Panty Raid

by Diane Vallere

  I called down to room service for a hotel breakfast of waffles and ice cream. It wasn’t listed on the regular room service menu, but me and room service were tight by now, and I took a chance they’d be open to the request. They were. By the time the food arrived, I had a new suggestion.

  “I could call Loncar,” I said. “Cops talk to other cops, right? I could call Detective Loncar and ask him to call Detective Marbury and tell him we’re on the level.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Why? That’s what I would do.”

  “I know,” Nick said. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Okay, for now, I’ll think like you and not call Detective Loncar.” I sat on the bed and spooned soft vanilla ice cream onto my waffles. “You never told me what happened when you went to the police station.”

  “I didn’t talk to Marbury,” Nick said. “I talked to an officer from Vice. I told him about Marc’s engagement, how he met his fiancée, and how, to protect him, I wanted to find out if the escort service was going to target him while he was in mourning.”

  I was impressed. “Way to use the facts to make your lie sound more believable, Taylor.” I slugged his bicep.

  He caught my fist and held it in the palm of his hand. “It wasn’t a lie. Everything I said was the truth. And it turns out they already knew all of it anyway. Marc told them about the escort service when he talked to the police.”

  “He did?”

  Nick nodded. “The more I think about this whole thing, the more I wonder about Marc getting hitched in the first place. The man is forty. He’s been a lifelong bachelor. He employed a service to get him dates. The signs don’t exactly point to the altar.”

  “But he was happy. You saw him, right?”

  “He said he was happy. And within the hour, we were on our way to being kicked out of a casino bar for public drunkenness. The night before he was supposed to tie the knot. Again, sounds like something was off.”

  “Yes, and that something agrees with what Chaplain Rick told us. That the marriage was troubled from the start,” I said.

  “Yeah, there’s that.” Nick picked up a waffle and took a bite. I stared at him. “What?” he asked. “It’s you and me in a hotel room in Vegas. I didn’t think you’d judge me if I ate with my hands.”

  Emotions bubbled up within me. “I ate four orders of mac and cheese last night,” I said. I didn’t look away.

  He set the waffle down. I waited for his response. He swallowed and said, “I love you, Kidd.”

  We finished our breakfast and got ready. Where other couples might say, “Have a nice day, honey!” before going separate directions, we mixed things up.

  “Hey Kidd, try to keep your clothes on,” Nick said.

  “Will do. Try not to hire any hookers.”

  As previously arranged, I met Amanda in the lobby outside the lingerie show. She wore a white blazer, white T-shirt, and white trousers with silver loafers. I wore her pink satin robe over my black sheath dress. It was an hour before Intimate Mode opened to the attendees, but vendors were allowed entrance to prepare their booths for the day. Amanda signed me in as one of her models, and I followed her far enough to keep up appearances. When we reached the White aisle, I took off the robe.

  “I’m going to get my things from Yarvi’s booth while the coast is clear.”

  Amanda took the robe and we split up. I made sure to go down the back aisle to the booth behind Joey’s so as not to be spotted. My clothes were where I’d left them, balled up and discarded against the wall where the model duffel bags had lain. I grabbed my overstuffed bag and peeked out front. The lights had not been turned on, and the interior felt deserted.

  I could get back to Amanda’s booth, stash my stuff, and go about my day.

  Or I could sneak into Joey’s booth and snoop.

  I couldn’t shake the idea that it would be easy for Nick and Amanda to see Marc as guilty. They both wanted someone to blame for Pamela Martin’s actions in college, and Marc made an easy target. But I wasn’t convinced that Marc was anything other than a man caught in the crosshairs of something unrelated to him. Something that I was in a position to discover.

  Yesterday, I would have known what Nick would do: return to Amanda’s booth and go about my day. But Nick was thinking like me, and that was an odd endorsement in my sleuthing abilities. Did it mean my instincts, though not well thought out, were right?

  It’s a good thing Nick wasn’t here to monitor my decision-making.

