“Not so fast,” she said. “Jeanette has you on a project.”
Oh, yeah. Our Blue Jeans Blowout sale. I’d forgotten all about it.
I followed Shannon down the aisle and into the big stock room at the back of the store. It was silent in there, as always at this time of the evening. Employees rarely came back here, unless some customer threw a big enough fit to have them check on something, which didn’t happen all that often.
Shannon stopped near the loading dock where the big steel and concrete stairs went up to the second floor and the conveyor belts and hanging conveyors ran alongside it. Several big work tables stood nearby amid the jumble of mannequins, unsalable merchandise, and returns.
“Okay, here’s your project,” Shannon told me.
She pointed to what looked like hundreds of big brown boxes stacked in the corner.
“What’s in them?” I asked.
“Blue jeans,” she barked, as if I were as stupid as, well, as stupid as I thought she was.
Obviously, Shannon didn’t know I’d slept with the store’s owner and we were now officially boyfriend-girlfriend. Maybe if I talked about futures in the Asian market, Ty would fire her for me.
She stomped over to one of the shelving units and tossed a box of plastic merchandise tags onto the work table. I’d seen them before—they’d probably told us the official name at orientation, but I’d drifted off. They were the kind with a long pin that went through the fabric and connected to a big bulky plastic thing on the other side that caused the security alarm to beep if somebody tried to walk out the front door with them. The tags could only be removed with a special gizmo at the checkout registers.
“Put one of these on every pair of jeans,” Shannon told me.
My eyes widened. “How many pairs are there?”
“Two thousand.”
“Two thousand?”
“Misses’, juniors’, womens’, girls’, boys’, infants’, toddlers’, men’s, plus size women’s, extended size men’s,” Shannon said. “We’re talking blowout here, Haley. Remember?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“I’m coming back to check on you—often,” Shannon threatened. “I’d better find you working. These jeans have to be tagged in time for the sale. Don’t go out on the sales floor. Understand? Don’t leave this stock room—no matter what.”
She stomped away.
I hate my life.
It was a Prada day. Definitely a Prada day.
First thing this morning, Evelyn and I had hit the mall in search of the perfect dress for her to wear to the party she’d decided to attend. Shopping is a highly fluid situation. You have to be ready to dig in, try on, or cut and run when a store just doesn’t have the right vibe. I’m very gifted in that arena.
It’s an art, really.
Evelyn didn’t seem to see it that way but, I had to hand it to her, she hung in there with me through four stores and dozens of dresses. When we finally found the perfect dress, I felt like Columbus must have felt when he’d discovered the beautiful, lush continent of America. I don’t think Evelyn shared my thrill of victory. She was mostly tired at that point.
We pushed on to the shoe department, where Evelyn perked up considerably, the handbag department—no Sinful bag, I checked—and finally the jewelry counter where we pronounced her look complete.
I drove Evelyn home. I was pretty sure she took a nap after I left.
But I was pumped. My day had gotten off to a terrific start, an omen of things to come. So with my gorgeous Prada bag looped over my shoulder in what I hoped conveyed a casual yet sophisticated look, I headed downtown where I hoped my good luck would continue.
I was shopping for a killer.
I turned off of Olympic Boulevard onto Maple and cruised up the ramp to the rooftop parking garage Marcie and I usually used when we came to the Fashion District to buy knockoff designer handbags for our purse party business.
Downtown Los Angeles had undergone major changes in the past few years. Historic buildings had been converted to individual housing units, upscale shops and restaurants had gone in, a grocery store had opened. The Fashion District had changed, too, but not nearly as much.
I parked and took the steps that led to a men’s clothing store in Santee Alley. The District covered some ninety blocks, but The Alley was its heart. The stores that opened onto Santee Street and Maple Avenue used the alley between them to create a shopping experience reminiscent of bazaars around the world. The place was always jam packed with shoppers, loud music blared, and venders hawked their merchandise in English and Spanish.
Nearly everything could be bought and sold in The Alley—wholesale and retail—and most was counterfeit. Sunglasses, electronics, perfumes, iPod and cell phone cases, cigarette lighters, shoes, clothes, and, of course, handbags.
My heart rate picked up as I headed through The Alley. I was surrounded by purses, and even though they were knockoffs, I still got a rush.
Gucci, Prada, Burberry, Chloe, Dolce & Gabbana, Louis Vuitton, Marc Jacobs, Kenneth Cole, Treesje, Ferra-gamo. Clutches, satchels, hobos, buckets. Leather, fabric, patterns, colors. They hung from peg boards, over doorways; they were piled on tables and lined up on shelves.
Marcie and I always shopped together for our purse parties. I’d never been here alone. Where was she when I needed her? I fished my cell phone from my purse and punched in her work number.
Oh my God, what was I doing?
I hung up before she answered. Jeez, what had I been thinking? My sole purpose for being here today was to find Ed Buckley. I couldn’t afford to get so caught up in the handbags on display that I forgot that. I had to be vigilant, stay focused.
Yeah, okay, that wasn’t one of the things I did best, but today I absolutely had to force myself.
My plan was to search the area until I spotted Ed, just as Tiffany had done.
