“What kind of questions?”
“We were wondering if you know a guy by the name of Ryan Jeffries? He lives in the area.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What about him?”
“So you do know him?”
He looked from Dana to me, as if trying to decide how much to tell us. Luckily, Dana jumped in before he could make up his mind. “We met him on a shoot in L.A. and he gave us his number. But he’s not answering now and we so wanted to party with him tonight before we have to go home.”
Big Red looked from Dana to me. “You’re models?”
“Uh huh.” Dana nodded, flipping her hair over one shoulder in a practiced hot-blonde move.
“Hmph.” Big Red glanced at my gimp leg, obviously not totally convinced.
“We’re gonna be so bummed if we miss Ryan, you know? Is he here?” Dana asked, standing on tip-toe to peer over his shoulder.
“No. Rye’s working tonight.”
“Working?” I asked. “As in modeling?”
He grinned again, showing off a crooked smile that had broken up one too many bar fights. “You could say that.”
“Do you know where?” Dana asked, twirling her hair around her index finger.
“Club X. Not really sure it’s the kind of place for a couple of nice gals like you, though.”
“Oh, we’ll take our chances. Would you mind writing down the address for us?” I asked, pulling a gum wrapper and a pen from my purse.
He did. Then beneath it scrawled a phone number. He handed it to Dana with a wink.
“Just in case you’re not into the X scene,” he said.
Dana giggled. I grabbed her by the arm and steered her back to the cab before Miss My-Boyfriend’s-Kissing-Natalie-Portman could get too friendly with the natives.
Once in the cab, I handed the gum wrapper to Mathew, who had moved on to the Local News section.
“Do you know the place?” I asked.
Mathew shook his head. “Sorry, love, can’t say as I do. But it’s not far, though.”
We rode in silence through the London streets, littered with club goers and all night pubs, the air starting to thicken with fog as we veered away from downtown and into an older part of the city. Finally Mathew pulled the car up to a dark, two story building at the end of an abandoned block. Above the door was a lone neon “X”.
“You sure you girls want to go in there?” Mathew asked.
No. But we’d come this far. “Yep.”
Mathew shrugged, picking up his Times. “Suit yerself.”
Dana and I piled out of the car and up the walkway, pausing only briefly beneath the neon “X”, before slipping inside the club.
The interior of the club was only slightly less dark than the outside. A few strategically placed bulbs gave off an eerie reddish glow, bathing the room in an almost otherworldly light. A room that was packed. Men and women doing the Goth chic thing filled the room, going back and forth between a tall iron staircase and a long wooden bar spanning the length of the room. Dark, bass driven music played from hidden speakers and the décor of choice seemed to be red velvet, covering the back wall as well as a smattering of low sofas and chairs along the room’s perimeter.
A woman in black leather pants, black leather jacket, and a black leather riding crop attached to her belt walked past, giving us a once over.
“Gee, suddenly I feel underdressed,” Dana mumbled to me.
“Come on, let’s find Ryan.”
We threaded our way through the club patrons toward the bar where I relied on Dana’s double D’s to attract the bartender’s attention. Eventually, they worked their magic as he leaned in our way.
“What can I get you?” he asked. He had black hair held back in a ponytail, a thick Cockney accent and about twelve visible piercings on his face, reminding me of an oversized porcupine. I cringed, watching the one in his lip bob up and down as he spoke.
“We’re actually looking for Ryan Jeffries. We were told he worked here?”
The bartender smiled, revealing piercing number thirteen in his tongue. “Sure. He’s upstairs. But he’s already doing a scene with someone. You’re gonna have to take a number, love.”
“Thanks,” I said, moving out of the way as the lady with the crop inched her way past me.
“What’s that mean, ‘scene’?” I whispered to Dana as we threaded our way up the iron staircase to the second floor.
She shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe they’re doing a play.”
Though, as we reached the second story landing, I realized Shakespeare, it was not.