  I extended the strap on my bulging laptop bag and hung it across my chest, went to the back of Yarvi’s booth, and lifted the fabric that separated her booth from Joey’s. The trade show venue would open soon, and while it was risky to even try to snoop, this was my only chance.

  But as I ducked under the fabric, I knew my instincts were wrong. Because instead of finding an opportunity to snoop, I found Chryssinda slumped in a folding chair.

  24

  I forgot about not drawing attention to myself and ran to Chryssinda’s unconscious body. Her head hung at an awkward angle, and her arms were limp by her sides. Her long blond hair was pulled into a tight ponytail on top of her head and fell in a straight line behind her. She was dressed in a black bra and matching boy short panties. Her exposed body revealed very little body fat.

  I checked for her pulse by her throat. It was faint, but it was present.

  “Help!” I yelled. “This woman needs help. Help! Somebody!” There was no answer. I poked my head out of the front of Joey’s booth. “Amanda!” I hollered at the top of my lungs. If Marlon Brando had yelled “Stella” at the very same time, I would have drowned him out. “Amanda!” I yelled again.

  The raven-haired designer entered the Get Cheeky booth with an expression that said she was horrified by my behavior. As soon as she saw Chryssinda, she froze.

  “Get help. Get security. Get anybody. Hurry!”

  Her eyes were glued to Chryssinda’s body.

  “Amanda, snap out of it! Either get help or stay here and I’ll get help. Chryssinda is still alive, but I don’t know for how long. She needs medical attention.”

  Amanda’s eyes fluttered, and she swayed. I grabbed an abandoned white cup that sat on the floor next to Chryssinda, yanked the plastic lid off, and threw the contents at Amanda. The scent of cola filled the air. Watered down brown liquid discolored her white outfit. She blinked a few times while soda dripped off her chin, and then she turned and ran.

  I bent down next to Chryssinda. “Can you hear me?” I asked. She did not respond. “Do you know who did this to you?” She did not respond. “Please hold on until the paramedics reach you,” I whispered urgently.

  She did not respond.

  Security officers arrived a few moments later. Amanda and I were ushered out of the way while medical staff attended to the model. There would be no way for me to give a statement without revealing I had entered Joey’s booth an hour before the trade show opened to buyers.

  I wondered, briefly, if Chryssinda had a reason to be there herself?

  Right before I fled Joey’s booth yesterday, I’d overheard Chryssinda tell Teresa her suspicions about Joey’s behavior. I’d watched Joey and Teresa fight from my position on the stage right before my bang bang moment. While I was hiding under the stage after baring 98% of me to the audience in a disrobing worthy of a professional stripper, I heard Teresa tell someone she had done what was expected and she wanted her money.

  If Joey wasn’t up to something, maybe Teresa was. It seemed likely that there was something up with Joey Cheeks & Company. One of his models was dead and another was on her way. I didn’t know what it meant, but it did seem as though the events were connected.

  Detective Marbury, not surprisingly, arrived at Intimate Mode shortly thereafter. It seemed he agreed with me.

  “Ms. Kidd,” he said. “I understand you discovered Ms. Sykes?”

  “Who?”

  “Chryssinda Syke
s, the woman on her way to the hospital. Did my men get her identity wrong?”

  “No, they got it right. I found her. I didn’t know her last name.”

  “But you do know her?”

  “I met her. She was a model here at the show, and she’s a friend of Marc Rico.”

  “The same Marc Rico who was engaged to the lingerie model you discovered outside of your hotel window?”

  “Yes. Except no. I mean, I don’t know how to answer the question.”

  “These questions are pretty straightforward.”

  “I know. It’s what I know—or don’t know—that’s all jumbled up.”

  The detective tipped his head and scratched at the bristles of his beard. “Ms. Kidd, you should know I checked you out. Standard procedure. I found out you have a colorful past.”

  “I don’t think it’s my past that’s colorful. I just happen to get involved with colorful people.”

  “Murderers. Arsonists. Mafia.”

  “Like I said, colorful.” I smiled, shooting for something like Aren’t I charming?

