by Nancy Warren
Holden came close and stood looking over her shoulder. “I agree. And I don’t get a sex vibe from these two.”
“No. Do you think she could be involved in his business?”
“Maybe. But I had the same sense that I’ve seen her somewhere before. And I never get to Paris.”
“But where would we both have seen her?” She rubbed her temples. “So much has been happening lately, I can’t think straight. I picture her around models, but that’s—” She gasped.
“What?”
“I know where I’ve seen her!”
“Where?”
She crossed the room to her desk, opened the top drawer and yanked out the brown envelope of the proofs he’d taken the first day, when he’d gone behind the scenes to photograph the run through at the Opéra Garnier for Simone’s fashion show.
“I used these proofs when I was writing the article, so I looked at them a lot.”
She flipped through rapidly. Nodded. “There she is. Doesn’t that look like the same woman?”
In the photograph, the woman had a mouthful of pins and she was on her knees rapidly pinning the hem of a model’s skirt.
Holden had deliberately photographed as many of the behind-the-scenes workers as he could, which was how he had a shot of the dresser.
He brought over the photo of the woman and Vladimir.
They stared at each other. “So, what is one of Simone’s dressers doing with Claudia’s fiancé?”
“Doesn’t look like an affair.”
“No. But it does look furtive.”
“Do you think this could have something to do with the theft ring?”
“I don’t know. I think I’ll do some digging on Vladimir though. Let’s see what he and his international trading company are up to.”
She’d become so used to thinking of Holden as her photographer that she’d half forgotten his true profession. And that he could find out things about people they’d prefer remain hidden.
15
VERSAILLES, THE PALACE of Louis XIV, the Sun King, was the venue for tonight’s extravaganza.
Since the palace was about an hour’s drive out of Paris, he’d rented a car so he wouldn’t be stuck at anyone’s beck and call.
Kimi had gone there early so she could do an interview with the designer. He’d spent the day talking to Paris cops about the recent couture thefts and the intel that something big was planned for this week. He felt out of his element talking to the cops about protecting a few dresses, but to his surprise they took the prospect as seriously as they would if it was a big bank heist. He supposed, in Paris, even the cops were passionate about fashion.
As an information-sharing session it hadn’t been entirely successful. They didn’t have any insights about who was behind the thefts. The current theory pointed to a Middle Eastern ring. There were women who paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for gowns only their female relatives would ever see. Usually, they bought the gowns legitimately, Holden had seen veiled women at the fashion shows. Was there also a black-market trade?
Mandy was tracking down the possibility of insurance fraud, though that seemed unlikely. There were also a few known criminals the Paris cops had told Holden to keep an eye out for. There was also the thought that couture was to be stolen to be mass-produced cheaply elsewhere, but that hadn’t occurred with the clothing taken previously. Those pieces had never been seen again, which left a very discreet black-market trade to those who wore their clothes in private, or collectors.
Claudia’s fiancé wasn’t on any kind of watch list according to his Interpol connection, but he knew they needed to know more about the guy. Tonight was going to be a high-fashion fishing expedition.
He’d been to Versailles once, on a backpacking trip one college summer. He’d been hungover from the night before. So what he remembered of Versailles was a really bad headache and one desperate moment when he thought he might toss his cookies in the queen’s bedchamber. Definitely not one of his better moments as a tourist.
It was nice to see some of the same sights, not with a Eurail pass and limited funds, but with a decent car and in the company of some of the greatest partiers in the world. The Peugeot was slick and fast and the drive a dream. He spent it going over in his head some of the characters he’d met. Simone of the nonstop mouth and restless hands, ApplePie with the relentless media frenzy that followed them like sharks follow the scent of blood. There was that ridiculous Peacock fellow, the big-eyed, big-lipped gaunt-cheeked models, most of whom he couldn’t tell apart.
There were the big buyers, the ones who seemed more interested in being seen than in seriously purchasing a couture gown—but with the cost of the gowns in the six figures, he could understand the urge to look and not buy.
He was getting edgy. As every day passed without an attempt to steal a gown, only a few days were left for the attempt. What if there wasn’t one? Perhaps their intel was wrong, or the thieves were onto them and not going to follow through on the heist.
There were too many things he didn’t know.
Not that this was life and death, but he didn’t want to waste a week in overpriced duds he’d never wear again.
As he pulled up to Versailles, he saw that security was tight. Good. He thought it was very unlikely anything would be stolen tonight simply because the palace was crawling with every type of security: electronic surveillance cameras, plainclothes and uniformed cops and guards. Of course, the treasure was the palace itself and its contents, but only a fool would attempt to steal a gown with all this security.
However, he’d be keeping his eyes open, and his camera lens whirring. After he showed his pass, his car was inspected and he was allowed to proceed. He didn’t understand a single word the attendant said, but with some extravagant hand gestures, he was able to figure out where he was supposed to park.
He hauled out his camera bag and strode toward Versailles. He paused for a moment when he reached the grounds. They were lit so the gardens sparkled. Usually he hated formal gardens, but he had to admit this was an amazing sight. Music spilled out from somewhere and spectacularly dressed fashionistas strolled the walkways or stood in groups gossiping.
