It wasn’t just about Koslov’s physical appearance, which was angular, thin, and willowy, as expected of fashion culture—no, she had an underlying something that she threw around on the runway, and it exhibited as sly little smiles and cocky little head and hip jerks. Not like most of the other models, who maintained bland, affectless demeanors so as to make people focus on the clothing.
Natalie Koslov made you look at her as well as the clothing, made you think about the woman beneath the clothes. Of everyone here, she might be the one person up there who really was engaging in performance art.
Ellie headed backstage to check in with Khalil preemptively, before she got some frantic message over her headset. Plus, the more time she spent around the models, the better the chances of seeing something out of place, based on her theory. She’d already taken video of the audience and sent it to Rick.
She’d worn slim tapered trousers in a metallic gray that she had to admit looked really good with her black wingtips. The fashion consultant had told her that metallic colors worked well on blondes as did white, so Ellie’s shirt was that color, though the wide 40s-style tie she wore was dark blue with slashes of bright yellow. She also wore a light gray blazer tailored to give Ellie more room than most women’s clothing off the rack, and that was good because today she had to carry both her wallet and her phone in an interior pocket, and she carried her gun in a compression holster tank top. Like the tee she’d worn a couple of nights ago, the tank was designed to slim the line of a gun worn under clothing, and for work like this, Ellie appreciated it even more.
“Thank God,” Khalil said when she found him backstage. “Can you hang out here for a couple of minutes? I’ll be right back.”
Pee break, Ellie guessed. “Sure. Anything in particular you need me to do?”
“Direct traffic as needed. Thanks.” He darted away, and Ellie stood near the entrance off the stage, watching the controlled chaos that was a fashion show. Racks of clothing took up half the space, and nervous assistants flitted like birds through them, yelling at each other to hurry up and grab particular articles of clothing. Models discarded shoes and other outer layers then retreated behind several portable screens as they changed into yet another outfit. It was similar to a pit crew at a racing event.
“Ellie,” came Tyler’s voice over her headset. She clicked the switch on the cord to her headset.
“Go ahead.”
“I’m at the main entrance and can’t leave. Can you deliver something to Marya?”
“Is she in the audience still?”
“Yes.”
Khalil reappeared, a look of utter relief on his face.
“On my way,” she said to Tyler. “Gotta run,” she said to Khalil.
“Thanks,” he said just as someone raced up to him and demanded to know where the Evian was. Wow. Water meltdowns really were a thing at events like this.
“Marya needs something,” Ellie said. “Can you handle this?”
He nodded, plastered on a big, fake smile, and pointed at the large portable drink cooler a few feet away that said “Evian” on the side. Ellie ducked out before she got pulled into something else and went quickly to the main entrance without cutting through the runway room. She found Tyler updating Liz and issuing instructions to others. When he saw her, he held up a finger to wait and she did. After a few seconds, he handed her a plain white envelope, unsealed.
“Get that to Marya now. Thanks.”
Ellie took it and went backstage first, where she pulled the paper out and scanned it. Nothing that looked like gun specs or sales, so she slipped it back into the envelope and went to the runway room, where camera flashes were exploding like starlight. She worked her way around the perimeter until she was near the part of the stage where the models entered from the back. Marya was seated in the front, right next to the stage, about five seats in. Fortunately, there was room between these seats and the runway. Ellie waited for the cameras to stop, and at that point, all the models filed backstage. Ellie moved quickly to Marya’s seat and leaned down to be heard.
“Delivery, Ms. Hampstead. From Tyler.” She held the envelope out.
Marya looked up at her, gaze drilling into hers for a moment that heated Ellie’s blood. Jesus, all Marya had to do was look at her and it caused all kinds of interesting sensations. Annoying, because there was nothing Ellie could do about it.
“Thank you.” Marya took the envelope, and Ellie retreated before the next viewing started, but not before she realized that Lyev Koslov was seated in Marya’s row, two people down.