  “I talked to a Detective Loncar. Do you want to know what he told me?”

  Detective Loncar would not describe my sleuthing efforts as charming.

  “He said I should take you seriously. He said ignoring you or discounting what you say will only cost me valuable time in my investigation.”

  “He said that? Did he call me charming?”

  “No.” Marbury paused. “He also told me you were engaged, and your fiancé was a calming presence on you.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet.”

  “Is this the same fiancé who was brought in yesterday for solicitation?”

  This guy was tough. “He wasn’t trying to pick up a hooker!” I said. Several officers looked my way. “Is there someplace else we can talk?”

  If Detective Marbury were of the female persuasion, I would have led him to the ladies’ room where Amanda and I had bonded yesterday. This being his town, he had something else in mind. We sat in the VIP lounge on the second floor of the convention center. Until the police permitted the venue to open, the only people inside would be other early birds like me.

  Detective Marbury had the benefit of checking me out first. I was trusting him blindly. Every movie I’d ever seen that prominently featured Las Vegas told me the cops were on the take. And then, in a flash, I thought, “What would Nick do?”

  Nick would cooperate with law enforcement.

  And so I did.

  “My first thought was that Lydia killed herself, but according to Marc, he and Lydia snuck off to get married that night. Why would she kill herself after that?” I tried to justify the order of events. They didn’t fit. “If I were investigating anything, I’d definitely talk to Chaplain Rick at The Left Bank. He would have been one of the last people to see Lydia alive.”

  The detective made a note.

  “And do you know Joey Cheeks?”

  “Ms. Moss’s employer, right?”

  “Right. His booth is the one where I found Chryssinda’s body. He’s a lingerie designer, and Lydia was under contract as the face of his company. He wanted to fire her, and she threatened to sue him—at least that’s what I overheard Chryssinda tell his line manager, Teresa Kander. Joey and Lydia didn’t have a good relationship, and I’m not so sure he and Chryssinda did, either.” I paused. “Plus I saw him argue with Teresa.”

  Marbury’s brow furrowed. “Cheeks. Like Cheeky?”

  “Yes. The panties Lydia had on the morning she died were from his collection. And that photo—the one that made it into the papers—”

  “We’re already on that.”

  “You know about Alain Remie?”

  Marbury cocked his head. “Where did you get that name?”

  “He’s the hotel manager of The Left Bank. He came to our room the morning I called you, remember? He’s the one who sold the picture to the Las Vegas Sun.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I called the paper and asked about the permission of rights form.”

  He stared at me. “You called the paper and asked about the permission of rights form,” he repeated.

  I nodded.

  “Tell me about the solicitation charge,” he said.

  “The suspicion of solicitation charge,” I corrected. “Nick didn’t solicit anything from anybody. He was just asking questions.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Yes, I know why, and you probably know why too.”

  “I’d like to hear it in your words.”

  “Nick wanted to make sure the escort service Marc used wasn’t going to take advantage of him, so Nick poked around and asked questions about how one might find an escort service that specializes in that sort of clientele.”

  Marbury set his notepad and pen down and crossed his arms over his chest. “You bought that story?”

  Okay, that just made me mad. “Nick did what he did because he asked himself what I would have done, and that’s the single most romantic thing any man has ever done for me in my entire life. I’m not going to let a solicitation charge ruin it.”

  I told Detective Marbury what else I knew. When we finished, I felt an odd sense of relief, like the act of unburdening myself of the knowledge of suspicious ongoings of the people around me had left me lighter. Perhaps this was why people cooperated with the police. You tell them what you know, and you’re done. You bear no further responsibility in what happens or whether the guilty party is caught. From here on out, it was someone else’s craps game.

  It must be the Vegas setting that made me add the word “craps” to my thoughts, right? Because I did what I was supposed to do. What Nick would have done. The police had the information needed to conduct their investigation. I was in an unfamiliar city, with no real resources, and a job that Tradava, my employer, expected me to do. Which was what I should have been focused on all along.