Maybe it wasn’t the greatest plan in the world, but it was all I had. Didn’t Tiffany deserve that much effort? And what about Virginia Foster, who was missing and maybe dead. Honestly, I didn’t care that much that Rita might have been a casualty of this, but she probably had a family somewhere who deserved to know the truth. I owed Ben Oliver a story, too. And I wanted Shuman to show those FBI guys up.
Really, what are friends for?
And if I didn’t find Ed, who would?
I was sick of always thinking that maybe I was being followed, and that those guys from the FBI might jump out at me and arrest me. I wanted to put an end to this so my life could get back to normal or, hopefully, better than normal.
Just as I slipped my cell phone back into my purse, it rang. I looked at the caller I.D. screen and saw that it was Ty.
Okay, that was weird.
I stepped off to the side, out of the way of the crowds roaming through The Alley, hoping I could get a good signal amid the tall buildings that surrounded me.
I’d given up trying to calculate the time difference between here and London, so I answered, hoping he wasn’t calling in a drunken stupor from a pub or party somewhere.
I wasn’t in the mood.
“Haley,” he said when I answered. “How are you doing?”
I looked down at the phone, then put it to my ear again.
“Ty?” I asked.
He sounded kind of down or something. I hadn’t heard that tone in his voice before.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Everything here is taking longer than I thought,” Ty said, “and, well, I need to get home.”
My stomach got kind of mushy hearing him say that. Ty had a great voice. Everything about him was way hot.
“When can you get here?” I asked.
“A few more days.”
“By Saturday?” I asked.
He paused for a moment. “Probably not. Why?”
“There’s a smoking hot party I’m invited to,” I said. “I want you to come with me.”
“I can’t make it. There’s no way I can get things wrapped up here by th
en.”
“I’ll ask Marcie to go with me,” I said.
Ty didn’t say anything and for a minute I wondered if we’d lost our connection. I pressed the phone closer to my ear.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said, sounding really serious all of a sudden.
The warm gooey feeling in my stomach morphed into a knot.
Since I’m not big on suspense, I said, “Yeah, okay, what is it?”
He paused again.
I hate pauses.
“I can’t get into it now,” Ty said.
Oh my God. What did he want to tell me? That he’d realized we weren’t right for each other? That he wanted to break up with me because I didn’t talk dirty-stock-market to him? What could it be?
I decided to play it cool. No way would I dissolve into a desperate, clingy, whiny girlfriend right here on a public street.
“Sure, that’s great,” I said, “because there’s something I want to talk to you about, too.”
Ty didn’t say anything. I figured he wanted to ask me what it was about, but didn’t dare.
“I’ll call as soon as I know when I’ll be home,” he said. “Have fun at the party.”
Ty hung up. I tucked my phone away and started walking again, feeling not so great about our conversation.
Just as I’d started to replay the whole thing in my mind again, I got jostled from behind.
Oh my God. Had somebody just tried to pick my pocket? Steal my purse?
I looked back and saw a young Hispanic woman pushing a baby stroller. She mumbled an apology and kept going.
Nothing bad had happened, but it could have. I tightened my hold on my handbag and walked a little faster, renewing my resolve to remain attentive.
I reached the end of Santee Alley and turned east toward Maple. The sidewalk was narrow and crowded with colorful umbrellas used to shield both merchants and merchandise from the California sun. Vendors eyed me as I walked past; a white girl here alone was an uncommon sight.
Had Tiffany felt this way? I wondered. She’d walked these same streets, looking for Ed Buckley. It must have seemed really different from the quiet, staid atmosphere she was probably used to in Charleston.
I scanned the crowd ahead of me, then looked across Olympic Boulevard at the shoppers streaming back and forth. No sign of Ed. Yet. But I’d spot him, sooner or later. And when I did—
What would I do?
Jeez, I’ve got to get better about thinking things through.
Since my apprehension of Ed was imminent, I decided it would be good to have some backup in place. I called Detective Shuman.
“Can you meet me?” I asked when he answered. “I’m in the Fashion District looking for Ed Buckley.”
“What?”
How could I have a clear connection with Ty all the way in London but Shuman couldn’t hear me a few blocks away?
“I said I’m in the Fashion District—”
“Alone?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Have you lost your mind?” he demanded.
Okay, so maybe he could hear me just fine.
“Where are you—exactly?” Shuman asked.
“Olympic and Maple.”
“Don’t move,” he said and hung up.
A few minutes later I spotted Shuman hoofing it up Maple toward me. He looked like exactly what he is—a cop.
As if the police don’t have anything more important to do, they occasionally raided the Fashion District, rounding up counterfeit merchandise and arresting merchants. I know all about copyright infringement and, yes, it’s wrong to rip off somebody else’s products, but jeez, people are killing each other all over the Southland. Maybe the cops could prioritize a little better?
Vendors, merchants, and shoppers eyed Shuman and his angry-cop face as he strode up to me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“You’re ruining my rep,” I said. “Come on.”
We crossed Olympic and went into an enclosed shopping area on the corner. The place was lined with vendors and merchandise, just like outside. But this place was newer, cleaner, a little more upscale and a lot cooler thanks to the air conditioning.
