Lacey collapsed on the sofa and pulled Vic down with her. “So after I drop this Centipede like a bull elephant, then we call the police?”
“No police,” Gregor said.
“If this is really the Centipede, we’ll be contacting other authorities,” Vic said. “Federal. Then international. Kepelov has contacts.”
“Just how sure are you that this guy is the so-called Centipede? Who’s supposedly dead?” Lacey’s voice was ice.
“Seven Lenins worth,” Gregor said. “Seven empty Lenins. Two women are dead. A Russian businessman is dead. Many other Russian agents, diplomats, operatives. Someone put those medals in that dress.”
Olga sat down next to Lacey and refilled her glass. “It will turn out all right. You will see. Do not worry. You are the only one who can unmask the Centipede. Have some more champagne.”
CHAPTER 34
On Friday morning Detective Broadway Lamont scanned the newsroom like a hunted man, which of course he was. Hunted by LaToya Crawford. He looked both ways and glanced over his shoulder before charging down the aisle toward Lacey’s cubicle. It wasn’t often the big detective looked less than totally in charge, and Lacey was enjoying it.
“LaToya isn’t here, Broadway.”
“I’m not looking for LaToya. I’m looking for you.” He couldn’t help looking over his shoulder again, though.
“You found me.” Lacey glanced at Felicity’s desk. The food editor wasn’t there, but she’d left blinis, thin Russian pancakes, for the day’s treat. Apparently, The Turn of the Screw had inspired her to try something Russian. The blinis were accompanied by bowls of sour cream and various jams with silver spoons. Felicity had also thoughtfully left plates and forks, to reel in more innocent victims. Broadway followed Lacey’s gaze.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He stepped across the aisle, picked up a plate and made a selection. His attitude generally improved after intake of Felicity’s sweet treats. She didn’t know what was up, but she wanted Broadway happily fed before he unloaded it on her.
“Coffee?” she asked. “I’m getting myself some.”
“That swill you serve here? Fine.” He nodded while he bit into the blinis. “Not bad. Ms. Felicity can surely cook. What are these things, Smithsonian?”
“Blinis. They’re Russian. She’s engaged, you know.”
“Shame. She generally stays out of trouble too, unlike the rest of you.”
“Generally. But there was that one time when you thought she nailed our copyeditor in the head with a giant candy cane.”
Lamont waved a blini in one big hand, as if that could happen to anybody.
Lacey slipped down the hall to the staff kitchen with a couple of her specially ordered Fashion Bites mugs. The coffee smelled bitter. Perhaps The Eye was buying cheaper beans, or maybe it was just scorched. Whatever the reason, this brew was bound to be bracing.
She filled two mugs and ventured a sip from one, wrinkling her nose. She managed to return to her desk without spilling any or fainting from the aroma. The big detective was sitting in the Death Chair with his pancake snack. She handed him the pink mug. He frowned at the color but he took it.
Swill in a pink mug is still swill.
“What you got on that red dress?” he asked.
“Not much. What do you have on the break-in?”
“Not much. It’s unique. No one else is going round emptying closets and playing with the clothes.”
“Sending a message to LaToya alone?”
“I wouldn’t say that just yet. However, this thing’s got fashion weirdness all over it. And you and LaToya are smack dab in the middle of it.” He waved his fork with a piece of the pancake. “Man, I wish she hadn’t bought that dress.”
That makes two of us. “LaToya is getting to you, isn’t she?”
Broadway fixed her with an evil eye. “That woman. She— I— I mean, I can’t say I don’t think she’s one— But—” The intimidating detective was at a loss for words.
“She likes you, Broadway.”
“Hell, I like her. But she’s always all up in my grill. And she’s a reporter. Kind of a conflict. I’m a cop. In the District. Homicide, major crimes, bad hours. And people hate cops. That’s no life for— Well, it takes a toll on loved ones, let us say.”
“Loved ones?” Lacey tried hard not to look too interested. She failed.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Smithsonian. I ain’t here to talk about me and LaToya Crawford. We got to close this thing down.”
