Damage control.
I think he suspected it was going to be bad—why else would he have braved the traffic this far into the West Village?—but I don’t think he ever thought it was going to be this bad. A bomb going off in a New York College dormitory—I mean, residence hall—is news with a capital N. Something similar had happened at Yale, and it had made CNN, and been a lead story on all the local networks, even though it had turned out to have nothing to do with terrorism.
And the fact that one of the victims of this bomb is a former teen pop sensation? Well, that just makes the story that much juicier. My disappearance from the world of music had not gone unnoticed, and the reason behind it—including my mother’s new Argentinian cattle ranch—had been made graphically public. I could just see the cover of the Post:
BLOND BOMBSHELL
Former Pop Star Heather Wells
Nearly Blown to Bits
at low-paying job she was forced to take at New York College in order to support herself after her music career tanked and she was thrown out by former fiancé, Easy Street member Jordan Cartwright.
Still, I can understand Dr. Jessup’s concern. Having two of his employees injured in an elevator accident is one thing.
But a bomb in one of his dormitories—I mean, residence halls? Worse, a bomb in the building in which the president of the college lives? What’s he going to tell the trustees? The poor guy probably thinks he’s watching his vice presidency slip away.
I don’t blame him for being more worried about his own skin than mine. After all, he’s got kids. All I’ve got is a dog.
“Heather,” Dr. Jessup begins again. “I’m sure you understand. This thing is a PR nightmare. We can’t have the public thinking our residence halls are out of control—”
To my surprise, it’s Detective Canavan who interrupts the assistant vice president. Noisily clearing his throat, then looking around unsuccessfully for a place to spit, Detective Canavan sighs, then swallows.
Then he says, “Hey. Hate to break this up, but the longer Ms. Wells here sticks around, the harder it’s gonna be for my boys to maintain crowd control out there.”
I feel an arm slip around my shoulders. Looking up, I’m surprised to see that the arm belongs to Cooper. He isn’t looking at me, though. He’s looking at the door.
“Come on, Heather,” he says. “Frank and Patty brought their car. They parked it down below, in the garage. They’ll give us a lift home.”
“Oh yes, let’s go,” Patty urges. Her beautiful face is filled with distaste. “I hate hospitals, and I hate reporters even more.” Her dark, almond-shaped eyes slide toward Dr. Jessup, and she looks as if she’s about to add, And I hate uptight bureaucrats most of all, but she refrains, entirely for my sake, I’m sure, since I choose that moment to step on her foot sort of hard, causing her to let out a little yelp of pain.
After I say good-bye to Pete and Magda—who promise to stick around the hospital until they get to see Julio—a hospital administrator gladly shows us the way down to the parking garage, as if any sacrifice she can make to get rid of us—and ergo, all the reporters—will be well worth it.
All I can think the whole way to the car is, Oh God. I am so fired. When I’m not thinking, Oh God, what’s with the arm? about Cooper, that is.
Except that once we’re safely in the car, Cooper removes his arm. So then I just have the one thing to worry about.
“Oh God,” I can’t help saying miserably, a catch in my throat, from the backseat. “I think Dr. Jessup is going to fire me.”
“Nobody’s going to fire you, Heather,” Cooper says. “The guy’s just looking out for his own interests.”
“That man even crosses his eyes at you, baby, he’s gonna hafta deal with me,” Patty growls, from behind the wheel. Patty is an assertive—one might almost say aggressive—driver, which is why she, instead of Frank, does all the driving when they’re in the city. She leans on the horn as a yellow cab cuts her off. “Nobody messes with my best girlfriend.”
Frank, looking back at me from the front passenger seat, says, “Cooper give you his jacket?”
I look down at the leather coat still wrapped around my shoulders. It smells of Cooper, like leather and soap. I never want to take it off, not ever again. But I know I’m going to have to, when we get home.
“No,” I say. “I mean, just to borrow.”
“Oh,” Frank say. “Because, you know, you’ve got your blood all over it.”
“Frank,” Patty says. “Shut up.”
“It’s all right,” Cooper says, as he studies the many weirdos out his window who make up the street life of the West Village.
It’s all right! My heart swells. Cooper had said it’s all right that I got my blood all over his leather jacket! Probably because, you know, we’ll be dating after this, and he’s just going to give the coat to me anyway. And I’ll have it—and Cooper—always, to keep me warm.
But then Cooper adds, “I know of a dry cleaner who’s good at getting bloodstains out.”
You know, it just isn’t my day.
25
Hello
Do I have the right number?
Hello
Yes, I’m looking for my lover
Hello
Can you get him
On the line for me?
Hello
I know he used to live there
Hello
I know he used to care
Hello
Please get my lover on the line
For me
“Hello”
Performed by Heather Wells
Composed by Jones/Ryder
From the album Magic
Cartwright Records
Patty drops us off at the brownstone, even though Frank insists it isn’t safe there, what with somebody wanting to kill me and all.
All I want to do is take a bath and crawl into my own bed and sleep for a thousand years. I don’t want to have a big long discussion about whether whoever is trying to kill me knows where I live. Frank wants me to go stay with him and Patty.
Until Cooper points out that that might put Indy at risk.
At first I’m kind of shocked, you know, that Cooper would say something so horrible. It’s only when I see how swiftly Frank says that he thinks it would be better if I just stay at Cooper’s, after all, what with Cooper being a trained crime fighter, that I realize what Cooper was up to. He knows I just want to go home. He knows I don’t want to stay in Frank and Patty’s guest room.