A crowd of people was gathered around a low platform, huddled two and three deep, all eyes on a woman in the center of the stage. She had jet black hair and wore a black leather corset and shiny black leather pants. Her eyes were heavily lined in black, her bright red lips the only accent of color on her. She held what looked like a leather paddle in one hand, in the other a leash. At the end of the leash was a man with pale blond hair, shirtless, crouched on all fours on the floor, wearing a pair of black leather chaps and a studded collar around his neck.
I blinked. Suddenly unsure if I wanted to watch or quickly look away.
“Ohmigod, Dana,” I said, grabbing her arm. “I think this is one of those kind of clubs.”
Dana’s eyes were riveted to the paddle in Leather Lady’s hands. “Like a sex kind of club?”
“Like an S&M kind of club. I think she’s gonna spank him.”
No sooner had I gotten the words out than the paddle made a smacking sound and the crowd went wild, throwing up a cheer like Lady Leather had just scored a touchdown.
I covered my eyes.
Okay, I’ll admit, I’m no sheltered virgin. But whips and chains were just a little out of my comfort zone. (And, yes, by “little” I do mean light years.)
Dana on the other hand had a very large comfort zone.
“Oh, this I gotta see,” she said, moving forward
“Wait, Dana-” I protested. But it was too late. She was already fighting her way to the front of the crowd. I had two choices: stay here, alone, or follow her to the front row. I looked to my right. A guy in a spiked collar, leather chaps and little else gave me the eye.
“Wait for me!”
I wriggled my way forward, only hitting three people in the shins with my crutches, until I finally caught up with her. A long railing had been erected around the perimeter of the stage and I found Dana leaning both elbows onto it, her eyes kind of glazing over as she watched Lady Leather work her magic on Slave Boy.
“He’s kind of cute, huh?” she asked, pointing to Slave Boy.
I wouldn’t know. I still had my hand covering my eyes. I gingerly peeked between my ring and pinky fingers. Of course, wouldn’t you know that would be the moment that Lady Leather chose to do away with Slave Boy’s leather pants. I felt myself blush all the way down to my blonde roots as I caught an unwanted glimpse of full frontal Slave Boy.
I grabbed Dana’s arm. “Ohmigod,” I said.
Dana licked her lips. “I know. God, I miss Ricky.”
“No,” I shook my head. Not that Slave Boy didn’t have an impressive… uh, package. But what had me grabbing Dana’s arm like a vice grip was the fact that I recognized that package. It was the same one from Gisella’s camera.
Slave Boy was Ryan Jeffries.
* * *
I left Dana upstairs to watch the rest of Ryan’s scene while I walked back to the bar like a fish swimming the wrong way downstream. I’m pretty sure 90% of Club X’s patrons would be going home with purple marks on their shins. I mumbled another, “Sorry,” as I whacked a girl in three inch stilettos, fishnets and a black bodice, and deposited myself on a red velvet sofa to wait for Dana. Fifteen minutes later she finally made an appearance, her eyes shining with an almost high look, one arm linked through Ryan’s. Thankfully, he’d put the chaps back on, but I still felt myself flush as he and Dana sat down beside me.
“Maddie, you missed a great show,” Dana sai
d.
“I’ll bet,” I mumbled, avoiding eye contact with Ryan.
“Ryan, this is Maddie, the girl I was telling you about.”
“Hi,” he said. Then cocked his head to the side. “Say, have we met before?”
I shook my head. Nope, I was fairly certain this guy I would have remembered.
He was tall, at least six feet, with pale blond hair and bright blue eyes. Now that he was fairly vertical it was obvious he had a lean, muscular model’s physique. I could easily envision him strutting down a runway in Calvin Kleins. I put his age in his late twenties to early thirties, probably a little old for the runway circuit now. Which might explain his latest place of employment.
“You sure?” he asked. “You look very familiar.”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
Then recognition dawned in his blue yes. “Wait, you’re that designer that stabbed Gisella!”
