Chapter XXXII

Party Like It's 1996

San Francisco

1996

"Are you out of your mind?" Manny, her piece of shit agent's assistant, all but slammed her against the wall in the closet they called her dressing room. "You just assaulted a cop."

She pushed him away, "She said she was with the fucking forensics department, whatever the hell that means, and I didn't assault her, I threw something at her."

The small bald man threw his hands up, "What, you think those cops rushed you because they're allergic to hairspray? That was assault!"

She sat down and picked up a bottle of tester lotion she'd gotten at one of the many shoots Hugh -- Hugh Spalding was her fucking bastard agent -- had her running back and forth to. She rubbed the coconut-scented lotion across her hands and then began rubbing into her legs. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. Some fucking lowlife asshole scum killed Anastia. She was twenty; she had just turned fucking twenty years old, Manny. Fuck! What the fuck am I supposed to tell her family? I was supposed to, I don't know, fucking look after her? We have an apartment together. She was fucking alive this morning. Damn it, she was alive and healthy and fine. Fucking fine. She was eating yogurt and we were laughing at the funny pages." She looked at herself in the mirror and watched her tears mix with the mascara to form hideous black lines down her cheeks. She didn't care. "You know what, just go. Get the hell out of here."

Manny opened his mouth, but she swivelled around, and at five eight, she towered over the slender man. "OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT NOW!"

When he was gone, and the door was closed again, she crumpled onto the rickety director's chair in front of the slapped together vanity and mirror. She had heard the screams, and despite it being against every single rule there was, she had run out onto the runway. She had seen Anastia laying there, like a discarded Barbie doll, all but naked on the runway, eyes staring up at the hot lights above her. Anastia had been sweet, kind; no one had ever had a bad word to say about her. In the cutthroat world of modeling, nice was practically unheard of.

Alex pulled her legs up in the chair and hooked her arms around them. She put her chin on her knees and closed her eyes. They said she couldn't go home until she talked to the cops. Wouldn't that be a fun conversation? She wasn't sure she wanted to go home anyway, her roommate being dead. Anastia would never go home again. Not to her apartment, not to her parent's house back in Arizona. She would never make that sentimental trip to Russia, the country her family had fled from before she'd even be born. She would never turn twenty-one or make her big break; she was dead.

A knock on the door jolted Alex out of the nap she hadn't intended to take. Her eyes were gritty from the tears she'd cried on her knees. She had fallen asleep in her chair, sitting straight up. That would hurt like hell later. She needed to change back into real clothes, she hadn't even thought about that. She was more or less naked. She was a model, not a go-go dancer. Not that she hadn't taken on a set or two when times had been tough. There had been more than one set of tough times before Hugh had discovered her. Hard times and she had been too proud to go home and hear 'I told you so'. She was suddenly rushed with the overwhelming urge to hear her Mom's voice. The only sound that echoed through the closet like space was more knocking.

"Just a minute!" She grabbed at her jeans and tugged them on while she looked around for a shirt. "Shit shit shit." She dug into the bag she'd brought with her and pulled an old fading Packers tee shirt over the hundred-dollar bra. Feeling less like she was on display, she walked the two steps and opened then flimsy door. She wanted to shut it again immediately, but figured that would be a bad idea. She was already in deep shit with the cops as it is. Hitting the same cop twice would be a cosmically bad idea. There were two women at the door. She didn't know much about cops, but figured the blonde was in charge, the shield hanging from the chain around her neck was gold and the brunette wore a laminated ID tag around her neck and had a much less impressive badge hooked to her belt. The brunette had been the one she'd pegged with the can of hairspray; her name was Sara something.

The cop didn't look happy. "I'm Inspector Ashbourne and you've already met Sara Sidle. We need to talk to you." She didn't wait for an invitation, she went ahead and pushed the door the rest of the way open and walked on in to her closet like dressing room. Sara Sidle slid around too, holding her tackle-box of who-knew-what between them as she did. She put the large case on the vanity and popped it open.

The Inspector cleared her throat; "We're going to need to get your fingerprints to eliminate you as a suspect."

Alex nodded numbly. She crossed her arms and held herself close, "Do you know what happened? Why, who-" Alex ran her hand over her face, trying desperately to center herself, She was in front of the cameras, perfectly in control of her facial expressions, body position and emotions. She took a deep breath and spoke again, much calmer now. "What I mean is, do you have any leads?" That was what she was pretty sure they said on Law and Order. She'd never liked that show, but Anastia loved it. She turned it on every week, like clockwork and recorded it when she was out.

