by Quinn Avery
I was gonna ask a designer friend what they’re worth but chickened out
* * *
Before the meaning of the texts sunk in, her phone buzzed some more, and a string of images popped onto her screen. Different angles of golden stilettos. Close ups. Far away. Detailed enough to see they were void of any designer logos, just as Tehya said.
Bexley covered her mouth as she carefully inspected each and every one. She may not have had the actual shoes with any possible extra fingerprints to run through the system, but Tehya had gifted her with the next-best thing.
She may’ve been clueless when it came to shoes, but she kept in touch with someone from high school who had become an expert in the industry. Rather than heading in the direction of the police station, she took the first exit toward Los Angeles.
5
As far as Bexley was concerned, the black sedan had followed her all the way from Papaya Springs. She watched for it as she weaved around hundred thousand-dollar cars through the L.A. parking lot. In Brooklyn, she’d have been able to blend in effortlessly without anyone taking a second glance. Most New Yorkers minded their own business, only occasionally looking up from the sidewalks or their smart phones to cross streets. Some didn’t even bother looking, and that was Bexley’s idea of Darwinism at its finest. In La-La Land, she was starting to suspect there was a massive boil growing in the middle of her forehead as she started for the building. Then she spotted her reflection in the glass skyscraper as she entered, and saw her eye was becoming grossly discolored.
Every last detail inside the prestigious department store headquarters was white, and the hundreds of flowering plants in pots that lined the hallways gave off the fragrance of a green house on steroids. Greeted with an open look of disdain by the well-groomed receptionist, Bexley squared her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Don’t worry; I’m clearly not here for a Go-See. My name’s Bexley Squires. I’m here to see Kiersten Douglas.”
“Of course you are,” the woman said, eyes shifting to her computer as she dismissed Bexley from her thoughts. “Have a seat. I’ll let you know when—”
“Sexy Bexley?” a high-pitched voice tore through the high ceilings. “O-M-G I can’t believe you’re actually here!”
Bexley maneuvered around the annoyed receptionist to greet her oldest friend. Unlike Bexley, Kiersten grew up in the lap of luxury. It was because of her in-your-face personality that she became a social pariah to her peers. After they bonded over a mutual dislike for Grayson’s ex, Kiersten chose to slum it with the likes of Bexley instead.
Her old friend looked every bit the part of a fashion icon in a tasteful black dress that hugged her slim curves, golden hair perfectly coiffed, cheeks rosy and forehead bronzed, 4-inch crimson heels the same vibrant shade as her lipstick. But something about Kiersten’s unrelenting spirit and willingness to stand out from the rest of the rich kids at Papaya Springs High fascinated Bexley from the start, making them unlikely, yet instant friends.
Kiersten stretched her long, toned arms out at her sides. “Come here, girlfriend!”
Bexley accepted her hug before retreating with a genuine smile. “Kiersten, you look absolutely amazing.”
Her old friend swiped well-manicured fingers through the air between them. “Oh hush. Look at you, Miss New Yorker! You look…exactly the same!”
Bexley laughed, unable to deny it wasn’t true. Aside from the faint formation of wrinkles forming around her eyes, she wore her mahogany hair in the same no-nonsense style and length as when she was a teenager. The conservative application of makeup to her eyes hadn’t been altered, and she still wore the same size clothing. Hell, the jeans she wore were probably something she bought fifteen years ago. She couldn’t remember the last time she'd indulged in a shopping spree.
All at once, Kiersten’s smile fell. “Hold on. What happened to your eye?”
“Never try to go the wrong way through a revolving door.” She glanced over at the surly receptionist. The woman rolled her eyes and looked away. “Am I right?”
Hooking her arm through Bexley’s, Kiersten led her toward a set of elevators. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to fit you in for lunch, but we can hang out in my office for a little while before my next meeting. My secretary makes the most divine lattes.” As the elevator doors opened, Kiersten leaned in close to whisper, “And I think I still have some Irish cream stashed in my desk.”