“I didn’t stab her. I swear. It’s just a tabloid rumor.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, not totally convinced.
“I swear, I would never hurt anyone!” I looked up at his collar. “Uh, I mean, I guess not that hurting someone is a bad thing. If they want to be hurt. Which clearly, you do. I mean, did. I mean, if you like that sort of thing. But I don’t. I mean, I didn’t. And definitely not Gisella and definitely not with a stiletto heel.”
Ryan just looked at me.
I cleared my throat. “Um, do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Gisella?”
I could tell he still had his reservations about me, but he nodded.
“Rumor has it you two were dating?”
“We were.”
“How long?”
“About three months.”
“And you went to Paris with her for Fashion Week?”
Again, he nodded. “Yes. I thought it would be a good opportunity to make some new contacts. Since hitting thirty, things have dried up a little for me. I flew in with her last Friday and stayed until…” he trailed off, looking down at his hands.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know this must be hard on you.” When he didn’t say anything, I plowed ahead. “Can I ask, when was the last time you saw Gisella?”
He bit a lip, his eyes focusing on a point just beyond my head. “Four nights ago? At her agent’s party.”
I frowned. Angelica said she’d heard a male voiced the night after that. “Are you sure? You didn’t see her the following night?” I prompted.
He shook his head, a sad, faraway look in his eyes. “No. The party was the last time I saw her. She broke it off with me.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Did she say why?”
He did a little humorless laugh. “She’d met someone new. Someone higher up in the food chain. She brought him to the party. Can you believe that? First she invites me to Fashion Week, then she shoves this guy in my face. What kind of woman does that?”
Ryan’s volume climbed as he talked, his earlier grief quickly being replaced with anger. I wondered just how angry he’d been at the party. Angry enough to kill Gisella the following night?
“Gisella was wearing a necklace at the party,” Dana piped up. “Did you see it?”
I leaned in, squinting through the dim light to gauge his reaction.
“Yes,” he said without hesitation.
If he’d known Gisella had taken the necklace, he didn’t let on.
“She said it was from Lord Ackerman’s private collection,” he said.
“It was stolen,” I said.
His only reaction was to raise an eyebrow. “Really? Who took it?”
I hesitated to share our model-turned-jewel thief theory with him. But on the other hand, if he’d been working with her, it wouldn’t be news to him. And if he was an innocent bystander in all this, what did we have to lose?
“We think Gisella did. We think she may have even been stealing jewelry from other designers’ shows as well.”
He shook his head, eyes on that faraway point again. “Wow. I had no idea. I’m not surprised, though. Like I said, she wasn’t the most scrupulous person I’ve ever met.”
“We think she may have had a partner. Someone who sold the stolen items for her,” Dana said. “Any idea who that could be?”
He shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t know. She didn’t have any real close friends. Her agent and me were the only people she really spent much time with.”
“What about the new guy?” I asked. “Is it possible he was helping her?”
Again he shrugged.
“You said you met him?”
He nodded. “Yeah. At the party.”
“Did you happen to catch his name?”
He did a wry grin that held little humor. “Oh yeah. She made sure everyone at the party knew who she was there with. That wanker was a real feather in her cap, if you know what I mean.”
“Who was it?” I asked.
He snorted again. “Lord Ackerman.”
Chapter Ten
Felix? I think my heart stopped beating, the dark, tinted room swirling before my vision. Felix and Gisella?!
It had to be a mistake. She had to have been lying. Felix wouldn’t go for a girl like that. Felix’s type was… well it wasn’t her.
I thought back. We’d been in her room together, we’d been searching for evidence of a boyfriend. And he hadn’t told me he was it! I tried to remember our conversation, but all my brain could focus on was the fact that Felix had been sleeping with a supermodel.
For some odd reason, that stomach flu hit me full force again.