The Inspector shook her head, "We're still very early in the investigation. The word is that you were Miss Kovak's best friend. Do you know of anyone who had a problem with her?"

Alex sat in the director's chair again, but this time she crossed her legs, propped her elbow on the chair's arm and rested her chin and cheek on her upturned palm. It was an automatic pose that drew attention to the angles and plains of her face. "God no! Anastia is the nicest person you could meet. She has this aura about her -- happy go lucky, nothing goings to get me down. She has this Pollyanna complex you can't help but smile at." Lost in her description of her friend, Alex hadn't noticed that she'd been speaking in present tense.

Ashbourne didn't write anything down, but that was probably because everyone had said the same about Anastia. She didn't have an enemy in the world that Alex could think of.

The brunette, Sara, stepped in between them. "I have to take your fingerprints. It's simple even if it is a little messy."

Unsure of what to do, Alex held out both hands, "Um sure."

Sara spoke as she worked, "Did Anastia have a boyfriend?"

Alex chuckled, "No, the last guy she was with was a year and a half ago. She thought he was the one and he just liked being able to brag he was dating a model."

Sara pushed her fingers against the paper and the black ink left a looped and swirled fingerprint behind. "Are you sure there was no one she was seeing around here, like a male model or a stage hand, a designer maybe?"

Alex shook her head, "No, no to all of the above. Why?"

Sara looked at Ashbourne and back at her. The blonde shrugged and Sara sighed, "There was evidence that she'd had sexual intercourse before she died."

Alex's hands went stiff and still in the other woman's. "Oh." Her face, just for a second betrayed her and both Sara Sidle and Lucy Ashbourne saw fear flash across her beautiful features.

Anastia had been dead for three days and the press was still swarming outside of the apartment building. She had called Anastia's parents first, hoping she would beat the press to the punch. They were on their way from Phoenix to take Anastia's body home. For burial. Jesus, it was so fucking surreal. They were supposed to have a shoot today out at Studio City. She had begged off and had been frankly surprised Hugh had let her get away with it. He was famous for being hard on his girls. He controlled everything, their shoots, their pay, their diets, even who they were supposed to be dating for the press. He knew best, of course.

Suddenly cold, she rubbed her arms and shuddered. The apartment, though modestly sized, felt large, empty and silent without Anastia's boisterous presence. Alex paced off the rooms, and checked the thermostat; it was far too chilly. The reliable dial told her, however, that it was a perfect sixty-eight degrees. She was the one who was cold, not the apartment. She ran her hands through her gold locks. She needed to stop this. Anastia wouldn't like this at all. She hadn't even put on makeup. She was still walking around in her pajamas -- if Tweety Bird boxer shorts and a stretched and faded 'I Heart New York' tee shirt could be considered pajamas.

She could all but hear the woman's voice echoing in the rooms, laughing good naturally at her. She kept pacing off the rooms, too wired to sit, but too weary to go out. There were three bolts, a knob lock and a chain securing the apartment door. She had been thinking about adding a kick plate and one of those floor bolts she'd heard about too. As Hugh was the landlord, she had thought he wouldn't care. That had been before he'd seen the extra bolt locks she'd wheedled the super into installing for her. He hadn't been pleased. Hugh wasn't an easy man to please. She rubbed at the back of her neck. He had been arguing with Anastia that night. For a moment she entertained the idea that he could have killed her. She had seen the body, though. Anastia's beautiful face had been perfect, but bellow there. Alex shuddered and paced faster. She had been strangled; there were ugly bruises all over her neck, around her wrists and along her ribs. Old bruises had been mixed with new. She knew that Anastia had been dead before she'd fallen, but hitting the runway like that had not been kind to her naturally lanky build. Her limbs had been thrown out, spread eagle on the narrow stage. Her neck and head had landed at an awkward angle, her neck had broken. Her eyes, a deep blue, had been open and dark red blood had dribbled out of her slack jaw.

Hugh had a temper, Alex knew that very well. She absently rubbed her wrists and, finally, sat down. What upset her most, if one thing could upset her more than any other thing, was what the brunette had said. Anastia had sex before the show? Now Alex knew women who did just that to get rid of pre-show jitters. She also knew girls who did a line of coke just for the same reason. Anastia had never done either.

Alex looked towards her friend's room. "And she definitely didn't have a boyfriend."