  ***

  In the time I spent talking to Detective Marbury, Chryssinda had been moved from the Get Cheeky booth and sent to the hospital. The venue had argued with the police about the cost of hosting a trade show of this magnitude, the potential loss of future business, and the impact of shutting down for the rest of the day, and since nothing suspicious had been found (other than an unconscious model in one of the booths, which, apparently, wasn’t all that unusual), the police allowed Intimate Mode to reopen. I suspected that had been their intent all along, but in putting up a fight, they made their point. Even in Las Vegas, the cost of doing business did not trump police procedure. A point made more evident when I saw Joey Cheeks leave the venue with Detective Marbury.

  Now that I had my belongings, I checked in at registration and consulted my schedule. Tradava had left things light today: a trend presentation on the same stage I’d hidden under yesterday, a meet and greet with two 3-pack cotton panty vendors we already relied on for replenishment, and a cocktail reception for VIP clients. It was about time I forgot Marc Rico, Lydia Moss, Joey Cheeks, Chryssinda Sykes, Yarvi Tatum, Teresa Kander, Alain Remie, and anybody else who’d elbowed their way into my life since arriving in Vegas. I’d even give Amanda’s booth a wide berth if possible.

  I spent the balance of the day doing the job I was in Vegas to do. When the lights flashed at six to indicate closing time, my laptop bag bulged with line sheets, vendor contacts, swag, and fabric swatches. I’d even had to drop yesterday’s outfit at Will Call, the venue’s package holding station, which was how I found myself in line with my claim check while others exited the show. I handed my ticket to the man behind the booth. When he returned, it was my bag of clothes, along with a small gift bag that said #GetCheeky.

  “That’s not mine,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. He turned the bag around. On the outside, stapled on, was a business card for Teresa Kander with the #GetCheeky logo underneath. Written on the white card in pink marker, was Samantha Kidd/ Tradava.

  “Did
you have an appointment with Joey Cheeks?” he asked.

  “Yesterday,” I said.

  “They’ve been giving samples to their appointments. Did you get a swag bag?”

  “No.” I left out the fact that they hadn’t exactly seen me leave, along with the fact that I wasn’t particularly enthused to own a pair of #GetCheeky panties (unless they were Thursday).

  “Teresa must have realized the oversight after you left and wanted to make sure you didn’t feel slighted. She’s very efficient.” He glanced at my lanyard. “Especially if Tradava is a good account for them.”

  The jury was still out on that.

  I thanked him and left. It wasn’t until I was back in my room with my shoes off, hair up, and room service on the way (#17: mac and gruyere), that I went through my various vendor gifts. Thanks to the memory of the words on Lydia’s underwear, I put off opening the #GetCheeky bag until last, which was why it took me forty-seven minutes after returning to The Left Bank to discover the connection I’d missed all along.

  25

  Inside the #GetCheeky bag was a black cone bra reminiscent of Madonna’s Blonde Ambition tour in 1991. Being a fan of Madonna, I recognized it immediately. I also remembered the last time I’d seen it. The day Nick and I arrived on the strip of Las Vegas when we’d watched an Elvis impersonator pose with a Madonna impersonator in front of the fake Eiffel Tower across the street.

  My body buzzed with energized nerve endings. I dropped the cone bra and flipped through my belongings for my cell phone. I swiped through the recent photos until I found the one of Elvis and Madonna. I zoomed in and studied the fuzzy, blown up image. I wasn’t 100% sure about their identities, but I was over 95%. It was Joey Cheeks and Chryssinda Sykes. On the sidewalk where Lydia’s body had been found less than twenty-four hours later.

  Using my fingers, I moved the image around the screen. Elvis held a selfie-stick aimed at the two of them. The angle was an unflattering one: camera held low and aimed up. Knowing what I did from my own attempts to get flattering selfies, the camera should be slightly above the subject’s head. That would reduce the appearance of chins, make the head appear larger than the hips, create a shadow by the décolletage, and allow the natural sunlight to reflect off foreheads and cheeks and create the appearance of a glow from within.