Even at a distance, he could pick out the movie stars. They seemed to have a sizzling force field surrounding them. And always lots of photographers. Fortunately, that wasn’t his beat. All he had to shoot was models. No A-list celebrities. Which suited him fine.
He hoisted his camera stuff and proceeded to the palace. As he rounded a pathway, he caught Mark Apple and Nicola Pietra in a passionate embrace. The sound of his feet on the path caused them to stiffen and Mark put up a hand. “Hey, man, can you give us a break here? It’s a private moment.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’m only here to shoot the models.”
“Okay. Sorry. You won’t believe what the paparazzi will do to get a shot of us.”
Maybe going at it in the middle of a public event isn’t your smartest idea, then. “You’re safe from me. Have a good night.”
“Yeah. You too.”
As the sounds of mouths moving hungrily on mouths reached him again, he figured some guys didn’t learn very fast. Or, maybe it depended on the temptation. If it had been Kimi in that alcove, he’d have tried to get up close and personal no matter how many cameras were hunting them down.
No doubt they were getting all heated up about finally viewing the wedding gown tomorrow night at Simone’s much-anticipated show at the opera house.
He was about to go inside, when he was stopped by a British guy he’d run into before with a telephoto so huge and powerful it could snap a private moment from miles away. The guy had no shame. “Hiya,” he said. “You seen ApplePie? They disappeared out this way.”
“Yeah. I saw them down there by the fountain. And they were alone. If you hurry you might still catch them.”
“Thanks, mate. I owe you one.” And he took off in the opposite direction to where Mark and Nicola were concealed.
He grinned, watching him race down the path, his camera bouncing along with the fifty extra pounds the guy was carrying on his ass.
Holden was still grinning when he entered the palace.
And then he froze.
She stood there like a goddess and he felt his heart stutter. How could she be so beautiful? He didn’t know what she was looking at, but there was a pensiveness to her expression that made him believe she was a woman rich in secrets and mystery. Her glorious hair was up and a dress of pale-lilac silk gathered simply at one shoulder, hugged her torso and then knotted at the opposite hip to fall to the floor. Her only jewelry was a pair of dangling diamond earrings. Her reflection was multiplied in rows of gilt-edged mirrors, so it appeared as though she had a court of lesser goddesses attending her.
The fancy was so strong that he stood rooted to the spot, then broke his own rule for tonight and quietly lifted his camera.
He got off a quick volley of shots before she startled and turned. “Holden? You’re supposed to be shooting the models.”
“I’m photographing the most beautiful woman here.”
She chuckled. “Half the women here have been in People’s most beautiful people issue. I think I’ve got some competition.”
He came closer to her, wanting quite desperately to kiss her senseless. Knowing she wouldn’t appreciate her makeup and clothing getting mussed, he contented himself with stroking a hand down the undraped shoulder. “You knock me out,” he told her. “I was watching you, thinking you look like a goddess. Only you seemed kind of sad.”
Her eyes were twinkling, all the pensiveness vanished. “I was thinking of poor Marie Antoinette and how happy she must have been here. Before it all ended.”
He took her hand. “This is the Hall of Mirrors. It’s one of the few rooms I remember from when I visited in college.”
“You came to Versailles?”
He told her about the drinking the night before and how he’d almost defaced the queen’s bedchamber with his violent hangover, and she laughed.
As they passed through another doorway, sounds of activity grew closer. While he was shooting models for Kimi’s big fashion issue, she’d be interviewing her new sister’s fiancé. It wasn’t much of a lead—probably no lead at all on what was going on. But as each day passed, each show went off without an attempted theft, the chances rose that this would be the day, that this would be the show.
“You find out what you can about Vladimir’s business, his connection to fashion, anything you can. Try to worm out of him some specifics about his business and travel activities so I can get to work tracing his movements over the past five years.”
She nodded.
“I’ll follow him when he leaves here. See where he goes, what he does. We’ll meet back at your hotel in the morning.”
She nodded. “Be careful.”
“I will. It kills me not to take you home tonight and unwrap you.”
“Some things are better for the wait.”
“And some are better when you simply take them.” And he kissed her, knowing their passion was being reflected a thousand times.
16
“OKAY, SO WHAT’S going on?” Kimi crossed her arms. Morning hadn’t brought them any closer to answering that question. She’d spent a frustrating evening trying to interrogate Vladimir without appearing to. And he wasn’t one who liked to talk about himself, she’d discovered when, under the guise of learning more about her sister, she’d asked him some questions. She knew the name of his company and that he’d been to New York a couple of times. He was vague about the rest of the world. “I travel in Europe, Asia, the Middle East, lots of places. Mostly I see airports and the inside of office buildings. It’s very boring.”
He claimed to know nothing about fashion and certainly his business had nothing to do with clothing.
Holden had been equally frustrated, following the guy back to the town house where Claudia and her father were staying. The father had gone in first, Claudia and Vladimir had exchanged a couple of kisses then she’d followed her father inside.