“Which thing?”
“This dress thing. So we can put LaToya’s mind at rest and get back to normal. That woman is relentless. She’s got to leave me alone. But she won’t, because she says she doesn’t feel safe. Hell, nobody feels safe.”
“And you?”
“I wish I was safe from insane fashion crimes. Before I met you—” He graced her with an especially fierce glare. “Oh, never mind. So, what do you got, Smithsonian?” The big detective sat up in the Death Chair and brought his fists down on her desk.
“Honestly, Lamont, I’ve got nothing right now. Nothing solid.” Like hell I don’t. I have seven Lenin medals. And a codename for a dead spy.
“Nothing solid, you say, so you got something. Maybe you can’t put your finger on it. And the vibes. The fashion voodoo you do. What do they tell you?”
She had to give him credit. He actually believed she had a special kind of insight into clothes. In spite of his rough, gruff, blow-your-house-down style of interrogation, he was a good cop. He deserved an answer.
“If I said there might be international ramifications, and I am not saying there are, what then?”
“International ramifications? What the hell? What country are we talking here?”
She busied herself with straightening her desk. “I don’t know. Wild guess, let’s say, oh, maybe Russia.”
“Oh man. Russia. The same scummy Russkies who screwed up the elections?”
“There’s Russians and then there’s Russians. I don’t know if they’re the same ones. I have no proof.”
“Just to be clear. Russians are the ones who wear the funny fur hats?”
“Lots of fur and snow, caviar and vodka.”
“Well, all right!” Broadway brightened visibly. “Russians would be way the hell out of my purview. Jurisdiction in D.C. is a multilayered blessing, as you know. Sounds like this damn red dress mess might just belong to some other agency. FBI, CIA, ICE, Homeland Security, whoever.” He took another bite of Felicity’s pancakes, licking his lips. “It don’t solve the LaToya situation for me though.” His frown was back. “She wants the perp locked up so she can go spit at him. Locked up by me.”
Circling back to LaToya again. He IS attracted to her. Typical man. Typical D.C. Hand him a potential for real intimacy with a woman and he panics like a little boy. Lacey wondered how long it would take for LaToya to reel him in. She hoped it was soon. The tension was getting to her too.
“Why don’t you check out the new show at Kinetic Theatre?” she suggested.
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“Practically everyone here has seen it. Except LaToya. Lots of Russian dancers, very physical version of The Turn of the Screw.”
“Damn. Turn of the Screw? I had to read that thing in school. About killed me.” He grimaced. “And more Russkies? You gotta be kidding me.”
“LaToya would love it. You could take her. I’m sure she’d clear her schedule for you.”
The grimace turned into a scowl. “You ain’t funny, Smithsonian. And I ain’t getting involved with any Russians and tempting fate. Not if it’s not my case.”
“You know Gregor Kepelov.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not going to watch him or anyone else jump around on stage. My name might be Broadway, but I don’t sing and I don’t dance. I don’t do theatre.”
“I’ve heard that one before. Come on, Broadway. Give LaToya a chance. Take a chance on romance. You might enjoy it.”
“T
hat’s what I’m afraid of, and I ain’t afraid of anything.” He finished the last of his blinis, tossed the plate and fork in a trash can, and hefted himself out of the chair. He pointed a finger at her before leaving. “Keep me apprised of the situation, Smithsonian. Call me.”
Lacey watched the big detective as he strode urgently down the hall, looking around like a man fleeing a tiger.
As for her story, Broadway and everyone else could read about it when it hit the front page, or the LifeStyle section, depending on how the story played out. As Lamont disappeared from sight, she called Todd Hansen and asked if he still had any photos from last Saturday’s theatre sale.
Hansen arrived shortly with a memory card. He’d taken hundreds of frames, he said, and this was easier than trying to decide which ones she might be interested in. He folded his tall frame into the same Mariah Death Chair just warmed by Detective Lamont, leaned his head on the wooden back, and closed his eyes. Lacey popped the card into her computer.
“What are you looking for?” he asked, his eyes still closed.