In the short five-story ride up, the old friends caught up on the details of their lives. Kiersten had recently started dating the son of a sheik, launched her own accessory line, purchased her first Range Rover, and was in the process of moving to a new condominium in Bel Air next to some up-and-coming pop star. Once Bexley left out the fact that her sister was missing and that she was working for Dean Halliwell, she didn’t have anything nearly as exciting to share with her former bestie. Instead she mentioned that she'd run into Grayson since returning.
“And he divorced Amanda Classon?” Kiersten repeated, bright green eyes twinkling as they strolled into her minimalist office. “Isn’t there some kind of punishment—like death by cheap champagne—for breaking up with Don Classon’s daughter?”
“Well considering she left him for some rich guy, I don’t think he had any say in the matter. But he looks better than ever.”
Kiersten gestured for Bexley to take one of the white, armless chairs facing her desk. “Do I detect a hint of interest in that observation?”
Shaking the thought away, Bexley slid to the edge of her seat. “Maybe if I weren’t back for a short visit. It’s hard to maintain a relationship with three thousand miles in the way.”
“Who said anything about a relationship?” Kiersten settled in the white leather chair behind the desk, waggling her eyebrows. “You’re no longer a couple of horny teenagers. Adults are allowed to have a little fun without it having to be something more complicated. After all these years, you owe it to yourself.”
“I actually came here because I need your help with something.”
“If it’s a makeover, say no more. I have a team of professionals—”
“Not happening!” Bexley snapped, cringing with the idea. Then she noticed Kiersten’s smile slipping. “Sorry, but you know that was never my scene.”
She offered an apologetic smile, swiped her thumb across her phone’s screen until she found the pictures, then slid it across the reclaimed wood desktop. “I’m wondering if you’d be able to tell me anything about these shoes.”
Kiersten snagged a pair of black-rimmed glasses off the desk before slipping them in place and gripping the smart phone in one hand. Her wide-eyed response was exaggerated by a sharp gasp. “Holy…are these…?” She became lost in thought as she swiped through each picture. “I haven’t seen these in years!” She glanced over the top of her glasses at Bexley. “Where did you find these pictures?”
Her reaction was encouraging. Kiersten had obsessively kept up with fashion trends for as long as they'd been friends. While her father’s empire was created out of affordable shoes for the average working woman, Kiersten worked her way up the diamond studded ladder by interning for well-known designers, becoming respected on her own terms.
“Do you have any ideas where someone may have bought them?” Bexley asked.
“Bought?” With a sharp laugh, Kiersten removed her glasses and tossed them aside. “Honey, these stilettos aren’t of the department store variety. They’re a one-of-a-kind designed by the one and only Iman Rihan. By now they’re probably worth several million!”
Bouncing a little in her seat, Bexley grinned back at her friend. Something that rare would be easy to trace. “You’re sure that’s who made them?”
“I’d bet my most prized Birkin bag on it! I interned for Iman back in the day, before she was a big name. The diamonds were donated to her company by her then-boyfriend, Taz Tyler. You know, the rockstar? Anyway, it was the design that launched her career, making her a legend in the business. My father would kill to get his hands
on these!”
Bexley winced. Someone had been killed, but it wasn’t for the shoes. “Did she ever sell them to anyone?”
“Oh god no. They went missing for a short time when one of her less trustworthy interns was moronic enough to borrow them for an awards show. Like they wouldn’t get noticed! After that, she merely loaned them out to celebrities for black tie events and social media posts. Far as I know, she still keeps them locked in a safe otherwise.”
Unable to contain a sudden burst of energy, Bexley bolted to her feet and began to pace in a small circle. There was no way these shoes went missing without the designer having some kind of knowledge of their whereabouts. “Is there any chance you could get me in to speak with this Iman person?”
