“Except online, who cares?” Avery spilled her thoughts. “A knockoff cubic zirconium necklace would appear the same as a diamond one. The images are photorealistic, but are the participants truly impressed?”
“The Club Cockburn caters to higher end and tech aware clients. They are the ones who carefully cultivate their image and status.” Alida huffed. “It’s all about creating the demand. That said, Damon, your sister has a point. We will need to manage the licensing. Scarcity is what keeps value high. If we let every designer into the Club, there would be a race to the bottom.”
“Same with the sports teams,” Cory said. “Do deals only with the professional teams and the all-star jerseys.”
“I see your point,” Damon said. “The true goal is finding a soulmate. We need to provide enough personalization to enhance the attractiveness of the client without obscuring his or her individuality, but not so much that all distinction is meaningless.”
“Right,” Avery agreed. “I believe it’s the chatrooms and the private salons that will keep people coming back. The fashion and sports are conversation starters, but it would be the personal connection that keeps them engaged.”
The conference room door opened with a whoosh, and someone rushed in. “Damon, sorry to interrupt, but I can’t do the investment banker meeting.”
“What is it?” Damon turned to a young Asian woman with a short pixie haircut—one half longer than the other.
“My sister Ivanna was attacked outside her apartment.”
“Is she okay?” Damon asked while Avery gasped, wondering how many Asian women in New York City were named Ivanna.
“We don’t know,” the woman replied. “A passerby found her fifteen minutes ago. They took her to the hospital, and I’m her emergency contact.”
“Could I ask where her apartment is located?” Avery pushed from the table.
“East Harlem, why?” The young woman narrowed her eyes. “You look familiar.”
“I’m Ivanna’s boss. I was there looking for her, but she didn’t answer her buzzer.”
“The police will want to talk to you,” the woman said. “Damon, I have to go.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Avery picked up her purse and followed the woman. “You must be Safire. Ivanna mentioned a sister who works with computers.”
“Sure, sure,” Safire answered dismissively. “If you don’t mind, I have to go.”
“Which hospital?” Avery picked up her bag and trailed her out of the conference room.
Safire marched into the elevator without replying, but Avery stuck to her like a burr. The ride down was uncomfortable. Since Avery was Ivanna’s boss, she wasn’t going to be put off.
The two women shared a ride to the hospital where they were met by worse news. Ivanna was taken to the surgical ward because of a bleed in her brain.
Safire huddled with her mother and older sister in the waiting room. There wasn’t anything Avery could do, and she didn’t want to intrude.
Where were the police who’d want to talk to her? She looked around, but a ward clerk told her there was no police. “She was brought in by paramedics. People get mugged all the time, and they probably just asked around the neighborhood and got her in the ambulance.”
In other words, they didn’t have time to launch a full-scale investigation for everyone who got assaulted—same with what had happened to Saul outside of Lushpuppies.
Avery called Jason. “Hey, something happened.”
“What?” His voice was brusque. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m at the hospital, but it’s not me. Ivanna, my model wrangler, was attacked. It must have been either before or after we were there.”
“She didn’t answer the buzzer,” Jason said. “Did you speak to the officer?”
“No, they’re gone. Can you find out who took the call?” Avery asked.
“Sure. Will do. I’ll be there as soon as I can, but I’m caught in traffic.”
“Okay, I’ll stick around the hospital in case there’s any change. She was taken into surgery, so it’ll be a while before she’s ready to talk.”
“Then go home and I’ll meet you there,” Jason said. “Did you have dinner?”
“I picked at a salad.”
“I know you’d rather have Popo’s pupusas.” He ended the call before she could protest.
Even though Jason tried to keep his conversation with Avery lighthearted, he was worried. Very worried.
Before meeting Avery, he called Blade and asked him to check into Ivanna’s attack.
“Found it. DeBrassos took the call. It happened in the alleyway. Ivanna was taking out the trash and someone hit her over the head.”
“Was it robbery? Did they go into her apartment?”
“Nope. The trash was scattered in the alleyway. Nothing interesting in the bag. The usual fast-food wrappers, grocery scraps, papers and junk mail. Bits of cloth and craft supplies.”
“She’s a fashion designer’s assistant,” Jason said. “Any notes or mail addressed to her?”
Blade huffed with laughter. “If you’re thinking about notes made with magazine cutout letters, no. It seems random. Young woman stepped into the alleyway. Maybe she was scoring drugs, and they ran off with her money.”
“Do we have the contents of the trash bag as evidence?”
“What for?” Blade asked. “You know how many people are mugged in that neighborhood? We don’t do a full investigation for every assault.”
“Thanks,” Jason said. Whether Blade thought so or not, he was going to assume Ivanna’s attack was related to the work she was doing for Avery.
He put his lead foot to good use and sped toward New York City. He’d skip the hospital for now. Ivanna and her family needed time together, and he was sure Avery would get an update once there was any news.
After pulling halfway up the curb near the brownstone, Jason buzzed the supervisor and showed him his badge. He was quickly let into Ivanna’s apartment.
