by Cat Mann
****
Clusters of people bustled around backstage in a chaos of organization, making sure clothes were lined up in the correct order and that shoes and accessories were arranged with the corresponding outfits. Long metal clothing racks were jam packed with the upcoming baio line and had been pushed against the edges of the corridors. Bright bulbs framed large mirrors and countless rows of tables were covered with makeup brushes and beauty supplies. At the stations sat jumbo-sized designer tote bags from baio, full of gifts for the models in the show. Each bag was the same -- bright yellow and covered with the baio logo. Attached to each gift bag was a fancy square of card stock printed with the image of Margaux and nine-year-old Ava as they prepared to walk down the runway, hand in hand at the first-ever baio fashion show. The cards were addressed to each model by name and signed, “Xoxo, Ava.”
Lirik had actually signed each one and then filled the totes with Ava’s favorite goodies including a complete line of professional hair care products, the newest bottle of baio perfume, top-selling colors from a nail polish company, necklaces and earrings from a local jeweler, skin care products, the best headphones out on the market … I had made sure to snag two extra pairs, one for Ava and one for myself. There were salted caramels from a candy shop in Oceanside, her favorite brand of lip-gloss, her favorite mascara, her favorite tea – the list went on and on. Models gathered in matching silk baio robes and sat with stylists as the prep work for their hairstyles began.
The noise in the cramped space was deafening. Conversations and music bounced off the white painted cement walls, unadulterated sound with nothing to absorb it. My morning with Julia had left me with a sour stomach. Bile shot up my esophagus every few minutes, leaving a trail of bitter tasting acid that burned my throat. My head started to hurt. Pulsating, pounding throbs started in my temple and ended up behind my eye sockets. The air was thick with the smell of bodies and various products being sprayed into the atmosphere.
Bile rushed up from my stomach again like an erupting volcano and this time, I knew it would end ugly. Dodging haughty models and stylists dressed in black, I flew through the open doorway to the V.I.P lounge, grabbed a trashcan and heaved out remnants of the morning’s burnt coffee and my dose of half a bottle of pink Pepto. Dimly I heard my phone ring and dimly I realized that someone was answering it.
“Ari is unavailable at the moment,” Lirik said. “He’ll call you later.”
“Who is it?” I asked, gagging at the same time.
“It’s detective Bryant calling for you. He says it is important.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said to myself, and Lirik blinked at me.
“Um, no, I’m not kidding. He’s holding for you. Will you take the call … or do you want to finish up?”
Unclasping my fingers from the edge of the garbage can, I shoved my palm out for the phone.
“I’ll talk to him, Lirik. Thank you.” She dropped my cell into my open hand.
“This is Ari.” I pushed through the backstage door out to the hot, sunny service entrance. A small row of tour buses idled as roadies carried in last-minute equipment and heavy speakers to corresponding side stages.
“Hello? Ari?”
“Yeah, I’m here … can you hear me?” I found that moving past the buses and heading toward a line of dumpsters inexplicably gave my phone an extra half of a bar of reception.
“Ah, I can hear you now. This is Detective Bryant from the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. We met earlier this week after your home was invaded.”
“I know who you are. Believe me, I haven't forgotten. Tell me you have good news.”
“I am just calling to let you know that we recovered some fingerprints that don't match up with any we got from your family. They may belong to the perpetrator. We got some DNA samples left on some broken glass.”
“And?” My heart leapt in my chest.
“And everything's been sent to the lab to see if any of it is already in our database ... so we can identify him and know who we're looking for.”
“That’s great. How long will all that take?”
“Well, we have a sizeable backlog in the lab right now. We're looking at anything between six to ten weeks. Maybe longer.”
“Ten weeks! You can't be serious. Listen to me, something is going on. Someone is after my wife. She's not safe.”
“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Alexander. We don’t feel that you and your family are in any real danger. Nothing was stolen, there was no major damage to your home, in the end, it was just some broken glass. This isn’t going to be a priority. I’m sorry.”
“That’s it? Not a priority. Just “some broken glass?” We might find something out in ten weeks, or we might not?”
“Well, there is something we have learned ... you know, your wife wasn’t sure if the alarm had been set. We checked with the alarm company and found out that she actually did engage the alarm system that morning at eight a.m. Whoever entered your home used the family code at 8:10 to get in.”
“And he was still there at 11 when my mother went in. She actually saw him and he was nobody she recognized.”
“Well, somebody knew the code, had a key and disabled the alarm at 8:10 that morning. It sounds to me that we're dealing with someone close to you or to your wife -- a relative or a friend. Can you think of someone who may be angry with you? Do you have a list of people you’ve granted access to your home? Or to your personal information? Maybe at some time in the past you gave someone the code so he could get in to do work? Maybe a gardener or a handy man? I did notice that you recently had a bedroom painted…”
“The baby’s room.”
“Yeah, the baby’s room. Did you give the decorator the code?”
“No. Never we’ve never done that. Only family has access and a couple of very close friends… um, my assistant, but she was at work the time that it all happened.”
“Do you trust them?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound so sure about that, Ari.”
“I’m not sure about anything anymore.”