“I don’t know.”
He opened his eyes and squinted at her. “That’s always helpful.”
“If I was looking for something specific, I might not see the other thing.”
“The other thing?”
“The surprise,” Lacey said. “The unexpected. Could be something in the background or the foreground. Something that I’m not expecting.”
“Oh, right. The clue.” He smirked.
“Yeah, wise guy, the clue. Or not.”
Scrolling through the photos, she was dismayed at the multitude of them. Hansen was thorough. He’d made the rounds of the entire event and shot almost all of it. Lacey clicked rapidly through frame after frame: stacks of props, mounds of stage furniture, makeshift counters with costumes, wigs, makeup, hats, and more. She slowed down when the clothing racks appeared. There were perhaps fifteen or twenty photos with various people rummaging through the costumes hanging there. She didn’t see the dress.
“That’s funny. Maybe someone was looking at it, trying it on. Or was this after LaToya bought the dress?”
“No. This is before you were there. I came back again later,” Hansen said. “When I saw you and Tamsin. Have lens, will travel. What are you working on, Lacey? I thought you already wrote the story with the Mad Hatter photos.”
“I did. This is the yard sale that keeps on giving. I want to see the costume that LaToya bought. The red dress.” She turned back to the screen and scrolled through more photos. Everything seemed to go by in a blur.
“I heard she had a fight with someone over it. Hey.” He pointed. The red dress suddenly came into focus. “That’s the one you’re talking about? I am so sorry I missed the drama. Can’t be everywhere at the same time.”
She kept her eye on the screen and, sure enough, Hansen doubled back to the racks of clothes, as he said. Lacey was surprised to see not just the dress, but herself in several of the shots.
She cocked her head at Hansen. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“You’re always looking good. And you never can tell when Smithsonian will bring down some nefarious fashion criminal. Good times.” He gave her two thumbs up.
“I’m appalled.”
“You wouldn’t want me to miss those special moments, would you? Moments that wind up on the front page? Now that’s teamwork.” He was enjoying himself. Hansen’s eagle eye wouldn’t have been so bad, she thought, if he hadn’t caught Smithsonian so often in embarrassing circumstances, usually on the floor in an undignified position. True, she had taken down a killer or two, and he had it caught on film. Still, it was embarrassing. And her mother always saw those photos.
“Hope you’re not disappointed that I didn’t do anything embarrassing,” she said.
“Never disappointed.” He reached for his coffee. Something caught his eye and he pointed to Lacey’s screen. “Look, there’s LaToya eyeing that dress.”
Lacey compared it to the first photos Hansen had taken of the costume racks. “And this is before we came on the scene. Nothing.”
Even more interesting to Lacey was that Amy Keaton was on the edge of the frame in the first photos, the ones not graced with Death’s Red Dress, apparently greeting people, showing them costumes.
“They’re time-stamped,” Hansen said. “Check it out. Ten minutes apart.”
Ten minutes between the first photos of that rack and the later ones. Ten minutes during which Hanson strolled around the grounds of the sale. Ten minutes until he circled back to confer with Tamsin and take more photos. Ten minutes in which someone added the ruby red frock to the rack. Lacey held her breath.
She blinked. In the later photos, the dress in all its blood-red glory was hanging there and Lacey and LaToya were staring at it. Another photo featured LaToya lifting the dress for a better look.
It was clear: Someone deliberately added the scarlet frock to the rack after the compulsively meticulous Amy Keaton had stopped monitoring the dress sale, presumably to go handle something else. Why? To get rid of it on purpose? Without Amy stopping the sale? To send Amy into a tizzy?
Lacey zoomed in on the photo to see whether she could identify the people in the background. Hansen lifted himself out of the chair and peered over her shoulder.
“You know, photography is not like in the movies. Blowing up the photograph doesn’t make things clearer,” he said. “Much to my chagrin.”
“Not like the movies. Isn’t that always the way?” Enlarged, the figures became grainy and blurry. Lacey downloaded the series of photos from the rack, as well as all the ones with the red dress and herself and LaToya. She gave Hansen his memory card back. “Thanks, Hansen.”