“Iman-person? Are you out of your mind?” Kiersten released a nasally laugh. “I’m well aware you’ve never been into fashion, but that’s like asking me to set up a meeting with the Godfather. That kind of thing could take weeks, if it’s even possible. She has an entire team you have to go through before Iman would agree to a face-to-face.”
“Don’t you have some strings you could pull?”
Kiersten leaned over the table, chin perched on steepled hands. “You’re writing another big article, aren’t you? I can see the urgency in your eyes. Will my name be mentioned?”
“You don’t want your name mentioned in the kind of article I’m writing. I could do a piece solely on you…see if I can get any online publications to bite. We could cover whatever subjects your Chanel-loving heart desires.”
A friendly smile crossed Kiersten’s perfect lips. “Consider it done. I’ll call as soon as I have confirmed a time with Iman.”
“You’re the best, Kiersten. I mean it.” Bexley headed for the door. “Sorry to leave so soon, but I should get going.”
She was halfway to the door before Kiersten called out to her, “Will you at least let me apply some foundation to your eye?”
“I have some in my car,” Bexley lied, looking away.
Kiersten walked around her desk, arms open wide to embrace her friend. “It was soooo good to see you! If you have a free night while you’re here, hit me up. I’ll take you out for a night you won’t ever forget.”
“That’s ironic, considering most of the nights we spent together back in the day ended up a forgotten blur of booze and poor choices,” Bexley answered, squeezing her back. Her throat tightened, and she cleared it awkwardly. “My schedule’s up in the air, but I’ll let you know if something frees up. Thanks for doing this, Kiersten.”
“You were always one of the nice ones, Bexley. Never questioned me or my motives, always had my back. I’m glad we stayed in touch all these years.”
“Me too.”
Bexley accepted the latte Kiersten’s secretary offered on her way out and took a sip. All at once remembering how amazing it was to have close friends, she felt a little lighter as she waved merrily at the surly receptionist.
Before relaying the development to Grayson, Bexley returned to Sandy’s between L.A. and Papaya Springs where Grayson had told her details of the victim’s case. She hadn’t had much to eat in the past twenty-four hours, and figured she’d rather go somewhere safe than risk the chance of running into the city’s most elite residents, and having to part with more cash than necessary.
It shouldn’t have surprised her to see Grayson leaving the establishment as she pulled into the parking lot since he’d taken her there, but it did. More so because he was sidled up next to a scantily clad woman. In fact, Bexley would bet the five hundred thousand reward Dean was offering that the woman was an escort. It was that obvious. Cheaply done makeup, haphazard up-do, bandeau top hardly bigger than a Band-Aid, she just as well could be wearing a sign with her hourly rate.
Frozen behind the wheel of the rental, Bexley watched Grayson and the large-bosomed blonde stop beside the same work-issued sedan he’d driven the other night. The sensual look in the woman’s eyes when Grayson took her in his arms said it all.
Bexley slid deeper into her seat. She’d gone from casual observer to voyeur in one amplified heartbeat. Was that the type Grayson had moved on with after Amanda? How is it possible he hadn’t snagged a decent woman the old-fashioned way, through dating apps and social media? He was a great catch—attractive and gainfully employed, with a great sense of humor. Was his job so demanding that he had to pay for a woman’s company? Bexley couldn’t decide if the sensation in her gut was jealousy or a lack of eggs and sausage.
After what felt like an eternity spent in the nine circles of Hell, she heard the crunch of the tires against gravel. Even after it remained perfectly quiet, she waited a little longer to make sure Grayson and his lady of the night had left together. If he would happen to bust her for watching him with that woman, she would die a thousand deaths.
It wasn’t until she heard a tap on her window that she finally opened her eyes. Humiliation spread through her like wildfire when she straightened and met Grayson’s perplexed expression. “Bex? What are you doing here?”
“I don’t need to see a doctor,” Bexley insisted once again. “I slept like hell last night, and must’ve fallen asleep after I pulled into the parking lot. I promise you I do not have a concussion.”
