I drummed my fingers on the wooden tabletop, waiting for Dana to finish her fitting. A skinny guy in tight jeans and a painted-on Polo shirt was pinning a dress around her frame, periodically pausing to tell her to keep still. Even as I waited, I couldn't help the little puddle of drool forming at the side of my mouth as I took in the dress she'd be wearing down the runway. It was a pale green silk number, falling to mid-thigh, with a cross-cut back and a key-hole front. It was the kind of dress that you bought whether you had an occasion or not.
And hoped some hot guy would end up tearing it off of you.
Finally the guy with the pins slipped it over Dana's head and let her free. She came skipping over to me.
"Ohmigod, Maddie, did you see the dress?"
I wiped at my mouth to make sure the drool wasn't showing. "No kidding. The sad thing is, I had the perfect pair of white pumps that would have gone with it. If they weren't in an evidence locker."
Dana frowned. "I'm so sorry, Mads."
"Me too. But, listen, you think you could get Jean Luc to let you off the hook tonight?"
Dana raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
I quickly filled her in on Ryan's whereabouts and our reservations on the seven thirty flight into London.
"We're going to play Angels again!" Dana cried, jumping up and down.
For a brief moment, I had second thoughts. The first time Dana and I had played Charlie's Angels she'd dressed me up as a hooker and we'd ended up getting shot at. Then there was the time we tried to outwit the mob, which had ended with Dana blowing a hole in some guy's chest. And, last but not least, the time we'd gone undercover on a TV set and nearly ended up becoming the next victims of a Hollywood strangler. Suffice to say, the term "playing Angels" didn't totally thrill me.
On the other hand, that dress had screamed for my white pumps and if there was any chance of me getting them out of Moreau's evidence locker before the show day, someone had to be the crime fighting hotties. It might as well be us.
"Okay, but I get to be Farrah this time," I told her.
Dana did a shoulder-shrug, nose-scrunching shriek thing, then promptly skipped (Yes, I swear she actually skipped. Wonder Boot and I were supremely jealous.) off to inform Jean Luc she would be back in the morning.
We stopped off only long enough to grab a couple of tartines – open faces sandwiches – at a sidewalk cafe along the way (Dana's a low-fat grilled veggie. Mine a ham and cheese loaded with mayo. Hey, hobbling around on Wonder Boot burned off a lot of calories.), before taking a cab to the airport.
Luckily, small commuter flights from Paris to London flew out of Paris's Charles de Gaulle almost every other hour. We had two seats on the 7:30 flight, arriving in London one hour later. I briefly contemplated stopping at the hotel first to pack a couple of items, but considering that was where I'd most likely run into Mr. Pissed Off Voicemails, I decided to chance it and travel light.
By the time we were flying over the famous London Eye and taxiing onto the runway at Heathrow, the sun had set, the city was a brilliant mosaic of twinkling lights, and, I'll admit, that familiar Farrah excitement was starting to niggle at the back of my brain. Dana and I hailed the first cab we saw and gave the driver the address I'd written down.
Which turned out to be a squat, brick building in a seemingly upper middle class looking neighborhood. Small trees lined the street, televisions flickered behind windows, and a guy in a checked cardigan sweater that looked like it came from a garage sale was walking a little terrier on a leash up the street.
"Doesn't exactly look like a jewel thief's place," Dana observed.
"Well, you don't exactly look like Kate Jackson."
"Hey, I thought I was Cheryl Ladd!"
"Come on," I said, grabbing her by the sleeve as the cab driver gave us a funny look in his rear view mirror.
I asked the driver to wait. He nodded then pulled out a copy of the London Times as Dana and I hopped out.
The front doors to the building were locked, four call buttons on the wall indicating the flats inside. I hit the one marked "Jeffries". Unfortunately, nothing happened. I waited a beat, then tried again. No answer. Just for good measure, I whipped out my cell and keyed in the phone number again. After four rings the machine kicked in.
"Great. Now what?" Dana asked.
I glanced down the street as the guy in the cardigan stooped down to pick up a terrier dropping in a plastic baggie.
"Let's go talk to the neighbors."
We crossed the small expanse of lawn in front of the building, the dog walker straightened as we approached, awkwardly fumbling with his baggie. "'Evening," he mumbled.
"Hi. I was wondering if I could ask you about your neighbor?" I said, indicating the brick building next door.
"Oh, uh, I'm sorry, I don't really know them," he stammered, tying a little twister around the top of his baggie.