“What now?”
“Gotta go. I have an interview.”
Lacey stood and straightened her clothes. She had worn a fitted black-knit top with short sleeves and a full cotton skirt, red roses on a black background. It had deep pockets, one where she concealed Vic’s burner phone. The other contained Kepelov’s knockout juice. Her red wedges were comfortable enough to run in, if necessary, and a sleek red shoulder bag held her notebook, wallet, regular cell phone, and essential makeup.
If she needed a pair of scissors to stab someone in self-defense, she would simply have to improvise.
WALKING UP SIXTEENTH Street to the theatre, Lacey used her regular phone to call Vic. She could have taken a cab, but she needed the exercise to calm her nerves. She felt ridiculous playing Spy vs. Spy. Besides, it was much too hot for trench coats.
“You’re on your way now?” he asked.
“Yes, your phone’s in my pocket. Do you know how hard it is to find something to wear with pockets deep enough so it’s not noticeable?”
“Those are the breaks, sweetheart. With your endless wardrobe, I’m sure you’re up to the task.”
“It’s not endless.”
“Ha. You have Gregor’s secret sauce?”
“In my other pocket.”
“Good. Don’t worry, Turtledove will be nearby.”
“I hope he’ll be bored. Not too bored.”
“I don’t care whether he’s bored, as long as you are safe.”
“Love you too.”
They signed off. The heat was rising.
CHAPTER 35
“Ten o’clock, you are prompt. How refreshing,” Nicky Sokolov said with a smile, as he unlocked the theatre’s front door for Lacey.
“Deadlines,” she replied. “I like being punctual.” Cool theatre air hit her warm skin. She shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“Not really. It feels good to be out of the sun. I’ll acclimate.”
Nicky Sokolov looked trim and dramatic in black jeans and a tailored black shirt. For many people in the theatre, black was a uniform, a blank canvas to build a performance upon. His sleeves were folded up, and his forearms were surprisingly muscular and defined. “Coffee?”
“I’d love some. What would D.C. do without coff
ee?”
“I shudder to think.”
Lacey watched him pour two cups from the same pot. He handed her a black mug with the Kinetic logo in white.
“Here you go. Tell me if you need anything in it.”
“Black is fine.” She took a sip and closed her eyes to enjoy it and inhale the aroma. It was surprisingly good, strong but not bitter. “It’s delicious.”
“From my private stock of beans. So glad you approve.”
“The Eye Street Observer must supply bitter beans as a punishment.”
He smiled in response. “Maybe to strengthen its reporters.”
Sounds like a Russian interpretation. “Then we should be the strongest reporters in Washington.”
Sokolov nodded in agreement and tilted his head toward the stairs. He led the way through the first floor lobby to the side stairway to the second floor.
They arrived in the upstairs lobby, a pleasant central area between the double doors to the half balcony overlooking the stage and the light booth on one side. Opposite the theatre balcony, sliding glass doors led to the offices and the costume shop, which overlooked the street. A compact bar was set up on the side wall next to the tiny restrooms. The taupe-and-white color scheme provided a quiet backdrop for theatre crowds and the occasional art installation.
Lacey was greeted by costumed mannequins set all around the lobby space, outfitted in selections from some of Kinetic’s notable shows. The mannequins came in a variety of colors, white, pink, blue, and black, and in different dimensions to fit the costumes. They were costumed, bewigged and accessorized, but the faces were blank, to show the costumes to their best advantage. The viewer’s imagination filled in the details. It was even more theatrical than the creepy little wardrobe tableau at LaToya’s place.
“Are these set up all the time?”
“No. Several times a year Kinetic sponsors an exclusive opening night cocktail reception to give our angels, our donors, an inside look, behind the scenes. They pay for much of it, and we like to show it off for them. The costumes, being the most visual items, are the most popular thing to display.” Sokolov had a very slight Russian accent, but it was there when he relaxed.
The Masque of the Red Dress Page 28