That, she knew, didn't mean much. Not in the circles they traveled in. Some models got jobs in high heels and power suits, some got them on the power of their pout, and others got the job on their back. Some girls, Alex brooded, just got in bad situations and had to do what they had to do to get out of them. She brought her knees to her chest again and stared into space. She should put on some music, maybe dig through Anastia's tapes and find something. She chuckled, she should dig out Anastia's secret premium imported Vodka and get good and trashed, lift a glass in the woman's name. Maybe she should invite a few of their friends, get some kind of wake going. Did Russian Orthodox Funerals have wakes attached to them? Well, Catholic ones did, at least all the Catholic funerals she'd been around. The two weren't all that different. Besides, Anastia would rather have them drinking, laughing and swapping stories than crying. Crying, Anastia had always said, only led to headaches, puffy eyes and eating binges.

Alex smiled as she reached for her phone. A wake it was. The phone rang when her hand was a fraction of an inch from grabbing it. She grabbed it mid-ring and put it to her ear, "Hello?"

It was Mitzi, a model who lived on the first floor. The other woman's voice was faster and more nasal than usual, which probably meant she'd done a line recently. When Alex unjumbled what the woman was saying, she realized Mitzi wasn't high at all, she was scared. The phone call was quick, but the message was a red flag. Hugh was here and he was pissed. Hugh often dropped by to "check on his girls" Whoever saw him first set off the relay system to warn everyone. Whether a girl needed to hide their stash of drugs, push the high calorie ice-cream to the back of the freezer or get their lover out the door, they needed warning.

Suddenly glad she hadn't turned on music, Alex cocked her head and listened for the elevator at the end of the hall. She went tense and still when she heard the ding that signified that it had stopped on her floor. There were three other apartments on the floor, surely he was going to go see someone else. It was not a knock at the door, it was a thunderous boom of a fist.

"ALEX YOU OPEN THIS DOOR!"

She sat for a moment, like a mule deer caught in a pick up truck's high beams. Hugh didn't like to be kept waiting. "YOU OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR, DUPREE!"

Knowing that he would only be angrier if kept waiting, Alex jumped to her feet and went to the door. Her hands shook as she threw the bolts and unhooked the chain. She pushed her hair back and opened the door, going for smooth and sophisticated. In the face of a seething manager, her attempt at composure fell completely flat.

Hugh's suit, usually impeccably kept, was in shambles. His jacket was gone, his tie hung limply off his neck, barely knotted, and his sleeves were rumpled and pushed back to his elbows. His boyishly white blonde hair was mussed and his laser green eyes were flashing dangerously.

She backed up until she ran into the entry way's waist high catch-all table. "Hugh." She hated that her voice shook.

He glared at her, "What did you tell them?"

She blinked, "Tell who what? What are you talking about?" She was all but pinned against the table and in one swift swing of his arm he knocked everything off the small table. Glass fell to the floor and shattered, mail scattered across the floor and two sets of keys clattered against the wall. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."

He pushed her and she hit the edge of the table with her hip. She bit her lip, that would leave a visible bruise, and worse, the table toppled and the leg broke. "The Cops, the cops, the fucking cops, Alex. What did you tell them?" He stalked away and slammed the door so hard it bounced back off the wood and warped.

"They came to the office, sniffing around. They had a motherfucking warrant. Do you know what that means?"

She edged around him and into the living room. "I didn't tell them anything about you. They were asking about Anastia."

He took a step closer and she took one back. "Well they were asking questions. They wanted a sample of my fucking DNA. They had a judge sign off on that. Now why the hell would they want that unless someone opened their fucking mouth about me?"

She shook her head and he came at her quicker. "What, were you jealous, Alex? Were you missing me?"

She backed up until her back hit the closed bathroom door. "Jesus Christ, Hugh, my best friend is dead. I told the cops the truth. I don't know who killed her and if I did I would kill him myself."

He was too close now, and Alex felt panic, raw and overpowering, crawl up her throat. "Get back." She held out her hands, but he batted them away. She cursed herself for choosing ballet class instead of karate as a child. "Hugh, I mean it."

He laughed at her and took a forearm, which seemed thick and corded with inhuman amounts of muscle and sinew, and put it across her exposed neck. "And what do you think you're going to do to stop me?" He leaned even closer, "Anastia couldn't stop me and we both know that she was much tougher than you could even think of being, Alexandra."

There was a gleam in his eye, she'd seen it before. She'd had to use grease-based makeup to cover up the bruises for weeks last time. "Please, God, please."

The words squeezed out of her throat. He put more weight on her throat and she realized that the tips of her toes were no longer touching the floor. They were nose to nose now, "That didn't help her either."