Well, why not? Natalie was his cousin, after all. And he hung out with Marya sometimes. Though this was twice in a week after a few months of not spending time together. She took her phone out of her jacket and pretended to be checking messages on it. Instead, she filmed the audience near the stage before she went backstage in search of Natalie.
Christ, she’d been here since eight, and now it was almost three.
“Last showing,” Khalil said when he saw her.
“Okay.”
“Then there’ll be some photo shoots, press, and some interviews. Tyler and the senior editorial staff handle that. Just be ready to be a gopher for whatever.”
“Will do.” Ellie checked the area backstage that Natalie Koslov had been using, and there she was, someone working on her hair while someone else dealt with her makeup. Her expression was placid, almost zen-like. The people stepped away, and she stood, already fully dressed in an outfit that looked sort of like a pink gunnysack with matching platform shoes. Nobody in their right mind would wear that anywhere outside this venue, but these models rocked every crazy thing they put on, in the exaggerated statements of the fashion world that trickled down in other shapes and forms to the masses.
Natalie straightened and walked toward the entrance to the stage. Khalil said that Natalie did “street” really well, which was a purposeful, focused walk that was supposed to evoke the streets of a big city. But on a runway, that kind of walk got little accents and personal touches added.
The music changed, and Natalie went onstage. An approving murmur rose from the crowd, along with a flood of camera flashes. Natalie was clearly one of the more popular models here.
A few minutes later, the show ended and backstage was flooded with models and assistants changing yet again to prepare for PR and interviews, if applicable. Within fifteen minutes, several long tables had been set up in the runway room and a few models were autographing photos, Natalie among them. Ellie stood just behind Natalie’s table, prepared to give her water or another stack of photos or whatever her little model heart desired, but she also watched her sign, so she took her phone out and managed to film it.
With her marker, Natalie signed her stage name and then usually included a stylish little heart underneath it. Same thing, every time. Nothing there.
Damn.
Natalie finished at the table and got up to make room for someone else. Ellie kept her phone out and followed her as she worked her way through the crowd, smiling at various people. A well-dressed older man stopped and asked her a question. Natalie nodded and smiled, and he handed her a pen and a photo that looked like the ones she’d just been signing. This time, Natalie flipped the photo over and wrote something on the back. He smiled and handed her what looked like a business card. Ellie caught the entire exchange with her phone.
Holy shit. Was this how they did it? That fucking simple? Ellie watched as another well-dressed man approached and handed her yet another promo photo and a pen. She again wrote something on the back, smiled at him, and he exchanged the photo for a business card. She continued walking through the post-runway show crowd. Camera flashes exploded around her, and she posed for a moment before she handed something to Lyev that looked a lot like business cards. Ellie filed that away for future thought and decided to take her chances with the most recent autograph hound, so she followed him instead of Koslov.
First, these dudes had not been in line with everybody el
se to get signed photos. Second, they had brought their own photos for her to sign. And third, this one, at least, folded the photo and put it in his pocket and was now headed to the main entrance. Who did that? Folded an autographed photo?
Time for another Ellie O’Donnell special distraction. She followed him, grabbed a bottle of water off a nearby table, and unscrewed the top as she walked. She took her name tag off and slipped it into her inside jacket pocket.
“I don’t care how you do it,” she said loudly into her phone. “We don’t have time for this.” And…boom. She plowed right into Mr. Autograph, spilling a bit of water on the front of his suit. “Oh, shit,” she said. “I’m so, so sorry. Let me get you a towel.” She made a show of putting her phone back in her pocket before she screwed the top back on the bottle and set it on the floor as he brushed at the front of his suit.
He glared at her. “It’ll dry,” he said in an Eastern European accent. Ellie brushed at his suit, too, and held it open, pretending to inspect. “Seems it didn’t soak through—better move this photo, though.” She slid the photo of Natalie Koslov out of his inside jacket pocket, glad to see he’d folded it with the front side in, so she could get a quick look at the back.