The supervisor followed him in. “Miss Chu never had any bad habits. I’m sure she’s not on drugs.”
“She’s injured badly,” Jason said. “Let’s pray she’s okay, or this might turn into a murder investigation.”
“That’s horrible. This apartment is safe. Very safe.” The supervisor took off his mesh baseball cap and wiped his forehead.
He waited quietly while Jason examined the cramped apartment. Strings of beads hung from mug hooks underneath the cabinets, and glitzy pieces of fabrics and material were arranged in an organized manner over a worktable.
The sewing machine in the corner had a headband with scraps of fur attached to it. A leather cuff was studded with bits of bone and metal spikes interspersed by fishbones.
A set of two metallic sleeves hung from the bedpost. They were made of a mesh of anodized aluminum scales knitted together with yarn.
A headdress consisting of a band made with tubular beads featured a row of spiked quills over the top and tufts of feathers on the sides.
“These are interesting,” Jason said. “Is Miss Chu into theater of some type?”
“Maybe. She’s an artist and does a lot of props.”
“Can you describe any visitors or friends?”
The supervisor shrugged. “She has two sisters and a mother. A few friends.”
“Any boyfriends?” Jason walked toward a covered easel in the corner of the bedroom. He lifted the cloth. “Like him?”
The man gaped at the unfinished painting of the nude male. “Maybe, but I really don’t know.”
Jason took a picture of the man in the painting. He had a slim, athletic build, with a straight, well-balanced nose, long stringy hair, and tanned skin. The painting was unfinished, and there were several areas that looked like it had been painted over.
After flipping through the mail on Ivanna’s sewing desk, Jason asked to see the trash area.
“Usually, our residents throw their trash down these chutes,” the super said i
n an apologetic tone. “But someone stuffed sofa cushions down the chute, and we haven’t had a chance to fish them out so we padlocked them.”
“She went down these steps in the back,” Jason said, going down the metal staircase to the alley.
“Yes, there’s the dumpster near where she was found.”
“Any idea where her trash bag landed?” Jason put on gloves and took out an evidence bag.
“It could be anywhere. The policeman threw it back in.”
The super didn’t leave his side as he fished through the dumpster, checking each plastic bag until he found one with Ivanna’s junk mail.
His heart beat excitedly, but he appeared casual as he put the entire bag into a sealed evidence bag and hopped the low wall separating the alleyway from the street.
“You ought to put a gate here,” he called back to the supervisor. “Make it safe. Real safe.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Avery paced back and forth inside the apartment she’d considered her home. When she first moved into the Melbourne Building, she’d loved the high ceilings, the detailed crown moldings, and wainscoting on the wall. She’d admired the old-world style of the fixtures and window frames.
It had always felt safe and comfy, as if hearkening back to a time when a man’s handshake meant his word. When common decency was taken for granted. When heroes were heroes and villains twirled their Daliesque mustaches while gloating, “Muahahahahaha … Muahahahahahaha …”
Instead, here she was, post-Brando, in a state of suspended animation, pusillanimous, looking over her shoulder and indecisive whether to step forward or backward or cower under the covers in her bed and never wake up.
What was she doing waiting for the predatory cop who insisted in butting into her life? She shouldn’t subject herself to his kind of nosiness, especially since he didn’t care a whit about her feelings.
All he was concerned about was tracking down an unknown assailant—one he imagined was after her. Could all of these so-called attacks be coincidences?
Every person she’d come into contact with or knew was being made into a suspect. He was suspicious about Ivanna having a key to her place. He was probably suspicious of Damon too, as well as Chase and her family at this rate.
An old friend, Richie, wanting to meet her at The Manor was overblown by Jason into World War III. True, she shouldn’t have panicked and hidden behind the apple tree. Except she had no idea it was him because he changed cars so frequently.
She wasn’t going to get drawn into this.
There were innocent explanations to all these events.
Ivanna was mugged by a random hoodlum. Alida could have staged the attack on Matt for publicity’s sake. Wasn’t she the one who said all attention, good or bad, was good? Matt sure had milked the attack for all it was worth. He’d posted all over social media and had given interviews to anyone who’d stick a mic in front of his mouth. He’d let the world know his girlfriend, Avery Cockburn, was under his protection and threatened the unknown assailants with lawsuits.
She’d silenced her phone and stopped looking at social media. Her text messages were overwhelmed by her design school friends and other acquaintances who wanted to know the details about her dating the football star.
Not to mention her frantic family. Only Damon’s assurance had kept Chase from fetching her back to The Manor. And now that she’d left his office building? What if her parents were to show up? What would she tell them? That she couldn’t be left on her own without getting into trouble? Or even worse, suffering a relapse?
She shouldn’t be waiting in her apartment, knowing Jason was coming over. The problem was, she’d automatically called him, as if he were on her team. That was on her. It was a moment of weakness.
He’d turned pushy, as expected, and he was dangling pupusas to get her to go along with his paranoid investigation.
She had to cut this madness now before it was too late.
