both coasts. In fact, I’m surprised every day you haven’t handed in your notice to go work for Vanity Fair or one of those other flashy places that steal all my best writers, so I gotta take advantage of having you while I still can. I know you might not want to go back, though, considering…”
Naomi’s stomach twists in knots.Considering the city is filled with memories of your dead sister, she imagines him saying.
Naomi’s younger sister and best friend Faye died two and a half years ago, after which Naomi moved to LA, choosing to escape rather than cope. Faye died of a drug overdose and smoke inhalation—the coroner apparently couldn’t pinpoint which one caused it, the drugs or the house fire—but she idolized Harlow Hayes. The memory of her stirs up an excitement Naomi hasn’t felt in years. Genuine intrigue in a story.
Plus, her sister would probably come back to haunt her if she turned it down.This isn’t some D-list celebrity, Naomi. This is Harlow-fucking-Hayes!
Naomi clears her throat before replying to Joel. “I’d like to cover it, actually. I’ll come.”
She’ll be going to Manhattan, not her depressing hometown upstate, so it’ll be fine. In the city, she can reconnect with former colleagues and friends, some of whom still double as sources. She’ll be so busy she won’t have time to wallow in the past. She starts making a mental list of people to reach out to, people who might have information, like her old college roommate Amelia, who works for a celebrity PR firm, and her friend Jessie, who works for a popular music publication and has connections in the industry.
“Really!?” Joel’s voice is tinged with relief and elation. “No one’s staying at my rental in Greenwich Village. So you can stay there if you want. As long as you need.”
If you want. Naomi tilts her head back, wanting to laugh at Joel’s nonchalance over his multi-million-dollar brownstone in Greenwich Village. Close to the shopping in SoHo, the clubs in Meatpacking, and a quick walk from the downtown office, it’s where Naomi always wanted to live but couldn’t afford.
“That would be incredible. Thanks.”
“Okay, I’ll get Angie to send you the apartment details and book you a flight,” Joel says. “Guessing it’ll probably be a red-eye tonight, so why don’t you finish up whatever you’re doing and head home to start packing?”
“What about the Dean Scuttle/Nicole Hare hearing? I’m supposed to be at the courthouse in, like…” she checks her watch, “a half hour to cover it.”
“Oh, that?” Naomi imagines Joel scrunching his face and waving his hand on the other end of the phone. “Give that to Jake or someone else.”
She cringes, not trusting Jake to cover it fairly since Dean Scuttle is one of his favorite actors. “Can I give it to Melanie? I know she’s only an editorial assistant, but I think she’s ready to take something like this on.”
“Sure, give it to whoever you want so long as I can get you on a plane today.”
“Okay.” Naomi exhales as she hangs up.
Everyone is silent, staring at her.
She sighs. “Guess I’m going to New York to find out who pissed off Harlow Hayes.”
*
Naomi doesn’t make it to her Toluca Lake apartment until 10:30 a.m., even though she left the Culver City office over an hour ago. She laughs at how she used to think New York traffic was bad. Sure, it was a pain, but LA traffic is a fresh sort of hell.
A yellow glow spotlights Naomi as she steps inside her second-floor dwelling. Twice the size of her former Brooklyn abode, the apartment seems bare, like she’s only just moved in. In New York, her pull-out futon, coffee table, and bean-bag chair would have been more than enough to fill up the space. But here, the apartment swallows the furniture—and her—whole. Like she’s a doll playing house rather than a human living in a home.
She squints as she yanks the curtains shut, blinded by the California sun beaming through the window. While most people love southern California’s year-round rays, Naomi misses New York’s changing seasons. The pillow-white snow in winter and multicolored leaves of fall, which would be starting to turn by now. She knows not to be fooled by the promise of early autumn leaves, though. New York weather is unpredictable, and she could be sweltering in Indian-summer heat or shivering in icy rain when she arrives, regardless of the forecast. She huffs as she throws her suitcase on the bed, knowing she’ll have to pack strategically.