He grabbed the photo out of her hand. “I’m fine,” he said as he stalked out of the building. Ellie took her phone out and filmed him. And though he’d taken the photo away, she’d seen what Natalie had written, in easy-to-read block letters: Love to H. Georgios in Red Hook, 26-9.
She texted the info to Rick. “See image on vid. Sending in a bit.” She then emailed the latest video she’d taken to him. So was the guy she’d bumped into H. Georgios? And what were the numbers? She picked up the bottle of water as her headset crackled.
“All hands on deck,” Tyler said. “Meet me backstage for final PR help.”
“Will do,” she responded so he didn’t have to contact her again. She went back into the fray, wondering who the hell H. Georgios was and what he had to do with arms deals. Maybe her idea had been a bust, and people just walked around with particular photos of models they wanted them to sign. But that didn’t explain why he folded it. Creases ruined the photo. No, there was something about what Natalie had written that held meaning beyond a simple autograph. What that meaning was, however, eluded her, but she didn’t have time to think about it once she got backstage.
CHAPTER 11
“Good job, today.” Tyler smiled and handed Ellie a glass of champagne.
“Thanks.” She took it and sipped.
“What did you think?”
“It’s a lot more work than I thought. Kind of exciting. But also stressful.”
He smiled and sipped his own champagne. “You’re cool under pressure. Marya appreciates that.”
“Good to know. I’ll keep it up.”
Somebody Ellie didn’t know came up to Tyler and started talking to him. The distraction gave her a chance to look around at the people gathered for the reception, which was in a swanky private room above an equally swanky restaurant a few blocks from the event venue. The place was retro-aviation themed, with sleek steel accents on the walls that included strategically placed airplane propellers and tables and chairs that looked like they’d come out of first class in a 1960s airliner. So this was how the other half lived. Not bad. But not quite her thing, either.
Natalie and Lyev Koslov were on the other side of the room, chatting to each other and another group of beautiful people that included Marya. Ellie put her champagne glass on the tray of a passing server and went to the bar where she got a Coke. She’d never been a fan of champagne and besides, she wanted to stay focused. She went to the food table and loaded up on fruit and cheese. Rick would be proud of her. Well, maybe not for the cheese. She added a few vegetables and munched away, watching the crowd.
“Hi,” Liz said.
“Hey. Tired?”
“Very. But it’s always fun to meet some of the people who come to shows. And I took a bunch of photos. Ms. H liked a few of them,” she said, a little awed.
“Congrats.” Ellie felt her personal cell phone vibrate against her chest. “Maybe she’ll use some of them in forthcoming issues.”
“Oh, my God. That would be amazing.”
Two guys Ellie recognized from Fashion Forward approached and started talking to Liz, which gave her time to set her plate down and check the text. Rick, wanting her to call him.
“Hi, honey,” she said when he picked up. “How’s your day been?”
“Never thought I’d hear that from you. Anyway, your photo guy is Czech, connected to arms dealing, too. And he appears to have a thing for fashion shows. He was at one in Paris and another in Milan, all within the past three months. And no, his name is not H. Georgios.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “Rain check on tonight. I’ll catch up with you later. Bye.” She hung up to the sound of him laughing. Her hunch had been right. So now they just needed to figure out who this Georgios dude was, where in Red Hook he happened to be, and how he figured in. All in all, a good day. She took her phone out and panned it around the room slowly then sent the video to Rick.
So far, she didn’t see anybody she recognized beyond Koslov, Marya and staff, and a few of the models. No sign of Petrovs or Koslovs from the myriad mug shots she’d studied since this case started. There were family members on both sides who didn’t have police records but might be involved in illegal activities. They just hadn’t been caught yet.
Ellie finished off her plate of food. Knowing Marya and company, they’d probably go out to dinner and hold court there. She’d turn surveillance back over to the team once that happened, and then she’d go home and get caught up on some sleep—
Hello. Things might have just gotten interesting. Lyev and Natalie Koslov peeled off from the crowd and were on their way toward the restaurant downstairs. Ellie followed, pretending to talk on her phone.