Vladimir had been driven to a hotel a few blocks away. He went inside and didn’t come out again.
“We know that Claudia’s fiancé was seen talking to one of Simone’s dressers.” She paced the room, her arms still wrapped around her as though she was giving herself a comforting hug. “And Simone’s show is tonight.”
“I’m still waiting to find out what he’s been doing in the Middle East.”
“You think that’s related to fashion?”
“I wish I knew. I wish I knew somebody who knew.”
She paused in her pacing. Drilled him with her blue eyes. “I know somebody who knows everybody in fashion—and, damn it, he owes me a favor.”
“You don’t mean—”
“Brewster Peacock. Holden, he knows everyone. He knows everything. He’s got connections in every fashion house, every restaurant, every hotel, every media outlet, every country—he’ll save us time we don’t have.”
“I don’t trust a man who makes trouble for his friends. And Peacock made plenty of trouble for you.”
“I know. But he also got me a family—” She put up her hands. “I know he didn’t intend to, but he actually did me a favor. However, I don’t plan to let him know that. I’ll play up the ‘you did me wrong, you owe me a favor’ angle.”
“He’s scum.”
“I don’t trust him either, but in the fashion world he is faster, better connected and more efficient than Interpol.” She reached for the phone.
He stretched out a hand and placed it over hers. “I’ll go with you.”
She seemed as though she might argue, then simply nodded and placed the call.
“THIS GUY HAS SEEN too many bad movies,” Holden said as they approached the crumbling warehouse in a seedy part of Montmartre. The neighborhood did look like something out of a European film noir. The smell of garbage and strong cigarettes hung in the air. Two young guys who looked to be up to no good sauntered toward them. As they come closer, he saw them leer at Kimi, and instinctively moved closer to her, giving them the hairy eyeball.
At two in the afternoon, there weren’t many people around.
That was the only non B-movie part of the meeting, that Brewster had chosen afternoon, but then, they all had to be back for the grand extravaganza tonight, where Nicola Pietra’s wedding gown and, if Brewster was to be believed, matching toddler gown, would be unveiled.
They were far from any tourist destinations and the buildings around here were derelict. She withdrew a neatly folded piece of paper from her slacks pocket and checked the address, glancing around and wrinkling her nose. “It should be around here.” She glanced across the street where a boarded up store sported a rusty red awning. Beside it was a dingy café with two Arabic men smoking in the deep recesses.
“There it is,” she said, pointing. “It doesn’t look much outside, but you’d be amazed at where some fashion designers keep their warehouses. They are as concerned about corporate spying as any defense or high-tech company.” She stepped off the broken curb, startling a fat pigeon pecking at a crust of bread, and crossed the worn cobbles. He glanced up and down the deserted streets before jogging after her. He didn’t like the feel of this neighborhood. The sooner they were out of here, the better.
She reached the doorway and pressed the bell next to a dented dull-green metal door. Graffiti was sprayed across it and Holden was just as glad he didn’t understand the French meaning.
“Oui?” A disembodied voice sounded through a grated intercom.
“Brewster?”
“Kimi, darling. Come up. All the way to the top.”
The door buzzed and Holden yanked the heavy metal open for her. Inside, harsh industrial lighting illuminated a stairway that smelled of urine and garlic. An old elevator hovered like a pterodactyl. Without even considering it, they began climbing the stairs.
These were metal and sturdy. He could see that the locks were top
-notch on the door, and the windows well secured. He relaxed slightly. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the seedy locale Peacock had chosen had all his instincts on alert.
He knew it was his years as a cop and a P.I., but still, he always listened to his gut.
There were doors opening off a landing, but no names, only numbers. Interesting. The stairs stretched up and he and Kimi followed them to the third level. Brewster must have been listening for them, because he opened one of the three doors when they got to the landing.
“Bonjour, mes enfants,” he said. He was wearing a purple and yellow paisley coat that hurt Holden’s eyes, black jeans and black alligator cowboy boots with gold lacing. All he needed was a cowboy hat and a microphone and he could be a Vegas entertainer.
He and Kimi did the three-cheek-kisses thing popular with the French. Holden wanted to tell Peacock that if he tried to kiss Holden he’d end up with his teeth down his throat, but apparently his glare said it for him. Holden had started out half stunned and half amused by the guy, but now that the peacock had tried to cause trouble for Kimi, Holden had nothing but contempt for him.
He glanced around, but this top-floor warehouse seemed more of a storage area than a secret design studio. A line of industrial sewing machines slouched under a barred window. There were a couple of racks of clothes that didn’t look anything like the couture creations Holden was used to seeing, and a large cutting table with a few bolts of fabric. Some banks of drawers rounded out the furniture. A sewing dummy, or whatever those stuffed things that looked like a woman’s torso were called, watched from the far side of the room. A closed door led, presumably, to an office or washroom.
Kimi looked around, obviously confused. “Why did you want to meet us here? I thought you were doing a story on a secret design studio or something.”
He laughed. “No. But I was here meeting someone else earlier and thought we wanted privacy.”