What if she left? She hadn’t agreed to a date with him, had she?
But if she wasn’t here when he showed up, he’d think something happened to her. In his fertile imagination, he’d believe she’d been kidnapped or worse.
What to do? What to do?
She caught herself chewing on her fingernails so she dug out a drawing pencil and picked up her sketchbook. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and forced herself to sit at her drafting table.
She flipped through her sketchbook to a blank page and let herself go. The lines spread themselves across the page and gradually took shape. She let the curves flare out while smudging shadows into place.
Somehow Jason’s face scribbled itself underneath her pencil. She was about to erase it when a sharp knock on her door startled her, and she broke her pencil point.
It had to be Jason. The man could talk himself into the building without using the intercom. She marked her page with the pencil and shut the sketchbook.
Running her fingers through her hair, she tucked away stray ends, pressed down her clothes, and opened the door.
Saul stood at the door. “Hey, sorry to barge in on you, but I heard you might need a photographer for a private show.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Avery’s voice was sharp with alert.
“Overheard someone talking at The Big Bean.” He flashed her a pleading grin. “I’ll do it for free. I only need a chance.”
“It’s hard to get a foot in the door,” Avery conceded. “But I don’t need photographers for private events. Who was talking about me?”
“Not sure. I had my head down serving customers and heard your name. If you don’t need a photographer, maybe you need a model?”
“Already have one,” Avery said. “But if you’d like to come to Manhattan Fashion Week, I could give you a ticket to the show and after-party. Would that help? Maybe you can get in a few shots of me and Matt Swanson.”
“Yes! You’re the best.” He shuffled from one foot to the other, as if he were either high on drugs or needed to go to the bathroom.
Avery dug through her desk and found the complimentary tickets each designer was allocated. “Here you go, and a pass to the after-party.”
Fashion parties are all about impressing people and making the connections necessary to further a career. Everyone was on the market, continually, and attention spans were nonexistent, unless one captured a moment that went viral.
Saul took the passes and put his hands together in a prayerful gesture, bowing slightly. “There aren’t many rich people as kind as you to give me a chance. That cop friend of yours was nice too.”
“Oh, I forgot to ask.” Avery smiled at the consternation that had run on Saul’s face when he’d realized a policeman had offered to play nursemaid to him. “How did it go with Officer Burnett?”
“He made sure I was alert whenever he woke me, and he was genuinely concerned about my injury. I like him.”
“Good.” She nodded as he thanked her profusely and walked to the door.
He opened the door, and there was Jason with his fist raised about to knock. The two men sized each other up, with Saul averting his gaze first.
They exchanged pleasantries and Saul left.
Avery could feel the chill above and beyond the air conditioner. Jason wasn’t pleased to find another man in her apartment.
“Good evening,” he said, too cool as he walked by her.
Instead of asking about Ivanna or what Saul was doing at her place, he did his police thing of clearing the room.
He walked by each doorway and glanced inside, then checked the windows and lowered the blinds. The setting sun was already low and slanted across her drafting table. His hand closed in on her sketchbook, and she held her breath. How dare he touch her private things without asking? But if she objected, he would be even more interested.
Instead of opening the sketchbook, he asked, “Is this your design notebook? The one Damon thought Ivanna had taken?”
“Yes, but it was here all the time. Sto
p looking for crimes where none exist.”
“You’re saying no one came into your apartment while you were gone and Damon was mistaken?”
“He already said he was only trying to get me to come back from your place,” Avery said. “Ivanna has a perfectly good reason for using her key.”
“Maybe she saw the person who dropped the box of chocolates on the way out.” Jason lifted the cover of her sketchbook while watching her.
Unfortunately, her indrawn breath showed nervousness.
He smiled and let the cover drop, having gotten her reaction. Not that she had anything to hide.
“Maybe you’re looking for a mountain under a molehill,” she said. “What do you really want?”
“To protect you, Avery.” He advanced toward her, seemingly growing right before her eyes.
She tried to draw in a breath, but it was like he removed all the oxygen from her brain.
“Why do you want to protect me? Do you feel responsible because you happened to be at the fashion show last year?”
“I like you, Avery Cockburn.” He held out both hands, palms up, in an inviting manner. “Let’s go to dinner.”
Her body responded to the invitation, wanting, yearning for his protection, but her mind balked. Who exactly did he think he was? He said he liked her, but he liked his car, too—the one she’d caused him to total.
“I, uh, have to fix my face.” She made an excuse and forced herself to step away from him.
Avery was the most skittish woman Jason had ever tried to get close to. He couldn’t blame her. Her life had been rough—not only recently, but from whatever traumatic secret she was running away from.
He’d caught the reference her brother made to drugs. He had no doubt Richie Overton was involved—what with the overconfident attitude he’d displayed, as if he had a hold on her.
Since Avery was in her bathroom, Jason called Blade for an update.
“The male models we were investigating had worked for Avery before,” Blade answered. “I was able to track down the agency representing them. You’ll be interested to know Alida Adams is behind it.”
Triggered by Love Page 20