Grayson hovered over her with ice wrapped up inside a dish towel, lips pinched tightly together as he examined her bruised eye. His response to her injury had been blown way out of proportion by the way he rushed her inside and demanded someone from the kitchen retrieve a bag of ice. On the bright side, he seemed to believe her when she acted incoherent, like she had just woke up. “Where the hell was your stun gun when you got jumped?”
“Inside the motel room. Like I told you, I was making a coffee run. I didn’t see anyone coming.” Not wanting to create any more problems with Tehya, Bexley had altered the re-telling of what went down at the motel. She believed Eric when he claimed he had destroyed the shoes. After all, their existence could make him a prime murder suspect. Either way, Bexley didn’t believe he was guilty. There wasn’t any point in filling Grayson in on the entire string of events. He’d likely have a warrant issued that would lead an investigation in the wrong direction.
Bexley removed his hand from her head. “Do you have someone fussing over you like this every time you’re roughed up by a perp? I can take a punch.”
His scowl deepened. “Irritability happens to be one of the signs of a concussion. Do you have a headache? Feel nauseated or dizzy?”
“None of the above. Although I wouldn’t turn down a cold beer.”
A stout, middle-aged woman with short, spiky hair abruptly stopped by their booth. “I’ll get you one, sugar. Any preference?”
“We’ll take two of my usual, Clara,” Grayson grumbled over his shoulder.
“I’ll take a basket of your amazing garlic fries,” Bexley added. “And anything that’ll make this man believe me when I say I’m fine.”
Clara tossed her a wink. “One shot of Fireball coming right up.”
Grayson snorted, pointing to Bexley. “I already have enough of a fireball right here.” He then handed the ice over to Bexley. “At least hold this over your eye for another ten minutes. Looks like it might swell shut.”
Bexley watched with a raised brow as he settled on the other side of the booth. Civilian clothes fit him even better than the dress shirt and tie he’d been wearing the other night. Worn blue jeans and a faded Pearl Jam raglan shirt fit him like a glove, highlighting his muscular physique, and showcasing the beginning of a complex tattoo running up one forearm. “Aren’t you going to ask how it went with the witnesses?”
“Witnesses?” Understanding lit within the depths of his russet stare. “You found the woman who made the call.”
“I sure did. And she offered a useful bit of information.” Bexley pressed the ice to her eye socket while pondering the legal ramifications involved of withholding evidence when Grayson was no longer technically on the case. Something beyond Tehya’s trust compelled her to keep the p
ictures to herself. “She claims there was a pair of valuable shoes on the victim’s feet when they found her.”
“Then what the hell happened to them?”
“She wasn’t sure, but she was able to describe them in detail.” Sensing she was setting herself up for jail time, Bexley’s insides clenched with her deception. “I’m hoping to consult with a designer who specializes in high-end stilettos.” Her phone buzzed.
* * *
Iman agreed to meet with your lucky ass.
Be at 90357 Melrose Ave at 2:15 sharp.
Don’t even think about being a millisecond late.
Try to cover up that mess on your face. Security will throw you out before you make it through the door.
And for god’s sake, please wear something respectable.
At least the most respectable thing you own.
Damn it.
I should’ve forced you to meet with my stylist.
Hope to see you again before you head East.
* * *
Laughing under her breath at Kiersten’s overuse of smiling emojis, Bexley typed out a quick thanks before she dropped her phone inside her handbag. She threw Grayson an apologetic glance as she slid off the bench. “I have to go. I swear next time lunch will be on me.”
“You’re just gonna drop that bombshell about the missing evidence and split?” He stood at the same time to dig his fingers into her bicep. “Can you at least relay the description of these alleged shoes back to me?”
The anger in his clenched jaw along with the strength behind his grasp made Bexley squirm. It was a new side of Grayson Rivers—one she never imagined he’d possess. “I have to head back to L.A. Besides, you were ordered not to spend any more time on this case. Remember?” She broke free from his hold and started for the exit.
“Damn it, Bex! I thought we agreed to work together on this!”