It hit her like a bolt, the knowledge that her deepest fears and darkest suspicions were true. Hugh had killed Anastia. Another part of her brain, soft from years of evolution and a peaceful existence but feral none the less, sent the message, clear and fast as lightning to the rest of her body. Hugh was going to kill her too. That galvanized her. She pushed back against the wall with her shoulders and swung her feet, trying to hit his balls. Gray and red dots were dancing in front of her eyes and she couldn't breathe.

Suddenly, Hugh's weight was gone and she fell to the floor. On her ass, back against the wall, she coughed, sputtered and gasped for breath. She watched what was happening, but her mind had trouble putting the chaotic happenings together.

Everything fell into place when she saw the lovely Sara Sidle with a gun aimed at Hugh, watching while the blonde Inspector and another large dark haired cop handcuff him. Feeling exposed, Alex tried to stand, but her legs collapsed under her. She vaguely noted that the left leg was cut and a thin line of blood was working it's way down her calf to her ankle.

She rubbed her throat and forced herself to speak. "He did it. He fucking killed her."

Sidle crouched down beside her. "We know. It's okay, you're going to be okay. Did he hurt you, did we get here in time?"

Slightly confused, Alex only shrugged, "He didn't hurt me this time. Not this fucking time."

She barely noticed Sara looking over her shoulder at the other cops, she was just happy that Hugh was away from her and that the gun wielding, serious as a priest, pretty as a picture woman was protecting her for the time being.

"Please state your name for the record."

The courtroom was quiet and smelled faintly of sweat and lemon disinfectant scrub. She had worked for this for months, sweated it out. She had talked to the press, to other models, to lawyers. She had talked to the Inspectors and CSIs at length a couple of times. Sara had helped walk her through this a hundred times. She was ready. It was like any other gig, but this time it was for the months dead-and-buried Anastia Kovak.

She leaned forward and clearly stated her name into the microphone. Then she watched Wesley Tanner stand up. He started with the question he'd told her he'd use and she answered smoothly. It was just like the times they'd practiced, except this time the defendant's table wasn't empty. Hugh was sitting there, looking like a clean cut, salt of the earth type. The jury probably thought he was a model too. He was a monster and, as everyone had told her, reminded her over and over again, he was a rapist -- her rapist. She dug her nails into her palm. He had also killed Anastia and had tried to kill her. This was more than a fucking gig; it was personal. She answered every single one of Wesley's questions, and tried to make the jury see it the way she had. By the time this was over, she wanted each and everyone in the jury box to know Anastia and her killer just as well as she had.

The hardest part, she knew, was still to come. No matter how many questions Wesley had grilled her with, they didn't know what Hugh's fucking slimy lawyer would ask. When Wesley ended his line of questions, she had said everything she'd needed to. Now she had to, as Inspector Ashbourne had told her, make sure she stuck to her guns.

While the defence attorney, Stark, stood, she looked out over the gathered observers. She recognized many of the faces there and one made her smile ever so slightly. Sara sat near the back, on the prosecutor's side. The CSI had already given her testimony, but having her there made Alex feel even more sure of herself.

Anastia's final hours had been starkly laid out. Alex now knew that her friend had been braver than she could have ever been. She was going to go to the police, that very night, about Hugh. He had raped her, raped plenty of girls, and only Anastia had been brave enough to go to the police. Hugh had killed her and hid her body before she could. This was, as Sara had told her, Alex's chance to make things right and finish Anastia's work. This bastard, the raping murdering fuckhead, was going down, she was making sure of it.

"Now, Miss Dupree, you allegethat my client raped you too? "

She turned her head to look at the lawyer. "I don't allege anything, he did rape me."

Hands behind his back, Stark paced the room, "But you didn't report it until after he'd been charged, with very little physical proof, of the murder of your best friend. That seems a little coincidental to me. Miss Dupree, have you been coached in any way? Did the Inspectors or maybe the DA encourage you to come forward?"

Alex crossed her legs. She knew exactly what Mr. Stark was doing. The tabloids had been playing the same game with her for months. Her career was shot and her parents had been scandalized, and didn't this lawyer think he was hot shit? He was a fucking amateur and she was about to beat him at his own game. Of course she would be using the truth, something she was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to ID if it punched him in the face. "No, I decided to come forward about the same time Hugh had me pinned by the throat against the wall of my apartment."

She didn't have to look at the jury to know that she had already won.

The next day, after the guilty verdict had come down, she decided to send Sara Sidle flowers.

Alex knew as well as she knew her own name that she couldn't have done any of this without her.

Author's Note: I meant to get this chapter up last week but life interfered. I was so busy that I didn't even get to reply to my wonderful reviews. Thats okay though, I took the weekend off and really enjoyed it, so making up for its okay.