“Excuse me,” I said, bolting up from the sofa. I made for the front doors as quickly as I could. Air. I needed air. I’m pretty sure I knocked into at least three people, spilling one woman’s drink all over her corset in my mad rush to get outside.
Once there, I doubled over, leaning on my crutches as I took in big lungfuls of night air that smelled like car exhaust and rotting vegetables.
In a moment, Dana was at my side.
“Hey, you okay?” she asked, putting a hand on my back.
“Yeah. Sure. Fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Unlike some people.
Okay, so I guess I hadn’t ever asked Felix point blank if he’d been sleeping with the victim, but that was a hell of an omission. What else had he failed to mention?
Then one terrible thought occurred to me. He’d been the one to find the diamond necklace in Gisella’s room. Had he known where it was all along? Had he been in on it with her? He had said it was insured. Collect once from the insurance company, a second time when he sold them on the black market? Would Felix stoop that low?
Problem was, I didn’t really know Felix’s stooping limit. Granted, his paper was single handedly to blame for ruining more than one celebrity marriage with their rumor mill, but that was a far cry from sticking a shoe in someone’s neck.
My shoe.
My stomach lurched again and I leaned over, fully expecting a repeat appearance by my ham and cheese.
“Do you really think this could have been Felix?” Dana asked, voicing my thoughts.
I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I paused. “Maybe.” Another pause. “No, definitely not.” I bit my lip. “Probably not?”
He’d been in Paris the night of her murder, in the same hotel. The victim was his girlfriend, presumably stealing his jewels.
“I’ve got to talk to Felix.” I pulled my cell out of my purse, dialing his number, my hands shaking harder than the Northridge quake. Unfortunately, it went straight to voicemail. Shit. I flipped it shut and threw it in my purse, taking my anxiety out on my Motorola.
“Hey,” I said, addressing Mathew, who was fully engrossed in an article in the World News section.
He waited a beat before looking up. When he did he blinked at me as if seeing me for the first time. He looked back to his paper. Then to me again.
“It’s you!”
I looked down at the Times in his lap. Sure enough, there was m
y mug smiling back at me. Okay, so I wasn’t totally smiling. It was a candid shot taken outside the Plaza Atheneé as I’d tried to muscle my way through the paparazzi. From the look on my face, it was probably when one of the cameramen had knocked into Wonder Boot. I looked either constipated, pissed off, or in pain.
Or, as Mathew had interpreted it, dangerous.
“It’s not me.”
He looked from the paper to me and back again. “It sure looks like you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, yes, the picture is me. But I’m not the killer. I didn’t do it. I’m innocent. Which is why I’m here trying to clear my name.”
Mathew looked wary. “You sure?”
“Yes, of course I’m sure! Do I look like I could hurt someone?”
Mathew looked me up and down. Then behind me at the S&M club he’d just taken me to.
“I didn’t do it,” I said again.
Finally he shrugged. “All right, if you say so. But if I hear of any dead bodies showin’ up at that there club tomorrow, I’m turning’ you in to the police, Missy.” He wagged a knobby finger at me.
“Fair enough. Listen, do you happen to know where a Lord Ackerman lives?”
He hunched his bushy eyebrows down. “Can’t say’s I do. He have a place around here?”
My turn to shrug. The problem was I had no idea where Felix stayed when he was in England. I knew he had an impressive home up in the Hollywood Hills, but as it was becoming clearly apparent, beyond the basics I didn’t know much about Felix’s life at all.
“Any idea where we could find an address for him?”
He shook his head. “Google?”
Luckily, I just happened to know a pair of Googling fiends.
I whipped out my cell, dialing Mom’s number. She picked up on the third ring and I could hear loud music in the background.
“Hello?” she shouted.
I held the phone away from my ear.
“Mom, it’s Maddie.”
“Hey, hon. Say, where are you? Ramirez has been tearing this place apart looking for you.”
I cringed. I was so gonna be on his shit list when I got back. But, if it got me off the front page, I’d say it was worth it.
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 88