"What a cute little doggie," Dana said, crouching down to pet the terrier. It hopped up, putting his front paws on Dana's knee to lick her face.
"Oh, my, Lady, don't do that. Naughty dog, Lady." He tugged on her leash, his face flushed with embarrassment.
"Oh, it's okay. I love dogs," Dana said, straightening.
Cardigan looked from Lady to the poodle on Dana's shirt. He smiled, his stiff posture relaxing a little. "Yes, I can see that you do."
"About your neighbor," I promoted. "Ryan Jeffries?"
"Uh, right. Um, Ryan. He's a model, I think."
"So you do know him?" Dana asked, stooping down to pet Lady again.
"Uh, well, just to say 'hi' to I suppose," he said.
"We've been trying to get a hold of Ryan. Do you know where he might be?" I asked.
"No. Not really. I haven't seen him much lately. I think he was out of town."
My heart sped up. "Any idea here he went?"
"Paris, I think. Not sure. But I know he got back last night. Saw him hauling luggage up to his place."
"Do you know where he might be now?" Dana asked.
He shook his head. "Sorry, wish I could be more help."
"Thanks anyway," Dana said, giving Lady one last scratch behind the ears.
"Hey, don't I know you?" he asked.
Dana giggled. "Well, I have been in a couple of national commercials lately. Do you use Dove soap?"
"No." Cardigan shook his head. "Not you, her." He pointed at me.
"Who, me?"
He narrowed his eyes, nodding. "Yeah, your face looks really familiar."
"Nope" I said, a little too quickly. "I guess I've just got one of those faces. Well, thanks, nice meeting you," I said, dragging Dana back to the cab before Cardigan realized that, according to the latest tabloids, he was face to face with the Couture Killer.
"Okay," said Dana as we slid in to the back seat again, "so what now? Do we just wait here until Ryan show up?"
I glanced up at the brick building. I had to admit, just sitting around waiting made me feel antsy. With the amount of messages piling up on my cell phone, I had a feeling I was working on borrowed time here. Sooner or later Ramirez was going to catch up to me. He was a detective, and a good one. It wouldn't take him long to follow my trail – littered with breadcrumbs as it was. And once he did, I had a bad feeling there might be handcuffs involved. (And not in a good way.) No way was that man letting me out of his sight again. So, playing sitting duck wasn't the most appealing of choices.
Instead I leaned around, addressing our cab driver who was perusing the sports section.
"Excuse me," I asked.
He looked up and I read his nametag. Mathew.
"Mathew, do you happen to know if there are any nightclubs in the area?"
Both Angelica and Donata had indicated that Gisella was a party girl. I crossed my fingers that the kind of guy she dated was a regular on the club circuit as well.
"Sure, there's a couple," he said, his working class accent thick. "You got the Midnight Bar down that way and Club Easy a couple blocks south of here. But, uh," he gestured to Wonder Boot. "They're both dance clubs. I can't say as you'll have much fun there, love."
"Don't worry, I won't be dancing. You mind trying the Midnight Bar first?"
Mathew nodded, folding up the Times. "Suit yerself."
Ten minutes later we were parked in front of a large yellowing building with a painted black and white sign that read "Midnight" sitting crookedly above the door. A pair of motorcycles were haphazardly parked along the front, and one window was covered with plywood where a fist or flying bottle had knocked out half the pane. All in all, it didn't strike me as the type of place a jet-setting male model would spend his evenings.
"Maybe we should try the other one," I suggested.
Mathew shrugged. "Suit yerself." Then put the car into gear.
Unlike Midnight, Easy was a larger place, freshly painted in a trendy beige with black trim, sporting a brightly lit exterior and a line to get in that spanned around the building. A steady techno rhythm pulsed from inside as a tall, red-haired bouncer stood sentry at the door, wielding a clipboard in one beefy hand.
Now this was more like it.
I angled Wonder Boot out of the car and let Dana do the talking as we approached the bouncer.
"Hi there," Dana said, giving the red haired guy a flirty little one finger wave.
Big Red gave her a quick up and down. But, considering she was showing 50% less skin than half the girls in line, he shot back a predictable, "Back of the line."
"Actually, we just wanted to ask you a couple of questions," I piped up.
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at me. (And I do mean down – he was at least a foot and a half taller than I was.)
"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 decor 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 think Cockney accent and about twelve visible piercing 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 minute 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 said.
"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 again. "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."