We found the closest thing to a quiet corner available and Shuman lit into me.
“What are you doing looking for Buckley? The man is a murderer. Have you forgotten that? What are you thinking coming down here all by yourself?” he demanded.
“I’m not by myself,” I pointed out. “You’re here with me.”
I’m pretty sure Shuman didn’t appreciate my attempt at humor.
He drew in one of those big breaths that makes men’s chests expand and their shoulders raise—which is always way hot—and let it out slowly.
“Tiffany Markham knew Ed was here somewhere,” I said. “She found him. So can I.”
“And it got her killed,” Shuman said.
“It will be different for me. Ed knew Tiffany. They’d been in the same family for years. They’d sat across the Thanksgiving dinner table from each other, she’d gone to his kids’ birthday parties,” I said. “Even though she went to great lengths to change her appearance, he’d seen through her disguise because he knew who she was.”
“And it got her killed,” Shuman said again.
“Ed doesn’t know me. If he happens to see me in a crowd, my face will mean nothing to him.”
I guess Shuman figured he wasn’t getting anywhere pointing out the obvious.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“Because it won’t leave me alone,” I told him. “And besides, I saw him. I saw Ed. I can identify him.”
Shuman stilled, giving me cop-face.
“Virginia Foster showed me the picture she’d taken of him,” I said. “I recognized him. I saw him in the parking lot the morning Tiffany was murdered.”
Shuman drew in an even bigger breath.
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” he asked.
“You’re off the case, remember?”
“Did you tell the FBI?” he asked.
“No way,” I said. “Look, I’m not in any real danger here.”
“Unless Ed remembers you from that morning at Holt’s,” Shuman said.
Oh, crap. I hadn’t thought of that.
“Ed was probably too busy to notice me, remember me, or think that I got a good enough look at him to point him out as Tiffany’s murderer,” I said.
“Probably?”
“Probably,” I said. “I’m not going to try and catch him, or anything. Just locate him. And then I’ll call you.”
I could tell Shuman didn’t like it, but really, what could he do?
“Be careful,” he said. “And don’t do anything crazy.”
“I promise,” I said, and resisted the urge to cross my heart.
“Call me right away if you spot him.”
“I’ve got you on speed dial,” I told him, and touched my Prada bag where my cell phone lay at the ready.
Shuman stewed for another couple of minutes, then left.
I spent the next few hours patrolling the Fashion District, looking for Ed Buckley. I found myself wondering how Tiffany had managed it. Had she just stumbled across him? Or had she, somehow, known where to look?
Maybe I needed a better plan.
Too bad I couldn’t ask Virginia for more info.
I was walking north on Santee Street when something across the street caught my attention. I froze, did a double take, then gasped.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
With no regard for my personal safety, I dashed across the street, dodging cars and ignoring rude gestures—which I deserved—and raced to the display window of a tiny clothing store. I pressed my palms against the glass, too stunned to move.
There, in the center of the window display, sat a Sinful handbag.
CHAPTER 21
Please, don’t be a knockoff. Oh, please, please, please, don’t be a knockoff.
I
silently repeated this chant, as if the handbag gods could hear me and somehow make my wish come true.
Cupping my hands against the store window, I leaned closer to block the glare and get a better look at the Sinful purse on display. My trained eye swept the detailing quickly and my heart started to pound.
The bag looked perfect. It looked genuine.
So as not to rush into the store looking scattered and frantic—which might cause the clerk to alert security—I closed my eyes for a moment, attempting to find my center and relax.
That lasted about four seconds.
My eyes popped open and I rushed inside.
All sorts of accessories filled the shelves—bracelets, necklaces, earrings, scarves, wallets, wristlets, socks, hats, and—yes—handbags. A few other customers milled around, checking out the jewelry.
What was the matter with them? How could they look at jewelry when a Sinful purse lay merely steps away?
The clerk behind the glass counter eyed me as I lifted the handbag from the display window.
Thanks to the advanced training Marcie and I had acquired picking out handbags for our purse parties, I knew exactly what to look for.
My gaze raced over the detailing: hardware—securely fastened; designer name—positioned properly, spelled correctly; tag—printed accurately.
My heart pounded in my chest. Oh my God, I’d found a genuine—
Hang on a minute.
I flipped the bag over and examined the stitching on the bottom. My heart sank.
The stitches were crooked, irregularly spaced. No way would a genuine bag in this condition have gotten past an inspector. This purse was a fake.
Crap.
I put the bag back and left the store, but couldn’t bring myself to walk away just yet. I lingered for a moment at the window.
The quality of the bag was excellent. It had nearly fooled me—me. And if I, with my trained eye, could barely tell the difference, chances were good that almost nobody else could either.
Maybe I should buy it—just in case I couldn’t find a genuine one in time to take it to the big party on Saturday.
“Nice knockoff, huh?” somebody said.
I turned and saw a man standing next to me. Late twenties, I guessed, maybe thirty already. Tall, dark brown hair, rugged build, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. Handsome. Really handsome.
Dorothy Howell Page 18