Two police officers arrived within minutes, followed by EMS workers, who ripped open Billy’s robe and tried to shock him back to life. Billy’s body jumped several inches off the bed, and unable to bear it, Schiffer went into the living room. Eventually, a detective in a navy blue suit arrived. “Detective Sabatini,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Schiffer Diamond,” she said.
“The actress,” he said, perking up.
“That’s right.”
“You found the body. Why?”
“Billy was a good friend. I hadn’t heard from him in a couple of days. I came by to see if he was okay. Obviously, he wasn’t.”
“Did you know he was under investigation?”
“Billy?” she said in disbelief. “For what?”
“Art theft,” the detective said.
“That’s impossible,” Schiffer said, folding her arms.
“It’s not only possible, but true. Did he have any enemies?”
“Everyone loved him.”
“Did he need money?”
“I don’t know anything about his financial affairs. Billy didn’t talk about it. He was very…discreet.”
“So he knew things about people?”
“He knew a lot of people.”
“Anyone who might want him dead? Like Sandy Brewer?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“I thought you were good friends.”
“We were,” Schiffer said. “But I hadn’t seen Billy in years. Not until I moved back to New York nine months ago.”
“I’m going to need you to come to the station for questioning.”
“I need to call my publicist first,” she said firmly. The reality of Billy’s death hadn’t hit her yet, but this was going to be a mess. She and Billy would likely end up on the front page of The New York Post tomorrow.
Early the next morning, Paul Rice was trawling through the Internet when he came across the first item about Billy Litchf
ield’s death. He didn’t connect Billy to the Brewer scandal, so the news didn’t have a big impact. But then he saw several small pieces from The New York Times to The Boston Globe, stating that Billy Litchfield, fifty-four, a sometime journalist, art dealer, and society walker, had been discovered dead in his apartment the evening before. The coverage in the Daily News and the Post was much more extensive. On the covers of both newspapers were glamour shots of Schiffer Diamond, who had discovered the body, and a photograph of Billy in a tux. There were other photographs as well, mostly of Billy with various socialites and one of him arm in arm with Mrs. Louise Houghton. The police were investigating, suspecting foul play.
Paul turned off his computer. He considered waking his wife and giving her the news, but realized she might start crying. Then he would be stuck in an emotional scene not of his own making and therefore of an unpredictable length. He decided to tell her later instead.
Hurrying through the lobby, he spotted several photographers just outside the door. “What’s going on?” he demanded of Roberto.
“Someone died, and Schiffer Diamond found the body.”
Billy Litchfield, Paul thought. “But why are they here? Outside One Fifth?” Roberto shrugged. “Never mind,” Paul barked, and knocked on Mindy’s door. She opened it a crack, trying to keep Skippy, who was barking and jumping on her leg, inside and away from Paul. For the moment, Paul had gained the upper hand in the building; Mindy had to agree to keep Skippy out of the lobby in the morning and evening when Paul would be passing through. “What is it now?” she said, glaring at him with hatred.
“That,” Paul said, motioning to the paparazzi outside.
Mindy came out without the dog, closing the door behind her. She was still in her cotton pajamas but had thrown on a chenille robe and flip-flops. “Roberto,” she said. “What is this?”