Lyev and Natalie went down the tight metal spiral staircase to the restaurant and walked to a table in the corner near the main entrance, where somebody else sat, partially obscured.
Think fast. Ah. She grabbed a couple of menus off a nearby server station and walked toward the table, trying to look all hostess-like, even stopping to inquire about people’s meals at a couple of other tables. Too bad this wasn’t on film. Oscar-worthy, no doubt. She was finally close enough to see the other person at the table.
Jonathan Hampstead.
Ellie diverted to another table to inquire about the meal before he saw her. Probably not a good idea to go take their orders. She went back to the server station, took a photo of the table in the back corner, and texted it to Rick, with the names of the occupants since the photo probably sucked. That was one thing she really wasn’t that good at. She left the menus and went back up the stairs. Did Marya know her dad was here? What the hell with her dad, talking to Natalie Koslov, who was probably involved in gun-running? This shit kept getting weirder. As she went back up the stairs, she almost ran into Tyler, who was on his way down.
“There you are,” he said. “You’ve been invited to an after party in upper Manhattan.”
She stared up at him, since he was higher up on the stairs.
“It’s at a private residence, but lots of fashionistas, as they say, will be there.”
“Is that okay with Marya—Ms. H?” Oops. She’d referred to the Empress by her first name.
Tyler smiled. “She invited you.”
Well. That settled that. “Sounds great. Just tell me where to go.”
“Not to worry. You’ll be in our car. We’re leaving in about fifteen.” He spun and went back up the stairs and Ellie followed. At the top, she texted Rick with the new info. And then she thought about the fact that Marya had invited her to this party. So she was now in the ice queen’s good graces? It felt like it after the pub. But maybe Marya was capricious. And maybe Ellie didn’t care, because this was about the case.
Right?
The case, dammit. Think about the case. She put her
phone back into her jacket pocket and went into the reception room.
* * *
Ellie stared out the windows of this apartment, which took up an entire floor of a high rise. This is what the other half paid for, incredible views like this. And gajillion-dollar apartments in upper Manhattan that looked like they should be featured in Architectural Digest. Hell, for all she knew, this one was. The guy who owned it worked in investments. He also happened to own a couple of modeling agencies and was some muckety-muck with Gloria Vanderbilt.
She sipped her drink—special dispensation from Rick again to blend in. This was another reason she was going to be sad when this assignment was over, because she would not be invited to venues like this. She turned and looked at the knots of people standing around and chatting. Lyev and Natalie had arrived later than she had, and there was no sign of Jonathan Hampstead. She’d done rounds twice already and listened to their conversations for a while, but it was all fashion and celebrity shop talk and nothing that sounded even remotely like they were about to run guns out of Russia into global hot spots.
Marya had spent the entire ride to the party talking on the phone, but she was polite about it, and Ellie, who sat across from her in the limo, pretended to care about what Liz was saying about her photos when what she was really doing was admiring the view of cleavage she got when Marya moved a certain way. Her hair was up today, and she wore a black pants suit with a pale yellow blouse that Ellie was dying to take off her. There was nothing on this earth that wouldn’t look good on Marya Hampstead. Probably nothing on this earth that wouldn’t look good off her, either.
Thinking about that caused aches in parts of Ellie’s anatomy that tried to override her rationality. Work the case, she reminded herself. So she engaged with some of Marya’s staff she hadn’t really talked to and worked her way around the room. One thing she’d learned from Gwen was how to do this convincingly, though Rick had told her that she was a natural social butterfly. Gwen had just brought it out.
A few people had retreated to a balcony to smoke and admire the view, and Ellie joined them since she’d probably never get a chance to hang out at a place like this again. The breeze blew the cigarette smoke away, and low murmurs of people chatting actually proved relaxing after today. Jesus, she was tired. Fashion was hard. Fashion combined with arms deals was even harder. And all of that combined with a woman as intriguing as Marya Hampstead—shit, she needed at least a month to recover.
If Looks Could Kill Page 11